MIA

Girl,
the teardrop 
running
its daily,
nightly
course
down your cheek 
rounds out
the ocean
 — for fellow
families and friends, 
women and men 
sound
the dumb
and deaf
numbskull depths, 
plumb
the prepared, 
uncaring
deeps, weep
 — share
your despair
and grief
at briefs
endless, senseless — 
the earthbound 
runaround
by the hidebound 
seeking to repair 
behind that screen, 
false fronts
to the fore.
You know the score. 
You are not alone — 
Sure,
the stone-hemmed 
and hawing, 
rockbound 
shoreline
 — that gnawing, 
annoying, 
jigsaw-toothed 
shoal
of fishy
officials — 
rushes, gushing
(sans a blush,
mind you)
to dash
rock-heads
’gainst hope’s
gentle,
growing swells
(being blind
to the sea,
you see),
trying
to stop up
those teardrops
with dry dust
in your eyes
 — don’t stop
crying out,
ever!
 — as they pull
that wool
(you’re nobody’s fool) 
with cock and bull, 
blow smoke
(as generally
done over
tea and boasts bombastic
 — empty
as the medals
on puffed-up chests — 
at the mess,
jesters
holding court:
at their best
with crude jokes). 
Oh, they try,
that troupe
(effete bunch
who played snap-turtle
in the pool
once
 — once too much),
and how!
 — coy and cute
as they execute
their staged
cha-cha,
neighing
and sashaying,
kicking (the heels) 
plastic buckets
as they toe
that coarse
can-can’t
chorus-line,
the [censored]s, 
chant
their hoarse cant, 
swivel-hipped
jazz, jive, drivel
(to wrapped,
captive audience
and ranting,
raving review
rabid)
 — delivering
their ill-chosen diatribe
diabolic
to the wronged
(ie. left to right) tribe, too
(tho’ not as well received
by the undeceived) — 
trying, tiring
trial and tribulation
in triplicate — 
trying
to drown
Neptune’s conch,
to sink
(stoned on power, 
crowing and cawing, 
vultures)
the flying
Dutchman
who lives
up to his name 
Christian
 — whether
Dane, Norse,
Viking or Celtic 
matters not, 
all-weather
finned
and feathered
as he is — 
still,
and always will. 
Laughable.
Like,
low-calibre
.22 softnose
trying to pierce
a hard shell — 
Smile
 — while they militate 
against the tide
with abysmal, 
dismal dismissal — 
miasmal, misted 
misspeak
(why’s
the mystery;
why, pray?)
 — say
wave ’bye-bye,
spew
their sour spray: 
repeated
loony tune,
a cartoon:
stewing
in their own brew, 
hot air
caught
in the four winds, 
unearthly
cold wires
tangled
in cross-currents
 — while the land 
itself lies
flattened
by the hand
heavy, true (ha!)
to form,
and the heart (ha!
and heartier ho-ho!!) 
lightless
 — lays there 
brained, drained; 
suspires
for the reviving, 
refreshing reign
to be restored 
again — that gentle 
rain
of tears, tears, tears
 — ’til he,
himself
 — of the so-called 
wild geese,
who mild streak 
drove to fight 
’gainst freak
war itself,
a peace-maker 
true-blue — 
dries
your eyes,
those long-awaited 
(for so many,
many moons!) 
tears
and cries
of sheer joy
 — soon,
dear Lord;
soon, soon,
pray God —