August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

August 2017 Poems – 31 Daze: “Combo Poem”

Poem 31, and done!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all that have contributed to my month-long project of writing poems. Whether it was in offering a word of inspiration to seed a poem, in visiting my website to view a post, or in commenting and sharing the work I’ve created; I appreciate your patience, consideration, and encouragement. This has been a huge personal success and has allowed me to generate strong momentum for other projects that are in my harbor at present. This is an important year for me academically, as I embark upon my Master’s Thesis in Literature and Creative Writing. I’ll be a busy hobbit, but will surely use my blog as a measure for procrastination.

I shamelessly ask for your continued support of my blog, and look forward to offering you fresh content and a slightly different perspective on things. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

*The poem below is composed of  the 30 words or phrases (all bolded and italicized) that were used as poem titles for the past month. It is a bit of a stretch in some places, but I hope you’ll forgive my indulgences. As I have mentioned before, although I had 30 disparate ideas suggested for this project, we all seemed to keep coming back to our current society and world events as impacted by the election of the 45th President of the United States. Regardless of your political affiliation, I think we can all agree that we are in a very auspicious period of American History, and that there has been a huge shift in how many people view the world. I think it important that we all try to give voice to our experiences as we navigate these events and remember to be kind to each other. At the end of the day, we are all human and can only benefit from the grace provided by the tolerance and patience required of striving for a better world together.



*August 2017 Poems-31 Daze: “Combo Poem”


We are a newly dissident archipelago, adrift on an unknown sea.

The days of cotton candy, ice cream, and sharing are gone.

We’re being force-fed a slippery meal.

Sunshine, perpetually blown up our moist bungee bungs.

We’re being had, by the greatest flim-flam artist of modern times.

The current POTUS is a malevolent behemoth.

His administration is a circuitous circus,

a failed foofaraw.

A cabal of caustic craftsman lacking compassion.

A cattywumpus of calloused care and constant commiseration.

A disheartening Donnybrook of daily disillusioned despotism.

Desiccating durable desert roses,

daring to believe that they can MAGA.


The greatness of our grand experiment resides in the imagination of intelligent people who work hard to sustain fairness, and strive for a better and more perfect union.

The serendipity sought can only come when there is equality for all.

Someone suggested Universal Basic Income in the U.S.

Perhaps, it is more than that?

Bravery and valour are soul mates in the scheme of resistance.

Liberty, is an unrequited love.

It must be paid for, with blood and life,

in the friscalating light of the dawn of a new age.

No one knows better than me.

Because a moron that professes that he is the GOAT,

is not a paper tiger, but an orange buffoon,

that will harm, hurt, and handicap us all.

Grabbing pussy,

and wondering when are we gonna get to some under the shirt stuff?”

drives this black hole.


Egotistical narcissism.

The end is near…sometimes,

but perhaps that is how America is made great again,

Rising from the ashes of its hubris after hitting rock bottom.

I offer you out!

Think critically, with empathy and compassion.

Winning freedom is easier than sustaining it.

August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“POTUS or Poor Us!”

Poem 30 is for Cousin Jack. Never before, and hopefully never again.

“Patriotic Sanitation” © C.P. Hickey 2017



Puzzling, puttering, partisan putz.


Paternalistic prick pardoning prejudiced police.

Putin pet.

Prattling pariah pushing pedantic palaver, perpetually.

Pushy, pussy paramour.

Proud, portly, pandering peacock, producing prepackaged pageantry.

Possessing petite pygmy palms.

Pugilistic, pestilent, provocateur, preventing, primarily, prohibiting principled press.

Pathetic, perishable presidency, passing precariously.


August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“When are we going to get to some under the shirt stuff?”

Poem 29’s title is a bit of a misnomer, in relation to how I went with it. I suppose you can take it to mean whatever you want, but sometimes you have to work with what is given to you. As I’ve asked friends, acquaintances, and known felons to contribute to my project, there really is no standard or judgment for acceptance. Life is juicy, messy, and full of things we’re told we can’t talk about. I will create with what has been given. So, a phrase like this helps me to see things in another way. I won’t reveal who suggested such a provocative topic, but needless to say it is likely they will not being getting to any under the shirt stuff anytime soon for lack of tact, not lack of trying.




“When are we going to get to some under the shirt stuff?”


Backseat salutations to you my date.

Dinner delicious, waiter exemplary.

What next?

Let’s do what we talked about.

It’s dark here and no one is around.

It’s the only place where we can be alone.


You are a one.

A picture primed for some magazine.

I envy your beauty.

I want you.

Watching you as you take out your metallic lipstick case.

You twist the tube, and crimson shoots up.

I”m not far behind.

You apply the lipstick.

My lips are wet and shiny.

You take off your stockings and brush them against my leg.

I”ve never been so excited.

The anticipation is killing me.

Your hands are expert,

and your clothes are so delicate.

I can smell your perfume as the articles fall off of you,

and then surround me.

My head is swimming.

No one can see us.

Well, you can see me.

I’ve lost my breath.

I shimmy your stockings up my heels, over my calves,

and they feel tight, but dazzling.

In the rearview mirror,

I catch a glimpse of another woman in the backseat with you.

The lipstick is dried.

You help to apply eye shadow.

I’ve never felt so at one with a stranger.

She’s so close to me.

I never knew.

You remove your bra and slowly harness me.

I have goosebumps.

You are as excited as I am.

I see desire in your eyes,

and feel desire in my heart.

The goosebumps on my arms could read as Braille to a blind man.

What would it say?

It would tell the world that tonight I’m electric.

You pass me your compact,

and I look at a beautiful woman looking back at me.

I see through her, through me, in me.

I’m in love with a secret.

And so happy to share the burden with another soul.



August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“Universal Basic Income in the U.S.”

Poem 28 has been a thorn in my side. The concept is something I know little about, and I don’t want to provoke my audience into an all out assault on each other’s sensibilities. So when in doubt, Haiku. To my lifelong friend Brian S., even Rumplestiltskin can’t weave this straw into gold. It just pricks my fahkin fingahs, and hurts wicked bad.


“Universal Basic Income in the U.S.”

Some folks have nothing.

A few folks have everything.

Let’s divvy it up.

August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“I offer you out!”

Poem 27 is a day late and a dollar short, as the say. Lifelong friend Kenny H. offered up this next beaut. It goes back to our boyhood trials and tribulations. What those consisted of, I’m not quite sure, but they seemed large at the time. Luckily, life has shown me the humor of the ways of youth. Yes, they were important times full of stretching moments that seemed to last forever. Sometimes, it doesn’t even seem like they really happened. A toast to the fresh faces we were, and the well aged faces we’ve become.


“I offer you out!”

When we were kids,
long, long ago,
and honor was defied.

An offering made,
to incite a bout,
was how we recouped pride.

Gather, gather, all around.
Pugilistic masses.
Schoolyard toughs, and bullies, too,
had plans to kick some asses.

The only recourse for fighting fair,
resided in a challenge.
Showing bravado to all those near,
allowed for lesser carnage.

Mano y mano was the claim,
that rung forth with each fight.
Never really mattered which corner was in the right.

Perceived slights and grievances,
allowed for a blank check.
It all came down to rule of law.
and missing teeth regrets.

The shouting began,
and threats escaped their lips,
“I offer you out! Do you accept?”
“I do, you fuckin shit!”

A time and place agreed upon,
the tension began to build.
The last school bell released the mob,
They marched up Bunker Hill.

Combatants started dancing,
scared to see who was the less.
The crowd jeered each despite themselves,
hoping for bloodshed.

The real meat of the thing,
happened in the shoving.
Hands on chests, elbows pressed,
aggression quickly doubling.

The shirts came off, the nails did carve,
It finally came to blows.
As a matter of course, one punch landed,
and broke a poor soul’s nose.

The crowd moved in, they’ve had enough.
Time’s come to break it up.
One last burst from spent fighters.
And just like that it’s done.

Time has shown, later on,
that the ones exchanging blows,
Weirdly formed a lifelong bond,
Forged in youthful combat throes.


August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“Flim-flam Artist”

Poem 26 pick up sticks. Sir Benjamin M., threw out the inspiration for this poem: Flim-flam Artist. Despite the obvious, I’ll go with the rhythm I feel when saying Flim-flam Artist. I’ll add a dash of the cadence of one of my favorite books that I read to my children: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.


Public Domain -


“Flim-flam Artist”

A Film-flam artist was strolling down the street.

Preying on the first rube he happened to meet.

Selling time shares,

and luxury suites.

Signing dotted lines,

and sweeping dreamers off their feet.


“Whatcha’ got cooking Mr. Flim-flam flee?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to believe.”


“Whatcha’ selling to a man like me?”

“Everything you’ve wanted, I guarantee.”


“How can I trust, that you’ve my best interest at heart?”

“Opening your purse strings, would be a good start.”


“Why should I give my money to you?

“You’ll pay me to take what’s yours before I’m through.”


“But I have nothing, Mr. Flim-flam flee.”

“You underestimate my motives, you have more than you see.”


“My wife is waiting at the old oak tree.”

“Collateral for taking, such a fine beauty.”


“Good day, sir. I’m away, you barter in jest.”

“Surely, one more moment, it will be for the best.”


“There’s nothing you have that could compel me to give.”

“I can think of something that will open you up like a sieve.”


“G’day, strange fellow I must be gone.”

“I can help you travel to the great beyond.”


“You cannot promise that. No one ever comes back.”

“You must trust me, all you do is sign this contract.”


“I can’t, and I won’t and I shan’t sign for you.”

“If you don’t do this, then your wife will leave you.”


“How could you know what my wife would do?”

“Because I am death, and I’ll take her instead of you.”


“No, it’s a trick. This simply can’t be.”

“I told you,  you’d pay me to keep what’s yours from me.”


“Then the trick’s on you, you crusty old ghost. You had me sold with your first ample boast. I’ll sign anything to pass on this cow. My wife’s a calamity, and you can have her right now.  You have what I want which is my liberty. I won’t sign your contract so I can be free. Take this fine beautiful harpy with mouth like a razor, you’ll soon be abused by her ill-mannered behavior. I like the deal you press upon me, I take it, good day. In fact, she’s for free.”

“It seems, I’ve made a mistake kind sir. I meant the guy walking behind you, I’m sure. I tell you grim-reaping is not what it used to be. A Film-flam artist is desperate making ends meet. I wish others could walk in my shoes. If I don’t make my quotas the boss hits the roof. Let’s keep this transaction between you and me, if word gets out I’m finished indeed. There is nothing I have to sell you, I can see. If I did such a thing it would only hurt me.”


August 2017 Poems-31 Daze


Poem 25 came to a well that had desiccated. When one attempts to continually go back to the well for ideas and inspiration, you sometimes find that you reach the bottom and there is nothing to be had but mud. Luckily, with a little time, the slightest trickle allows for a newfound rush of water. Thank you to Haley H., for knowing full well that even the consistent pull the bucket up empty from time to time.




Desiccan, desiccant.

Stop and read Immanuel Kant.

Irrespective of our wishes,

he contends the world is what is.

Reality, hinges on notions plucked,

from thoughts and concepts,

default constructs.

Fashioned perhaps, in a brain,

within our skulls, contained.


Who could argue the enigma?

Seeing into or past direction,

requires being outside perception.


But, alas we are trapped within.


Measure fully what you think,

reality flows from instinct.

Gut check the things that you know.

They aren’t, they can’t,

not a chance, they’re so.


So, solace then,

when death allows escape.


Tethered, in this world and next,

betwixt the madness that infects.


I yearn, for cessation of the suffering.


The world as we see it, needs to desiccate.

The world as I see it, needs to desiccate.


The floods are coming just in time.

Dryness follows.

Truth sublime.







August 2017 Poems-31 Daze


Day 24 brings poem 24 into existence. Most, if not all of you know how a feel about our current President and his administration. Try as I might to veer away from this subject, when I opened up this project to the power of suggestion last month, it yielded a good share of responses that were related to this subject. Unavoidable, but a fair indicator of the life and times in which we now find ourselves. Please consider, “M.A.G.A.”


“M.A.G.A.” Public Domain –



Such, temerity.

Small hands tap terrible tweets.

Soon you will quit. Sad!

August 2017 Poems-31 Daze

“The End is Near Sometimes”

Poem 23 exists as a therapeutic exercise. Thank you to JEB, up in NH. Your suggested phrase helped me to revisit some emotion.


“Suffer Buffer”



“The End is Near Sometimes”


Sometimes on Summer Sundays,

people pass out of this world.


Elemental souls leaving behind dead meat.

Honorable hardworking hearts,

hiccup and then stop.



There is a specific room in the emergency wards of most hospitals.

A grief room.

The horror show.

Some call it the suffer buffer.

An administrative attempt at compassion.

Staged grief.

It is preferred that you “act out” in there.


We don’t want the others to think someone is dying nearby.

Only sanitized grief is allowed.

Dignity displayed in disposable units.

Shuffled inside, while they cobble their strategy.

The content is similar,

the names are changed.

Tissue boxes that don’t look like they hold hardly enough.

The door opens.

Please…this way.

The chaos dizzies.

When you arrive at the spot that you are designated to stand,

gravity holds you there.

So many things to see.

Yes, this is it.

It’s time.

It is no longer an abstract.

The moment is upon us.

Hope, has left the room.

Tears well up.

The point of no return has come.

The attending physician somehow gets your attention.

Her eyes are full of two things:

Professional compassion and the consequence of truth.

Eyes still locked.

The decision has been made.

Acceptance of that truth stings for a moment.

Then a desperate attempt to salvage the seconds left.

The chaos falls away.

The people go out of focus.


The only thing left in the room,

a vessel that contained love.


The transfer is complete.

The eyes, always the eyes.

Expressive eyes at one time,

need a gentle palm to close the lids.

Fingertips insuring that rest is obtained.





What next?


The end is near sometimes,

and then it is right on top of us.

August 2017 Poems-31 Daze


Poem 22 ska-doo. Very close to the end of this run. Just 8 more to go after today. A hearty thanks to Carol S. for dropping today’s inspiration on me. This is for all the tense moments in my youth that were surrounded by faux machismo. Concentrated moments of ultra-violence. Although, they were few and far in between, I still had my share of uncomfortable situations that were reduced to violence for the lack that age’s wisdom provides. It’s laughable how indestructible we all thought we were. Now that time has got a hold of us, and a bunch of folks I grew up with have passed on out of this life, I can see the fragility that was the reality.  It taunts me for having really good luck in not getting caught on the wrong end of a punch that could have had consequences. Also, why have most fights I’ve been involved in or witnessed consisted of at least one or more males taking off their shirts?


£££ reuse fee applies - Fans fight in Poznan£££%20reuse%20fee%20applies%20-%20Fans%20fight%20in%20Poznan



The tension is tempurpedic.

One swing at a bystander and we all fall into the mix.

Shouting, spittle, and red faces.

Rocking, lilting, back and forth,

back and forth.

If that prick looks at me the wrong way,

I’m gonna elbow him in the face.

The beer bottle flew past me,

and thick spittle landed in my ocular cavity.

It slid down my nose and hung from my nostril.

I didn’t see where it came from.




Brawl berserker.

Doffing shirts and tumbling into the fray.

A veritable donnybrook

Lots of sizing up and flinging.

The biggest guy on their side just went down with a busted nose.

He’s crying like a child.

Two guys over there are flailing at each other.

Straight up toe-to-toe, hockey saw punches.

I ran up to two of them and while one was sucking on a cigarette,

I pointed at the other.

Neither expected me to take that pointed hand and smash my elbow into the smoker’s face.

Sparks, buckled knees, blood.

The second guy got the hook return and was laid out cold.

The cops were on the scene, I knew one.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and told me to “get the fuck outta here!”

As I fled, I caught a cheap shot from one of theirs.

Real grinder. Looking for any reason to drop dukes.

He couldn’t gain traction with anyone else,

so he clipped me while I as scurrying away.

I didn’t fall.

I took the punch.

Saline solution gargled for days in order to keep the cut from infection.

The adrenaline felt good.

Almost as good as the time I stood the drunk asshole up,

only to knock him out.

Violence in small doses.

Feeling the lethality of the anxiety pre-fight,

is worse than the blows sustained in the fight.

Tempurpedic tension.

Honorable mention.

That moment when you know its going to go down,

and there is nothing to stop it.

Madness, chaos, purging of anger.

Pepper-spray feels like razor blades slicing through your eyes.

Flushing the red pollution out with Emergency Room toilet water.

Waking up with stained pillows.

The heat is on.


Pride worn, and served.

An elbow shattered by a pipe.


Dufflebags full of courage.

Put some pins in Doc,

I can handle it.

Apprehension puts you in a box.

Sometimes the only thing violence understands is violence.