Rant (13 Jun 2021)

When pharmaceutical drugs
are as easy to get as checking
a book out of the library
you know the fix is in
and the result will not be good.

Although I find hope painful
I still hope for a better outcome.

I am talking about the big picture.

The corruption of money and power
has taken hold of these United States
to disunite the population
because chaos is quite creative
while being destructive
at the same time.

There are so many ways to be angry.
And so many actions to be angry at.

The second amendment is not a solution.

If the only thing we have to fear is fear itself
the media assembly line should halt production.

Fear is this generation’s blue light special
mass marketed on television
and available at big box stores and gun shops.

Baby boomers remain babies
stuck in me-generation mentalities
that shred the constitution
under a zero-sum game mentality
that missed the economic expansion
when women liberated themselves
into the workforce.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


remember to storm the Bastille today (however that translates into your life).

Dented Carbon Fiber

Paul pinned a paper number
to the black asphalt.

He changed it every day
to reflect auto fatalities.

Of animals that is.
Especially flying insects.

He pinned it like he was angry.
He was angry.

These were numbers
he never invited into his head

or discussed over a beer
with Rudy.

Today’s number stretched across
one-and-a-quarter lanes.

Within three cars zooming over it
it was shreds, litter, ink

ready to bleed on the prickly pear
in the next desert rain.

Each night as dawn approached
a distant yelling broke Paul’s sleep.

A yelling inside his head
that did not sound like his deceased father.

Paul decided to use initiative
and print extra blank spaces left and right

so he might stretch the number out
like knifeless tape at the finish line.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


My parents lied.
They said they loved me.
Not really. Not once that I remember.

It was not from lack of trying.
It was from seeing my brother’s ghost
when they looked in my direction.

How dare I not be him.

Still, they had love in them
building up in a large reservoir
behind a grieving dam.

My mother was a girl scout leader.
She spread her love over the girls in her troop.
Her three troops.

They lapped it up and cherished her.

My father was a professor
and poured his love into calm instruction,
so patient with slow learners.

I never learned how his students felt about him.

I do not hate my parents for withholding love.
I was angry with them for it.
Anger resigned two decades ago on this grudge.

How simple, complex and lovable our humanity.
Love’s riverine capacity
to flow around the obstacles of grief and pain.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney