Private funeral

 Arrogant proud Colonel organized the spectacle funeral
Casket slowly sinking into the mud like a mule resigned to it's death
Privates and I had to stick arms into mud and remove logs and rocks
Allowing the coffin to sink smoothly down into the soupy mess

Above the large headstone we placed a trophy of bronze
Honor is the highest attainment all else is worthless
Later that night whisky dazed we would salute the lie
We would conduct this awkward burial more a sinking

The speeches in the wooden floor halls above the swamp
booming out glorious stoic platitudes, goosebumps and standing ovations
None of the words they used described the soldier we knew and loved
The man who dies during routine maintenance of a vehicle

Now inside a cheap casket whose lid wouldn't shut properly
Our nails couldn't close the gaps ripe stench attacking our senses
Yellowish custard mud entering the box as we push it down
Surfacing burping bubbles spashing drops of mud over tears

Back in the hall administrators made exaggerated claims of heroism
To this obedient grunt who wore the same dull expression as us
Excited by the mundane sports team victories and old pop songs
lazy when permittted unrestrained when drunk

Television crews and their military aides shouted us out of the way
Sending us, the only real friends of the man home

The flat they see

 I´m calling about the apartment above the school
My place is being renovated
I have no where else
I can pay in advance

That's fine, it has beautiful views
You'll have plenty of space
You'll have silence and piece of mind
In a place so characteristicallly noisy

Yes i know, I have stayed here before
I'm looking to repeat the experience
I just need somewhere I can get a good sleep
Focus on my work and meditate

Well we have put in a new rooftop garden
Deck chairs, grass and shrubs
Early evening becomes serious
Professional people march home

They won't bother me I'm sure
I leave others well alone
Let them take up the sidewalk
Let them celebrate themselves

You'll no doubt see them from your window
well dressed and illuminated in the streetlight
They reserve the right to look into your life
The latest drones and telescopes

Forget it,
I might as well sleep on the street.

The abandoned building was my babysitter

 I'm back here in the organized dark corridor
There is the carcass of a machine pre 1950s
The dead lightbulbs haven't been replaced
So the darkness is almost pitch black

The slight glow comes from thirty meters behind me
I suddenly question myself about why I might be headed into darkness
I turn back from the layers of unknown the welling fear haemorrhaging
I reach the junction and turn into an office entrance with a glass door

Here the light has the same tone and exuberance of daylight
But it isn't daylight it is some comforting substitute
It still doesn't illuminate the short entrance space
Darkness coming from the corridor is violent, shameless 

Antique desk cabinets on either side my curiosity spikes
I awoke something ugly up in the corridor, it approaches
I am petrified forcing the handle of the glass door
The inside looks like a safe place for me to be

The door won't budge and my hand jarrs 
wrist pain reaches grave fear and they blend in my veins
The mixture beoming heavy and bitter shooting around
I crawl under the antique desk drawer trembling shaking

If I call for my mother or father the thing out there will hear
The silence feels like a maddening wet blanket choking me
But I can feel the thing approach strange in it's cold breeze
I look through the glass door and realize safety is not a right I have

Rent a car next time

 The stench of sweaty bamboo hit the nose
Green stripes something frsh something rotten
Monocotyledon leaves straightveins
focus and up and downs
the tropical moutain jungle behind

We ate hungrily, green glow around the tented restaurant
rain pitter pattering cicadas and insects click and rattle
The evil far off wilderness Jacu bird meowing
A fierce tegu lizard blinking at the splash of raindrops

Thunder erupted as we finished our last mouthfuls
Of trout black rice and cooked monkey puzzle nuts
We went out onto the deserted street in that town lost in the mountains
No taxis, no uber and a bout a forty five kilometers from home

The colors of protest

 Folk music and the bundle of wheat metaphor
you snap one by itself, but many you can't snap
Sunset utopia practiced and preached in ritual
living devoted to doctrine all things are equal

Acceptance and spiritual rigor
songs for the hillside, echos linger
Self-lobotomized masses bleat nonsensical apathy
Your commune implements kindness and empathy

The under educated under paid gutterfolk suit up into riotgear
Adjust shields, firehoses, shock grenades, intimidation and fear
For the politics of the day, they are completely unaware
Pushing and beating until the mainstreets are clear

Until the Utopian sunset feels defeat
so they can make the week's ends meet

The rich children return to their family shaken and pale
The poor ones are sped off in paddy wagons to jail
Lawyers and Judges calmly sing and dance
Night kills that last glow of incredible colors
All utopian sunsets are forgotten

The under and over achievers

 The lights never went on for me
but there's a glow I can almost see
each of us might just turn out to be
A bombastic tabloid banging celebrity

I got rebuked for denying the hype
For picking sores complaining of cramp
Harvesting the fruit too late or unripe
For each mistake or misdeed a month behind

Observing the ones who knew how performance worked
getting ahead effortlessly and taunting my quirky
This child knows to study and never shirks
permission for accolades for exclusive perks

And yet the overachiever looks out his window
pondering the freedom of the pedestrian dunce
coveting that happy go lucky jolly swagger
That devil may care so unambiguous in the laggard

The cheerful brat deprived of discipline
wrecking those few precious opportunities
While the young overachiever
Checks each with absolute scrutiny

Ansel the elder

 There it was a tiny shack
A sixty year old man
emaciated by time
saved by a head a hair and a smile

Selling iceblocks in the thirty degree heat
Next to the grand river seven meters across
dark brown and deep blessed and fed by far off mountains
There he stood welcome in the eyes

That shack freshly painted
That smile freshly formed
The quiet rippling of the river
He waves at me

But I am on the otherside
Toiling the dark soil
hungry for autumn
As he once was

On his side the sun beats down furiously
Children surround loosening signs of spring
He distributes each rare flavor of popsickle
Anecdotes that see eyes beam and smiles widen

That old man who has half of what I have
But twice as much to give to a world- one he makes bright!
I tried envy and it exhausted my veins
I tried competition basic empty sick vanity

He just exited his little shack
The sun followed his motion
The river seemed to slow on his side
villagers heralded him

So much mojo in that supernatural deference of his
I went back to weeding my tomatoes