Two Poems (sic) and a Whine

Titans

titans roar,
but
it’s all inflated ego,
bluster;
titans kill,
but
only kill those who are not in their class,
perceived in a lower caste,
better, more human folks;
titans scream
but
always down,
never up;
titans manipulate their followers
to believe
lies;
titans don’t have a clue
as to what they are doing
except to make themselves
feel more powerful
and
that is a lie to themselves.

Sins

i loved my sins;
i pursued them with perverse abandon,
“but,”
as Wayon Jennings intoned,
“i’ve never intentionally hurt anyone;”
now,
my sins are verboten:
the phalanx of do-gooders along with the medical cadre
poke me, measure me, smell my urine (or something),
take my blood, check my stability, hah,
dictating i shouldn’t drink
or cuss,
or look at women who are not my own
even if there is no intention of evil on my part,
or
eat anything i like to eat
or
go where i want to go
or
run with the wind
or
sail the seas
or
slalom down a brilliant white trail,
or
dive for a line drive at shortstop,
or
swing a bat driving the ball
down the left field line for a double
or worse,
not allow me to put on my pads
and
tackle the runner cutting through the line,
hitting his gut with my shoulder,
driving him into the ground:
oh, what a glorious feeling
gone.

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