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Jackie and the Dragon

Puff the Magic Dragon tells the story of Puff, a magical dragon, and his young friend Jackie Paper, who share adventures in the land of Honahlee. As Jackie grows up, he loses interest in Puff, leaving the dragon to sadly retreat into his cave, symbolizing the loss of childhood wonder. Verse 1 Jackie Paper Junior heard tales his father told About a magic dragon and how he never grew old. Jackie longed to see that dragon in Honalee So he packed his bag with dreams and sailed across the sea. Chorus Jackie and the dragon, soaring through the skies Chasing clouds and starlight with wonder in their eyes. In the land of Honalee, where magic never ends Jackie found his dragon, and they became fast friends. Verse 2 By the misty meadows, where the ocean meets the shore Jackie saw a shimmer, a sight he’d seen no more. Out stepped mighty Puff, with scales of emerald green Roaring soft with laughter in the land of Honalee. Verse 3 They built a boat of cedar to sail the silver waves Explored the...
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Boots on the Boulevard

  Marines roll into Los Angeles tires hum like Gestapo hymns olive drab shadows stretch across neon-lit streets. A city holds its breath lungs tight as gulag chains.     National Guard march like Hitler’s S.A. reborn batons gleam under streetlights mirrors of Mao’s Red Guard glare. Their boots stamp a rhythm echoes of Stalin’s purges a cadence to choke dissent.     Protesters scatter like leaves voices silenced muffled by the weight of a flag turned iron-heavy. Is this protection or Idi Amin’s fist in disguise?    Helicopters hum above Lenin’s ghost in their blades whirring paranoia’s anthem. Every camera a Stasi eye every tweet a dossier. The people, branded enemies cower like Weimar’s outcasts.     Trump’s orders a scepter swung wide turn cities to chessboards pawns pinned under khaki knights. The Posse Comitatus Act torn like Tiananmen’s dreams.     A dictator’s playbook dog-eared, rebranded. Fear is the oldest currency Hitler sp...
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Prove You Matter

  I was watching videos on youtube when I came across one about Dr. Oz. You know, the tv snakeoil salesman who is now the Administrator for the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services.   In the video, Oz said that in order to receive health care people will have to prove they matter.   My blood boils a kettle left screaming “Prove you matter!” he decrees As if my pulse, my breath, my bones Aren’t stitched with stardust A constellation of survival.   Fists clenched like storm clouds each scar on my skin a map of battles fought yet I must audition for my own existence!   My worth isn’t a ledger no balance sheet for bureaucrats to tally. I raised children their laughter a wildfire I kindled each bandaged knee, a hymn to life.   Now that my lungs rattle like rusted gates I’m told to dance for healthcare’s crumbs. Every soul is a furnace we burn bright no permission needed.   A janitor’s calloused hands are a cathedral of labor. A homeless man's eyes a...
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Taco Trump In the neon-spangled circus  of American dreams Donald Trump struts like a peacock feathers, spray painted gold they glint under his spot light. They call him TACO now Trump Always Chickens Out a moniker that sticks like  hot sauce on polyester. Picture him, bellowing atop a Mar-a-Lago balcony he proclaims tariffs like Zeus hurls thunderbolts each promise a sizzling fajita of bravado only to fizzle out and leave markets to hiccup and investors to chase the mirage of his resolve a coyote chasing a roadrunner that always vanishes in a puff of cartoon dust.   His podium is a taco truck  parked crookedly on Pennsylvania Avenue.  Its menu board scrawled with threats: “25% tariffs on Canada! 10% on China!” But the grill stays cold  the nachos bare as he retreats  a matador dodging his own bullshit leaves Wall Street to dance a jittery salsa to the tune of his indecision.   Oh, great captain of the MAGA seas he navigates like Odysseu...
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One Verse at a Time

Tariff winds howl through rusted factory towns a tax on breath a toll on bones.   We're choking on layoffs while the orange king grins his hands greasy with promises palms up for the next grift.   They call it "protection" but it’s a padlock on the pantry. Vegetables rot in fields truck beds sit empty.   Walmart prices skyrocket with Made-Anywhere-But-Here labels. Trump slaps a price tag on the country says it’s winning but paychecks are a ghost that haunt last month’s rent.   Up in the penthouse, Elon laughs in emojis, Vance preens for the screen his suit stitched with our tax dollars.   They’re carving the eagle into a vulture feathers plucked for the Heritage Foundation's nest egg.   Democracy is a yard sale— cheap, chipped, sold to the loudest bidder.   The news is a slot machine that spins headlines and lies. Jackpot for the red hats who cheer the clatter.   Tariffs on, tariffs off— a light switch for chaos. Stocks jitter like a caffeine fien...
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Trump's Fairytales

  Good afternoon children I am so happy to be here for story hour.   Today, I am going to recite to you from the book of Trump's Fairytales.   Once upon a time Trump inherited a Goldilocks economy from Biden but decided to play reverse Robin Hood he's robbing from the poor and giving to the rich through  tax cuts and tariffs.   The Dow tripped over his tariffs plunged down a rabbit hole and bonked its head all the way to Wonderland.   Mad as a hatter Trump tears at the economy leaving only crumbs for Hansel and Gretel.   The recession president Should have asked Geppetto to assemble his cabinet.   Trump appointed a pro-measles Secretary of Health who would trade the magic beans for a plague a Secretary of Education who shuttered the schoolhouse doors a National Security Advisor who doesn't know how to secure and a defensive Secretary of Defense.   But they are transparent as a glass slipper all their secrets spilled online passwords scribbled...
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Bleach and Leather

You slink through Sunnydale’s shadows a peroxide ghost with a smirk that cuts like a switchblade. Your leather duster flaps like bat wings and I’m caught, moth-hearted I flutter toward your flame of chaos.   It’s not just the cheekbones sharp enough to carve my name into the night. It’s the way you snarl love like a curse, spit poetry in a Cockney growl, and make redemption look like a bar fight you might win.   You’re a vampire, sure, but not the brooding kind who journals in the dark. You’re a punk anthem, all rage and glitter You smash bottles against the Hellmouth just to hear the glass sing.   I see you, William, beneath the fangs the poet who bled sonnets for Drusilla now bleeds for Buffy your heart a bruised fist pounds against a soul you swear you don’t have. I want to trace the scars you hide under that swagger to whisper my own secrets into your cigarette smoke.   You’re not safe, and I don’t care. You’re a walking paradox a monster who loves too hard a vil...
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