Robert M. Zoschke

Drones, Thrones, and Automobiles 

planes keep dropping bombs 
all over the Middle East 
and now we’re all waiting 
to see who flinches least 
everywhere you look it’s  
warlords chomping at the bit 
but they’re all clerics and choirboys 
cowards who can’t learn how to quit 

down the hill at the corner store 
the old-timers hang around  
they keep on harping 
how the country’s let them down 
their lungs are full of emphysema 
and a daily double kind of C-O-P-D  
but they keep on paying cash money 
for their Lucky Strike poison of need 

in the Carolinas everyone 
is hiding in the mountains 
all creeds and colors 
at the same water fountain 
they’re all sniffing the same smell 
carrying on the breeze 
call it what you will 
but consider it progress please 

across the nation people are leaving 
their paychecks at the pumps 
stealth bombers were supposed to keep us 
from gasoline pain in our rumps 
all the new Powers That Be 
don’t look like Pentagon five-stars 
they thought blowing up all the drones 
would be like playing matchbox cars 
  
 way far up in Michigan 
all the way to Lake Superior 
a legend poet keeps on writing 
mining from his true interior 
he’s come to grips with the world 
never stopping all of its fatal games 
his coffeeshop baristas come and go so fast 
he never learns and forgets their names 

the far lefties and far righties 
stay hunkered down in their moats 
they keep spending American dollars 
on the cheapest Chinese coats 
the return of false spring 
destroys the cherry blossoms on the trees 
in this cryptic age of selfies 
nobody smiles while saying cheese 

my number-one favorite reader 
of all of my books 
she’s got the brain I love 
and she’s even got the looks 
she told me the other night 
this same old new war’s gonna be bad 
I want to watch the tv news with her 
but she won’t come over to my pad 

I want to love a bleach blonde 
down into her deep dark roots 
I’d play her a jukebox serenade 
but the Maytals lost Toots 
it’s getting to be that an honest man 
has nothing left to choose 
I keep on checking my lottery tickets 
even after my numbers lose 

I can’t remember which heathen 
said that knowledge is power 
today it’s only stumblin’ and bumblin’ 
no one’s rising to the hour 
we’ve got a warmonger President 
saying whatever the hell he feels 
he never did his time in Viet Nam 
he said it was bone spurs in his heels 

as far as I can see 
ice still covers the Great Lake 
somewhere over in Iran 
uranium is starting to bake 
the only escape I can find 
is watching college tournament basketball 
they ain’t student athletes no more 
now they help the stock market rise and fall 

I don’t know why 
but I’m feeling empowered 
my backup-plan woman says 
she wants a golden shower 
she freaks me out 
when she gets down on her knees 
I don’t know what’s going on 
but it feels like a National Disease   

 

Robert M. Zoschke edits and contributes writing to the literary arts annual Clutch.  His recent crime novels Old School and A Gangster's Promise are available on Amazon.