CliffSongs

  The New Christian Ethic   It’s open season in America, And Jesus wants you to have a gun. See, everything is getting all wokified, Something has to be done! We can’t be having all this science, Especially not no history… Time for some old-fashioned violence, I’m sure Jesus would agree! See, the Lefties won’t shut their mouths, They wanna “educate” everyone, So, we’re gonna make things go real south, Jesus says get yer gun. They’re gonna turn your boys all gay, Or make them smarter than you. Or give your womenfolk equal pay, Or disprove that racist crap you spew. So, it’s lock and load for Jesus, boy, Or for Donny or Ronny, or Nikki too, Time for some AR-15 joy, Make sure your lapel pin ain’t askew. Time to settle some minor score, Or satisfy that itch inside your head. Mow some down, create some gore, You know, just like Jesus said. It’s time to take the country back, Time to get real tribal. Of course, that’s not really Jesus’

    Red Dead   They do not acknowledge what is clearly seen, A corruption they blindly celebrate, But do not admit. They clasp it closely, Fetishing and craving its instrument, They practice its method, They wear it on their chest. Loud are their praises, Even in the face of innocence slaughtered, Their obeisance is cruel and willful. For its coin is abundant, And may be had for what they view as low cost: A subtraction in the populace is only a number after all. See there! Its sanctity is writ in bound law! None may challenge, It’s divinity assured by document written by man. Why do they clamor for it so? Why can they not name it for what it is? It is Death. Death. Slowly has it usurped their instinct for survival, It rules them and infuses them with malice. Death. No longer do they uphold Creation, Their path now is only destruction. They would make its apparatus a national pride. They do not see the mocking mirror, Beneath

  What Would You   And what would you, Traveler through the Mystery of Now? Would you vilify a brother, Because he does not see the color green? Would you disavow a sister, Because she does not like the taste of fish? Have you not done this? Have you not scorned a point of view? Would you pass a dog, Crying and starving, street-filthy? Would you reach out a hand? Or would you have better to do? Would you tread on the lowly ant, Carrying a crumb back to the hill? Would you feel no guilt, Because it was on “your” sidewalk? Would you spray poisons, That must leech into the soil, Disturbing creatures unseen, And thus of little note? Will you burn more oil, gas, coal? Will you fill the air with soot, Seeing a dirty windshield a small inconvenience, Easily cured with better chemicals. Will you thoughtlessly blunder through, Harming with a word, a gesture, With small action for one person’s comfort? Will you see warnings, And ignore

  A Passing Man     He had lived a full life – Full of deceit, And bullying, And wealth obtained by foul deed. He had been important to many, Especially to those he’d lied to. He had made countless acquaintances, Few friends, And many enemies. He had given decrees, Orders, Exhortations, And demanded much. He had received accolades and flattery. He had been given gifts of rare hue and quality, He was allowed much latitude. He’d had children, And ex-wives, And many accusations. He had lived. Now, he had died. Announcements were made on television. Obituaries were printed in newspapers. Theories were propounded on the Internet. Arrangements were made, Long planned and extravagant. Dignitaries were notified of their requirement, Relations were flown in at great expense. Poems were requested to be written, Eulogies were solicited. Floral arrangements were bought in quantity, Music stars petitioned and transported at state o

  The Dreams in Heat   When the fever finds you, And you start sliding sideways through your day, Will you know a new truth, Or will confusion crash through your thoughts, And strand you on unrecognizable shores, Skin-soaked and greasy?   When the fever touches you, And even music harshes your ear, Where does time flee then? Will all that you observe seem slanted, Smeared and slippery, Or will you find a clarity you cannot capture?   When the fever holds you, Do conversations seem trivial and unserious, Or are they fragments of a shattered day, Easily ignored and left behind? Or are they too important, And thus forgotten being too hard to face?   When the fever has you, Will you recognize it’s cracked perspectives, The lost cohesions so familiar and comfortable, Now jagged pieces forming new puzzles, Rare and strangely mechanical. Will you try to find sense in the hot chaos?   When the fever takes you, Will you know old thin

  The Gray House   The gray house. You almost don’t remember it. Not until you walk by. Then it is too present. It… shifts. Not when you look directly at it, no. But when you look away it… wobbles? It shifts. It settles, or slides, or judders, or Crawls. So hard to describe… Sometimes when you and some friends Have had just enough to drink, You try to discuss. You can’t get it exactly right… And you always end up talking about the girl. What was her name? No one remembers that either. Why? She shifted. And it took too much of her. Including her name. All that was left were the shoes. Her shoes on the steps. When you think about the shoes You can almost see what she looked like. Almost. But the shoes everyone remembers. They didn’t shift. No one likes to walk past the gray house, Not alone. Because someone lives there. Because someone lives there you have never met. Because someone lives there no one has ever met. Y

  The Fade   A starless night full of futile sound: Low murmurs and susurrations, Unintelligible, full of vacuous meaning. He strains to find sense in it, A thread to dangle from, A context for him, Existence seems cheap, Given, but unasked for.   He sits staring at a featureless sky, A gray man beneath the gray firmament. The low intonation is flat and undetailed, A concurrence of noise, A mush of sighs and mutterings, A chorus of emptiness. He feels that it speaks of nothing, A beckoning to no one that calls to him.   A fog begins to slink in, An obscuration underscoring. Details fade, swirls of mist coalesce and smooth, Even the streetlamps are obscured. The low mumble is now nearly deadened, The mist is a completion of erasure, A tale of unbeing. He begins to feel he has become unreal. This is the void. Here is the nothing, This is the nowhen. There is nothing to be seen, There is nothing that can be heard. A nonbein

  Saxophone   The days have grown old, And he has a quiet cough, That never quite goes away… Not anymore.   But he can find a sunny day, In a certain song. And he is brought back there, When the saxophone kicks in.   Then he remembers her smile, And a laugh that came from her soul, And he can get lost in her eyes again, When the saxophone kicks in.   Then today fades in a warm rush of recall, Remembered friends gathered, And campfires and laughter are all unfocused, Because all he really saw was her.   These cold nights he perches on his couch alone, The years have slipped past and left their mark. She has slipped away so long past, He can barely look at her photo without the world going black.   But once in a while he can find her again. As she reaches for him, her eyes dancing. And she seems so alive that he can almost smell her, And she is here when the saxophone kicks in.   He can no longer feel the warmth in the sun,

The Repeater Principle   They have come from a new darkness. Mysteries they have created And they believe in Having heard them From the people that they told. An exercise in the same old same old Made gospel by those that claim legitimacy By dearth of education Preaching to the uneducated. There they sleep in the halls Where ducks aren’t heard Fearing the alarms And not their cause. They will not be roused For they know danger dissipates If its existence is denied long enough. Instead, they provide dangers Of their own invention Whose effects cannot find measure And thus is the proof That cannot be seen. For all is a mystery That cannot be solved Without learning something About themselves And that might be The scariest thing of all.   Cliff Lake 2/4/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023

Florida Man   I went to the library, but the FBI was there. The Florida Book Inspectors were crawling over the shelves. They were looking for BAD WORDS. Words like “surrender at Appomattox” or, “Jim Crow” or “segregation.” Because that would show what kind of assholes they were, Which would show what kind of assholes they are.   I tried to register to vote but the DEA was there. The Department of Elector Accountability was scurrying through the files. They were PROTECTING VOTER RIGHTS and WEEDING OUT UNDESIRABLES. They were using the old BAIT AND SWITCH, They caught some people they had manipulated. There is no such thing as entrapment in Florida. Not when the target is already guilty.   I wanted to drop the kids at school, but the CIA was there. The Corrected Indoctrination Administration was squatting in the corner. They were looking for GROOMERS and CRITICAL RACE THEORY. They subtracted some PRONOUNS. They made sure the math books were cle