Friday, January 13, 2017


'war all the time' ~gore vidal

'no one complains more loudly about freedom than the colonial slave drivers'
~samuel johnson

hated ACA, dictated by health
care moguls whose shares
blew up
the initial computer glitch
said it all
hated barack's senatorial mentor
joe 'i adore the iraq war' lieberman
i think of joe whenever
i hear that al gore
and his VP call
would never have declared perpetual
war in the mid-east
like W did
after 9/11
sour grapes ralph
nader hating democrats
can blow me
sorta loved the paltry stimulus bill
a little
loved repeal of don't ask don't tell
loved cuba deals, sorta
loved the iraq nukes deal
hate the drone war
hate guantanamo
hate joe biden b/c clarence thomas and
anita hill--no forgiveness, julie, sorry
loved michelle and the girls
hated the syria red line business
rolled by mr. putin
a chance to do some good
but barack walked it back
really hate the drone war
really hate his smooth
his smarts
his hopeless eloquence
his hotness even hotter than bubba
trump transparently
showed the presidency biz
and it is a business
to be reality tv
been like that since st. george
'richest american of his day &
devoted enslaver' wasington
st. thomas 'proud enslaver' jefferson
b/c sally hemmings
st. james 'minority of the
opulent' madison
--it's why we have a senate,
to safeguard the riches
of TMOTOs--
history is so fraught
take the good with the bad?
revere the good?
forgive the bad?
not on your fucking life

copyright © 2017 by patrick o'hayer

Sunday, January 8, 2017

'coffee for my breakfast, shot of whiskey on the side' ~robert cray
for madonna p
i crashed early last night, 9 p.m.,
no better sleep aid than the
NFL playoffs, bitches,
so i was up at 4 this morning
wide awake after 7 hours
of perfect sleep
to start the morning
canned moka pot italian coffee plus
very hot whole milk
lots of sugar
some leftover panetone
during my postprandial smoke
i noticed lights in the attic
of the 7,000 square-foot behemoth
across the street
our own local balzac
at work no doubt
20 cups of coffee with 20
cigarets recording the melodrama
of the trump election
and contemporary
elite bedroom living
the balzacs moved here paying
an enormous housing
premium just to avoid
my big sis
moved here in 1970
with 9 kids and a drunk
bus-driver husband
because housing then was then so
dirt-basement cheap
'a beautiful place in the country'
or so said the jingle
how times have changed
big sis returned from ft. myers
last year to be with family--la familia--
i'd advised her to stay put
here in town way back
when, her paid-off house the drunk bus
driver had provided but the lure
of the 4 bedroom
one-and-a-half-story quintupled
equity was too irresistible
couldn't blame her really
she refurnished her entire life with the proceeds
and moved to a florida condo to find
another mr. right
the drunk having succumbed
to his pleasures
a year ago her corporate VP
son bought her a house
back here in the 'ville
she thrived playing daily scrabble
with her beautiful daughter
and her, the daughter's, 5 kids
hope you got this all down
and your all-night
composing bears fruit,
monsieur honoré
copyright © 2017 by p. o'hayer
in her misspent youth
my niece hung out
with a girlfriend
a honey bear
but when together
you'd overlook the HB
because my niece
glowed so
5 kids later
she's looking better
than ever - dangerous

copyright © by p. o'hayer

Monday, January 2, 2017

ogling the walk-in
at my fave restaurant - i
had been chatting with the owner
while he rearranged antique
decor - she looked troubled
and as soon as she
entered she about-faced
back into the parking lot
super intense on her mobile
i pretended to smoke
hoping for a further ogle
but saw it was not the time
for in-depth ogling
so i headed in the opposite direction
there i espied an
out of service
payphone, weathered and sad
someone had bent thick
now-rusty wire to prop up
the handset but it hadn't held
the handset dangled
i've been on a lucky streak
since the two october
deaths made me insane
a quick reajustment
had the handset resting correctly
in the cradle--operation complete
a bit of found sculpture
inside i beamed
re-entering the joint
i encountered the oglee now
standing in the vestibule
holding back tears
tense, teary, not your
average resting bitch face
that science now says is real
averting my glance
i skulked past
back into bottaio's
on milwaukee avenue
libertyville, illinois
back into the
sacred oblivion of
copyright © 2017 by patrick o'hayer

Monday, December 26, 2016

so lately

the sex life has fallen off too
much to suit herself   my

bad   entirely   i knew she was anxious
for it last evening    i hadn’t

blessed the bishop
in quite a spell so i could

perform somewhat though
it’s been downhill since

diabetes struck a while back
snipping the critical nerve endings

in the machine   and big
pharma has been zero help

i keep thinking back
to when we simply couldn’t get enough

the drunken first few years
but then pregnancy and sobriety

and somebody never resumed ir-
responsible drunken cavorting though

the slut was still about
wanting   wanting   wanting   wanting

but somebody else found parenthood
anaphrodesiac, a rank cliché surely

but never wholly remedied and of
course it’s too easy in the high tech present

to practice the universal secret porn addiction
even though the NSA is monitoring

i’m such a huge fucking threat
pardon my french

december 2013

copyright © 2013 by patrick o'hayer

for too too long
i took the big heart
for granted

we quarreled
sharply over . . .
nothings as

it turned out
two old men
pissing straight

into a wind
that never 
cares . . . and

it seemed 
as if the great 
round head

karen misses
so much, the
head i thought

he valued too
proudly would

outlast us all
like the big
house he loved

like his roses
like his aged 
beautiful wife

now in 
sadness that 
will not cease

her afternoons
now ablaze
with worry

that her 
lover, JR,
might miss

the evening
meal made
by her hands

these sixty
perfect years
and more

and so much 
much more, my
dear sweet trudy

copyright © 2016 by patrick o'hayer

May fleas infest your mistletoe.
May sparks and flares your Yule Log throw.
And may each needle on your tree
Just dry and drop right on your glee.
May Christmas stockings come unwound,
May carols make a scratchy sound,
May all your Christmas cards be late:
For hoped-for gifts I hope you wait!
May Christmas cookies burn and chip,
And those that don't can burn your lip;
And let your Christmas cheer turn glum
As Christmas guests drink ALL your rum.
When Santa down your chimney drops
Why, half way down, I hope he stops,
And when he's stuck, I hope he shrieks
And decks your nerves for weeks and weeks,
And after Santa chars his ass
Find reindeer doodoo on your grass!
And then agreement I shall hear
That Christmas comes but once a year.

Copyright © 1976 by Patrick O’Hayer