Not even a Cyclops can stop him from shoving
folks out of his way, cutting to the front of the line.
A master of the proxy fight and poison pill,
his greenmail raids are sure to kill or leave enemies
quaking, immured in handcuffs of tarnished gold.
A skillful culinary artist, no sommelier can choose
a better wine, yet when dinner guests arrive
they sneer behind his back in hush-hush tones:
“He’s nothing but a fish peddler’s son, a Galitzianer
from the Bronx who can put together deals with
the zeal and lightening strikes he used snapping up
carp in the tub of their Jerome Avenue fish store.”
Hannah Arendt’s banality of evil got it right:
A son of a brutish Kapo, a swaggering bully,
shamelessly bulldozing those who played by rules,
joining the treachery of business as usual, like Dow’s Bhopal,
the blackened stain of Exxon’s spill, Kozlowski’s hand
in the Tyco till, Fastow, Lay and Skilling’s killing
and Bernie Ebber’s fuzzy math that left him with
King Kong’s dazed look behind iron bars, a legacy
of the indifference to the grief of others, mindlessly
addicted to always wanting more and more.
Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 86 year old psychologist. He is also a Korean War veteran who has published many poems in periodicals such as “Descant,” “Toronto Quarterly Review,” “Chariton Review,” “Vox Poetica,” “Red Wheelbarrow,” “Christian Science Monitor,” “Huffington Post,” and the “New York Times.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.