Fascist Boot-heels Come On Down

Here’s a little protest ditty in honor of the Federal forces invading Portland, and the armed MAGAs who cheer them on. May you all be arrested, detained, and prosecuted to the full extent of the law, if there’s anything left of it when Barr & Co. complete their project. (The cadence is the same as a boot camp drill sergeant’s call-and-response song.)


Fascist boot-heels come on down
     the dread antifa's in our town
Follow this psychotic clown
     you can't tell up from fuckin' down

Fascist traitors you're in luck
     folks down here is dumb as fuck
They clutch their guns and cry in fear
     dressed up in their combat gear

They see Dumbo spouting lies
     about the libtards they despise
And realize 'he thinks like me'
     there is no shame in hatred, see

Just tell'em it's okay to hate
     you bring your torch and don't be late
We'll burn a cross and knock some heads
     come on down and join the Feds

The unmarked cops will cast a net
     and disappear some bums, you bet
You'll know that it can happen here
     when jackboot troopers club your ear

Forget your daddy fought a war
     to stop them nazis ever more
Now the nazis run the place
     you cheer them on in all disgrace

The framers they can't help us now
     they weren't all-knowing anyhow
Quote us now some Thomas Paine
     while it's all twirling down the drain

We'll fix it come election day
     unless they figure out a way
To thwart the People's will, at last
     and disappear the vote you cast

Fascist boot-heels come on down
     the dread antifa's in our town
There is no time to fool around
     you don't know up from fuckin' down

Kumbaya, You Feckless Dreamers

The Ballad of Lucky Downturn

I’m holding up for now, I guess
and thanks for asking, mac
I’m holding out for better times
to get back on the track
I’m holding to the vain idea
I haven’t lost the knack
I’m holding tight the napkin
with her number on the back

I’m holding high my cocky head
a bedroll and a sack
I’m holding out for luck again
the kind I usually lack
I’m holding one short piece of rope
and hoping for some slack
I’m holding hands with someone
in a memory way, way back

I’m holding off on paying bills
those credit cards can wait
I’m holding off on voting for
your favorite candidate
I’m holding in a pattern
miles above the boarding gate
I’m holding you so tightly
hell or heaven, they can wait

I’m holding this one truth to be
self evident, you know
I’m holding it for now because
tomorrow it may go
I’m holding up a toast to all
the high as well as low
I’m holding in a swollen heart
my love, and let it flow

Kumbaya, you feckless dreamers
with your carefree, fickle ways
Kumbaya, you dizzy schemers
in the dust of sunny days

Tread Wear

Steel Belted Radials

They don’t make movies like
they used to, he said, but they
never made tires like this—then he
says it: haltingly, wistfully, as if
it were a line from a popular ballad

Steel Belted Radials

as if Leonard Cohen himself
were standing there before you
casting tire-buying spells with
magical incantations and smiles
backed up by the pedigree of
a pure bred confidence

Steel Belted Radials

spinning, orbiting
they sing against the pavement
with a melody above, apart
from the automotive implication
of a sure grip on a slick surface
or a rolling rampart

against punctures, evoking
scenes of roadside despair
with passengers pressing sad faces
against rain speckled windows
as you labor with a jack handle
against fate itself

Steel Belted Radials

upon the radiant bearings of
the gods, such a car would soar
on a cushion of air, uplifting
inspired, like an ode to a planet
draped gloriously in robes of
carbon monoxide, cinched by cords
of endless highway

Steel Belted Radials

you reach for your wallet
like a magistrate for his gavel
to the background hum of a
grinding economy, and spit gravel
peeling out of the flag-draped lot
and drive, you drive back to the

bottoms where your domain asserts
a stubborn little imprint, the tread sipes
in a dirt driveway, within patterns too
large and convoluted to comprehend
perhaps, and the radio is tuned
to a country song about disgrace
and redemption

Pay to Play

a little of this self pity
it sure goes a long, long way
so, she didn’t love you back
oh man, you feel all betrayed
feeling sore and hurting
on your little feet of clay
man up dude, and let it go
and hear what Zappa say*
broken hearts are for chumps, boy
you has got to pay to play

_

* paraphrasing, for your delicate ears.

Hey Joe

hey joe
where you goin’ with that
phone in your hand

hey joe
where you goin’ with that
phone in your hand

i’m goin’ out to call my old lady
it’s our anniversary
don’t you understand

Louie Cicada

cicada-by-moochy-on-flicker-dot-com

(CC) photo by Moochy

Every 221 years
The 13-year cicadas
And the 17-year cicadas
Emerge together and go on tour

Unlike the Beatles
They all play the
Same instrument
They all play the tymbal

But much like the Beatles
Teenage girls will
All scream hysterically
When they see them