CliffSongs

  This Way   It doesn’t have to be this way, We don’t have to have a dark day, Why is it that greed holds sway? It doesn’t have to be this way…   And they march to the drone of the electric hum, Hoping to buy some time in the sun. But given to them is paltry sum, Why is it that only the rich have fun?   So, they sweat and save and save and sweat, And are overly grateful for the little they get. While the rich devise even cleverer debt, Assuring the worker his day is coming yet.   It doesn’t have to be this way, We don’t have to have a dark day, Why is it that greed holds sway? It doesn’t have to be this way…   And the streets they ran with blood and will again tomorrow, And there is no compensation for a mother’s sorrow. But a moldy platitude will be borrowed, While the scent of bribery is closely followed.   It doesn’t have to be this way, We don’t have to have a dark day, Why is it that greed holds sway? It doesn’t have to b

  Hungry Hungry Hyppo   How did you flavor your hypocrisy today? Did you profess Jesus in the morning? Did you then stock up on ammo? Or just pay for an immigrant’s ticket to Massachusetts? Did you wear your pro-life tee shirt? Did you refuse to feed a stranger? Did you wear your cross today? Is it next to your AR-15 pin? Did you turn the other cheek? Or did you kick the man while he was down? Did you do unto others? Or did you do it to them first? Did you loudly pray where you could be seen? Or did you ask for forgiveness at home? Did you call down wrath upon those you despise? Or did you pray for a blessing on someone you do not know? How do you take your hypocrisy? With bright banner and loud words? Or will you finally seek a truer path? What is the flavor of your hypocrisy? Does it taste like blood?   Cliff Lake 3/1/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023      

  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

  Sounds of an Elder Dream   When the stars align in ancient design, When iron fails and the curtain between worlds rolls back, Will you trust to mages and runes writ for your protection, In hidden places before time was time, That still whisper in your psyche, Beneath the noise of this world?   Races of an elder time lay sleeping between your dreams. Called forth when galaxies collide, Releasing energies long forgotten and little used, Save for spites and petty gain. Will you recognize your lost brothers then? Or will you name them monster once more?   Let them teach you again the songs of the butterfly, Let them show you the colors known only in moonlight. Let them guide you to swim through the trees, And show you how to walk between raindrops. Let them serve you wine brewed in the tulips, Let them gird you in armor that will not yield to steel.   For in those days the sorcerer in pretty guise Will be among you seeking ruin. Then will

  The Live Ammo Boogie   Maybe that teacher is gay at the school, And turn your boy into some prissy fool, Who talks about ending fossil fuel, And how your 4-wheeler ain’t cool, And what are you gonna do about it?   And maybe the Mexicans are taking jobs, And maybe it’s illegal to fix that with a lynch mob, And maybe all the libs are elitist snobs, And think you’re just some worthless slob, And what are you gonna do about it?   And now all your talk is done, And you only have this option one, And the Democrat is coming for your gun, And I get all that, but tell me son: Why did you shoot all the children?   And maybe they think you’re some stupid chump, Who don’t know about that dirty hump, And how they will illegally arrest Trump, And now it’s time to give these bastards a thump, And what are you gonna do about it?   And now all your talk is done, And you only have this option one, And the Democrat is coming for your gun, And I

  Revelations 2.0   Hear now children, The legend never told, For the time is come To retrieve what we never held. See the secrets now unveiled, Showing what has never been, That we may take, What will not be given. Make now your commitment, To the Juggler Thief, That he may rise and rule, Forgetting and failing Every promise made. Take your stand, In the mudded ground You have been brought to And look there for the milk and honey, Given to those whose larders overflow. Gird yourself against dangers unseen But foretold by those well protected. For the days have wound down And the end is come, And will come again tomorrow. And should the learned man say other, Remember your faith is a shield, And to chamber a round just in case.   Cliff Lake 1/26/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake

  The Double Down   The lobbyist with somber views, Looks over the morning news. Saturday night, bullets take flight, Monterey finds itself in mourning. Baton Rouge checks in, 12 injured, and the spin, Needs its push to keep on turning. NRA senators, Neatly bought and paid for, Flip through Bibles And other SA2 documents of renown. Lobby Congress step up, You drank fully from this cup, Time for you to do the Double Down.   Double Down Ted, Just rearrange what you said, For Buffalo, Club Q, and Uvalde, Double Down Lauren, Marjorie, Paul, and all, And those lobby funds You will keep on scorin’.   The gun exec at home, Won’t face the travail alone, A call to Kevin won’t miss. Ever mindful of production, And a crisp bill’s seduction, And his stocks’ drop he can resist. The lobbyist needs assurance, That his built-in insurance Increases, not decreases, The revenue in new sales. So, his pocket politicians, Must now go al

  The Jack of Snakes   Oiled words were spake by the Jack of Snakes, It slithered on two legs into the contest. The courtiers there looked away without care, Eyes only on the conquest. The Jack of Snakes would cover past mistakes, With lies of a certain imprecision. The courtiers share the creeping snare, Their Jack is met with derision. Reminded of old crimes from earlier times The Jack of Snakes provides a new name. But the records of sin pierce the veil grown too thin, The Jack of Snakes cannot hide his true game. So, he struts the hall, thumbs his nose at all, Refuses to accept abdication. The Jack of Snakes will not relinquish his big break, Though he be far above his earned station. So, after all, we must watch his slow fall, The Jack of Snakes under focused inspection. Now courtiers must care for their own seat in chair, How long can they afford his protection? Now the Jack of Snakes has played the high stakes, With naught more than

  A Hush of Winter   The melancholy of the winterscape is told in quietude: The bird does not sing, But stands puffed on the branch, Head huddled in feather. Should he fly, His wingbeat is stark, Breaking a silence Underscored by the creak of the branch just left. A soft sigh may play, A breeze stirring nothing, Detritus weighed down by frozen snow. Such winds do not curtail the silence, But accentuate it: The carried voice of a dog left outside too long. Traffic is sparse for no better reason Than to remain inside, Shunning the stillness, That is somehow only partly dispelled By the carnival barkers shouting from TV. Now mothers hush their children, The gray quiescence Takes offense at the shrill merriment, Books and crayons are dispensed, Board games thrust into unwilling hands. The wait then is for the new snow, Then will lively gangs of youth Shout against the white empty. But today only the lone wingbeat sounds, A flutter

  2 Minutes to 9   It's 2 minutes to 9 and the bar downstairs just opened for the night. But I will not find my solace there. Too many desperate faces trying to shut out the night, Too many hollow laughs, hiding too little care.   Through the floor come the raucous conversations, And the laughs that sound like screams. Punctuation effected by pounding on tables, Remind me of my own extremes.   Alone in their bottles, They visit imposed fun until The door is locked behind them. Alone with each other, Or a borrowed lover, With blurry memory to remind them. Alone in the bottles. Alone. When they go home. So many alone.   It's 2 minutes to 9 and the bar downstairs just opened for the night. And I have no solace upstairs. Too many blank pages I’m working to get the words right, As the noise of at least some life seeps up to my lair.   Downstairs they plug dollars in to hear the same song again, So that they don’t have to pay

  Light and Sight   Winter’s drear brightened by sun on snow, Cold, and deadly, and beautiful. It can be hazarded for a brief time, But when too chill makes you drowse, The deepest sleep one will ever have.   Singing sands are there for the listening ear, Fresh water may not be close. A day’s journey for wondrous diversion. But watering the senses does not slake a thirst, Mind and body have their demands.   The second home standing alone at the lakeside, Cleaned and made use of perhaps twice the year. Paid for in hours that ignore more common relations, A status that chews at the heart in more than one way, A life lost between floors of an elevator shaft.   Smiles that coruscate at every instance, An indicator of promise unsaid. A shining lamp given to everyone, To take place of what cannot be spoken. Skulls grin permanently when stripped of the flesh.   I stand at a window wondering what it shows me, Am I fully aware of what my sig

  Proofs   I must now state that Given the research I have conducted On my own through use of Bing And given that my research supports Conclusions I came to Without prior knowledge of Data I have not read yet It seems very clear I cannot be wrong. Moreover, in my next podcast My theory will be proven With figures I gathered From the people next door. They are the only experts I have much faith in As they always tell me What I want to hear. In fact, their agreement with My hypothesis is generally based on A rumor that got popular At the end of last year. It was heard at a protest Outside of a library That had hired a person That dressed in a manner That some people found unsettling And also, they could not be From around here. This rumor was verified shortly thereafter By the mechanic’s wife At the bar later on. Two days later I read it On some liberal website That said not to believe it So, it must be true. Anoth

  Constancy   Missteps may only be counted once, But the distance they cover may be too great for retreat. A lie told in haste is still a lie, It catches up, no matter how quick the feet.   Distracted, attention fractured, chores numbly effected, Chasing thoughts that seem to have little to say. Opaqued contemplation mired by misgiving, What vague dissatisfaction haunts me through the day?   Inconstant heralds pledging new promise, In place of the covenant, they chose to forbear. Could this be the source of my misted disquiet, Are we to fall to some yet unseen snare?   Missteps may only be counted once, But the distance they cover may be too great for retreat. A lie told in haste is still a lie, It catches up, no matter how quick the feet.   Warnings dimly resound of betrayal, Turncoats and deceivers roam hallowed hall. Honest partners must now man the fortress, Together we must weather the squall.   Missteps may only be counted onc

The Transients   A farce writ out in madness and malice, A snake reduced to worm. The keys given over to thieves of the palace, The noxious fire still burns.   Long did we watch the backroom barter, Deals we would not countenance in home. A traitor at the wheel once the nonstarter, Product of repulsive syndrome.   Assurances spoke in midnight desperation, Caving to the fetid and soiled, Witness we are to a quisling’s castration, In hope comeuppance is foiled.   Will we at last see our republic corrupted, Oligarchs and their minions for the win? Are we to let rule of law be bankrupted, Has our resolve grown so thin?   Let them exult in their temporary achievement, Let them attempt their fiddling while they can, Rule of law suffers no cheap appeasement, We will hold, then overcome the straw man.   Cliff Lake 1/7/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023  

  A New Shadow   What darkness this now? A shade written by betrayers, Beholden to nothing save avarice, Bought with sly promise, Or poisons not yet served, But waiting still, Withheld only by words spoken, From both sides of the mouth. Crowding at the helm, Each would have their matters met, Overspeaking those of lesser cruelties, Or whom have yet to find a master, Or have crimes not so carefully hidden, But as yet undiscovered in full. Here they bite and scratch, Seeking footage in high places, Glory borrowed to be wielded incautiously, Loudly proclaimed in tarnished decree, Chores doled out for obscure gain, A sleight played out in public view. Petty grievance will be parceled here, Enemies imagined at will, Punished with slights and snubs, Or harassed by accusation of crimes, For which there are no laws. They will not trust each other, They will not trust anyone outside, They will not work toward anything productive, They

Image Where They Ate   Where They Ate And they sit in the shit pile they all took a crap in, And they wonder why it smells so bad. And they push each other in as they try to climb out, As they bet on the chances none of them ever had.   The losers congregate and plot divisively, Trying to explain plans the others won’t see. They haven’t the means so it never ends, The results of the loyalty they did so misspend.   Knives for the back are held in reserve. Really what these criminals do deserve. Jackals and snakes and rats to the floor, The parade of the miscreants in disordered corps.   And they sit in the shit pile they all took a crap in, And they wonder why it smells so bad. And they push each other in as they try to climb out, As they bet on the chances none of them ever had.   So they bray and they cackle and they shout each other down. Each of them trying their best to outclown The others they claim to have sworn brotherhood to, Ye

  The Reckoning   You want to punish them For wanting to punish you For not getting away with your crimes. But not everyone was involved And some are hanging onto Values you once represented Long ago voiced By champions who died in their defense. But now are tongues divided Unchorused and atonal A payment for choosing too many Of the worst set out for offer. Loyalties to clans Or to causes born of rottenness Stains of known offenses Marking a brood of infamy Desperate to remain uncalled To prosecutor’s review. These are the fruits Of an ugly seeding A harvest of callous regard Of norms and propriety. Now would you corral The hyenas you set loose Thinking you had a ringmaster With a ready whip hand. You bought this nightmare With what integrity you may have had You laid it down In favor of a fever and a fog You thought to perpetrate On a nation that is waking up Just in time. The fractures and the friction You are a

  Ode to a Failure   Kevin, O Kevin, not looking so smart. Kevin had lost before his race got its start. Kevin I mean this, it comes from the heart: We’re all laughing while you’re falling apart.   How much do you think your words really weigh? How did you ever hope to hold sway? How will you gain the gavel thisaway? How big is my smile at your disarray?   Now Bobo and Pedo-Gaetz and Scott Perry too, Have unresolved issues with allowing you through. It doesn’t seem as if you’re passing review, Perhaps that office move was a tiny miscue?   See, the GOP has a rep for throttling the throat, Of anyone not paddling the now swamping boat. Kevin, it’s just you, no more riding the coat, Of the disgraced conman who lost the vote.   So, Kevin all of the concessions you made, Aren’t paying off, looks like you got played, Off in the shadows you should have stayed, Cuz here comes ol’ karma throwing you shade.   Cliff Lake 1/3/2023    Copyright ©

A Confession of January 1, 2023   I cannot look at your eyes Without seeing. In them the stains of tears kept back Markers of hurts You didn’t try to avoid. I cannot tell you things Without hearing. Untold tales that say too much About everything Or nothing at all. I cannot walk with you Without staying. Too close to the places you will not visit Have never seen Or will not return to. I cannot look for you Without finding. You are hidden from all outside you While you walk in daylight And are not seen. I cannot listen to you Without telling. The things you will not know And have not asked And must never learn. I cannot be beside you Without leaving. The pieces of myself ungathered Unkempt and unkept And looking for somewhere to be. I cannot say anything to you Without meaning. To get at the bigger picture That we are in And are eating. I cannot stop seeing Without wishing for blindness. To a nightmare I canno

  Ambition   Ambition. What is it but another path That ends where all roads must? Can you be more than what you are? Have you fulfilled the potential You are told to have? Do you control your fate? Have you escaped the box you were assigned? Or did you just find a bigger box, And painted it so that you cannot see the walls? Who has told you what to be? Or are you the influencer Speaking pretty promise Holding in your hands no substance, Just the allure of cash ungained. Ambition. It too ages, Becomes defined by experience, Failure or success, Promises skewed by circumstance, And at last, The mirror on your wall. Stasis comes to all things, Even the tides will slow. So, we head into a new year by the calendar, But the seasons do not know that. Fish will spawn in their proper time, The bear will leave its den by the moon, Or simple hunger. They will not ask of your midnight promises, They will not care to hear your plans.

  Dear Gregory   Dear Gregory Wayne Abbott, Greetings to you this Christmas Day! Truly thee hast celebrated the Lamb of God, By thy disposal of thine indigent elsewhere! Thou art wondrous in thy protection of thine own! Verily doth thee cast aside those that Christ despises! They that wouldst hunger before thee, Repugnant are they that wouldst cause thee discomfort! Drive them before you as swine! For they have dared to ask succor of thee, Believing themselves to be equal to thee in the eyes of God. Lay them down unto the godless Democrat, That they may show kindness to the wanderer, That they may feed the poor, That they may house the dispossessed who so offend, They that must be ungodly, For they have no gold to offer thee. O Gregory Wayne Abbott, Thy divinity abounds! Thou art indeed true to the blood of Christ, Or rather will be, When thy sins are totted up, Then will thee remember, Then will thee recognize, The eye of the needle

  The People That Don’t Exist   Do you know about The People That Don’t Exist? No, you don’t. There’s one living down the street. Did you know that? No. There’s one working at the office. And one that works at the grocery store. Did you know? Maybe you waved at him yesterday. Maybe you said hello to her. Then they disappeared. Because they don’t exist. They don’t have birthdays. They don’t have birthdays because you never asked. They don’t have Christmas. Or Hannukah or Kwanzaa. They don’t have holidays because they don’t. And somehow you knew that. And knew enough not to ask. Some of them are homeless, yes. Some of them have houses. Do they have homes? You don’t know. It’s better that way. Because they don’t exist, not really. Not for you. They know they don’t exist. Did you know that? No.   No, you didn’t. I mean, how could you? Some of them are okay with that. Some of them like it that way. Some of them don’t. B

  The Tides   The tide came in today.   But I was running out of dish soap which was going to be a pain in the ass because I’m expecting guests and there isn’t time to go to the store because holiday traffic and there’s weather on the way and my sister was SUPPOSED to stop at the store on her way over but didn’t because she forgot or had some minor emergency with work or just didn’t goddam feel like it that’s what I think and maybe I can make it stretch but JESUS was it really that much of a hardship when she knows I already have my hands full and she knows what it’s like which is why she asked me to do it thi…   The nine years from 2013 through 2021 rank among the 10 warmest years on record.   Those goddam Republicans are going to waste everyone’s time for two fucking years investigating shit no one actually cares about or can do anything about and for Christ’s sake Matt Pedo Gaetz made a big deal about adding the laptop info int