Monday, May 28, 2018

I remember the dead not food or roller coasters.


We tended to remember
because we have headstones,
too many to be counted.

Some remember the unfound
yet lying in unmarked graves.

We think of their death
as the pinnacle of life,
of service to the nation.

We rarely count the spouses never married,
the children never born,
the parents given a golden star to display.

 It is mostly the young we send off, their first taste of life
found in both battle and the boredom between the fights.

Most in war did not die for ideals or principles
far above their meager pay grade; not for emblems,
pins, or reward but for the one fighting next to them.

No soldier ever hoped for a grave stone, no sailor a watery grave,
though if they were given such remember them for the sacrifice made.

Today I will not receive any medals for my cooking skills,
my county fair pin knocking knack , ability to dunk a clown
my waving a flag used as advertising most days of the year.

War was a ghastly costly effort of blood spilled in mud or frozen ground,
now I wonder do we count it a win as we see industrial profits roll in?

© M Durfee

photo is Pearl harbor military cemetery US gov. stock

Monday, May 21, 2018



In the dark where the leaves of trees
block light and shadow,
cars sit near curbs.
I do not know either occupant or vehicle,
From my smoking place I see tail lights,
The less experienced keep a foot on the brake
while others sit in the darkness idling the motor.
All completing the trade
while adding to the smog of darkness.

A scene repeated every night
as stranger’s cycle through for
their blow job,
their heroin,
their lust for adrenalin;
their excitement of being in the slums
while cursing the law and occupants.
Constantly in prayer to a god of thrills
to let them safely escape
after they negotiate with the less than godly.

I feel the nervousness emanating
from the plastic and steel machines
as the deal is made,
the rush begun,
the ejaculation had,
the prayers answered one way or another.
I can feel the relief of the one true humanity
as it drives away, back to a suburban home.
I feel nothing if that car by the curb
is there loitering when dawn breaks.
Strangers, left to cook off in a hot car,
a left over smell of whatever hot lust killed them.

The morning curb tells the whole truth of the journey.
wrinkled tiny baggies,
sperm filled condoms,
garbage left for someone else.
Anyone so inclined to hide the night from the day.
Cleaning up though is not mandatory
and often not worth the effort
for tomorrow it will have to be done again.
Truth is that respect for another’s home
also is not an indispensable exercise.

© M Durfee

Sunday, April 22, 2018



Burn more coke, gas, men
to power the engine
of global destruction.
Melt every glacier,
thaw every tundra.
Siberia warmed is easier mined.
Canals finally obsolete
with travel from East to West
having met West to East
at the top of the planet.

Punch holes in the atmosphere,
cross it with jet exhaust,
the acid of chemdestruction
floating weightless down
as the leaves of trees soak it in.
They deserve their crucifixion for standing still
doing a job we don’t know how to robot replicate.
We live with the sickness and say
“as long as I work and gather my pay life is not shit.”
Living is too hard when we cannot purchase it.

Joy at the reward of commerce,
cash, profit, higher seas
means more water
for filling cooling towers and plastic bottles
used with no fear of global Armageddon;
seventy percent of the planet
may be water
but we yet have thirty percent
that is land able to be filled,
bashed, slashed, trashed.

Subterfuge and ignorance
are the tradecraft of tower dwellers
who reside in boardroom comfort,
isolated from hungers
haunting repercussion
of working the force
of human ingenuity for their own vast prosperity.
Simplify, make this easier, use fewer human hands;
money out evil, money in good economy.
It is a simple equation, old math.

Use, abuse, and turn to refuse.
There is no collusion in damage
just as there is no repair left
that will stop the burn off
in ancient forests and grasslands
where once life lived is now fossilized,
monetized not set aside or sanctified
for the future to see past itself.
Our sin is not in building.
Our sin is poverty of thought.

© M Durfee
Earth Day