Bowery Night

Sirens blare,
Horns honk,
Drunkards shout,
Lights glare.

From a club entranceway issues a strong female voice
Shouting to guests: “Moth balls only, moth balls only!”

Heat sears,
Haze obscures,
Darkness descends,
Sleep eludes.

Dollar bills in skirts and suits march down
The proverbial avenue of poverty,
The age-old din of Bowery reduced to moth balls,
Mildewed flesh, stupefied hunger.

Oblivious to the stench,
Human currency competes for entrance,
Entranced by the sameness, the staid suspense of reality,
The sweet oblivion of moth ball-induced hypoxia.

“What a beautiful night!” coos an oblivous bling-ridden $100 bill,
Languishing in the 75-degree dead of night.
“It's December!” wheezes the mildewed flesh over whom she steps.
“It's December! Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

—Robert Hieger
 December 31, 2015

Eye Nay Nay

Nay nay nay can it be?
Wie? Wo? Wann? Warum?
The eye's broom sweeps the continuum of time
Like a giant Jacquard loom,
Shreds linen of false idols sans reason or rhyme.

Eric Blair saw the gory of the drumming of the gourd,
Prevaricators' corporate march of gullible dogs
Bound for dogma handed down from the Sovereign.
The beat of the drum, nay, nay,
The dawn of a new day, gray, gray.

Podiums besotted with glazed over visage of the drunk,
The deluded, terminally entitled class of buffoons,
Self-satisfied, vacant Mussolini gaze, daydream of doubloons.
Haughty whoppers, “men” of the people?
So what if a person is no longer a person?

The better good is served.
Festering, bleeding shards of unperson flesh, the plinth
For the benevolent dissembler of corporate monolith—
“We respond to needs.”
No, Madmen of Madison; you create needs.

Social Media feeds pollute the bandwidth,
Collude in the collective unconscious.
Hamstrung we are, stupefied, petrified
By visions of days yet to come,
Of wasted dreams yet to thrum.

There is a little list,
And we never would be missed.
We might well unexist.
Are you pissed?
Then resist.

—Robert Hieger
 December 18, 2016