I Really Don’t Care

The (p)-resident’s wife’s jacket
stated, “I Really Don’t Care; Do
U?” This was the jacket she
wore to greet the traumatized
children torn from their mothers
and fathers at the border. What
kind of message was that to
send — I say one thing but mean
the other or the (p)-resident
slipped it on her before she
left for the plane and she had
no idea what she was carrying
on her back like some crazy
adolescent prank of slapping
something stupid on the jacket?
And the (p)-resident bragged
about it. Well, guess what?
FLOTUS is betrayed again, this
time with something disgusting
all over her back.

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A Bone of Contention

Someone said he was just
“getting things off his chest”
not really writing poetry and

he got to thinking about that
and the function(s) of poetry
and how it is about all kinds

of 
things (at least 55 differ-
ent forms not to mention an
infinite variety of content)

which includes the afore-
mentioned “getting things 
off
one’s chest“ (idiomatic 
phrase

not unlike the harsher 
“venting
one’s spleen,”) and so, he address-
ed the criticism by writing this

so it would no longer “stick in
his craw.” Ultimately, isn’t it
all “in the eye of the beholder,”

anyway and shouldn’t we “first
remove the log from our own eye,
so we can see clearly to remove

the speck from our friend’s eye”?
There, the “bone of contention,”
is dislodged 
and tossed in the

garbage behind closed doors where
the Chocolate Lab can “sniff it out”
but can’t get at 
it.

One Man’s One-Man Race

He moves with great strides
arms swaying at his sides.
There’s a sense of purpose there;
some even stop to stare,
but he keeps his gaze straight ahead
as if to say, “Can’t stop, have places to go instead.”
As I sit and watch him pass by,
I wonder if his pace will intensify
or if he can even maintain that pace
in this one-man race.
Ultimately, there is cessation
when he will reach his destination.
And so I cheer him on
knowing he has already won.
It’s one man’s one-man race
and he always comes in first place.

Carting Them Away

They say the White House pit viper
is no pied piper
who actually piped the rats away.
The White House pit viper
is more a Svengali
dictating what the (p)-resident will say.
Then the (p)-resident feels so jolly
as the children (not the rats) are carted away.

Why Is the Country Being Run By A Thirty-Two-Year-Old Pit Viper (and, is the (p)-resident creating a whole new generation of terrorists by tearing babies from moms?)?

Only a thirty-two-year-old pit viper
Looking over the (p)-resident’s
Shoulder and hissing out draconian
Policy that might even have given
Joseph Goebbels pause could unite
The country in tears for babies,
Mothers and fathers. Perhaps we
Should congratulate the venomous
Snake before it strikes again in
The hope that it will change it’s
Ways, but then there is that thing
About the nature of scorpions.
Pit vipers, too?

Those That Are Other Than Aberrations

There are the aberrations
like your father walking out
of the house to go on an

errand and then you, a teen,
get a call that he died while
out or your wife dying in a

day when she is forty-nine
while seemingly perfectly
healthy, but then there are

the salt-box slogan “When
It Rains It Pours,” incidents
that are so unexpected and

shocking but, by virtue of
the numbers and age, some-
thing understandable (after

getting used to it) — like
friends and acquaintances
dying, going horizontal,

now shorter than the grass,
dust in the wind — old girl-
friends, old buddies from

grade school, high school,
the fraternity, classmates
in grad school — people with

whom you had lost touch but,
nevertheless, assumed were
going about their business

just as you do but don’t any-
more. And then you absently
check your pulse and shake

your head because in spite
of the frequency, it does
take some getting used to.

The Proverbial River

I would use harsher language but
I’m afraid the owner of this press
wouldn’t allow it and so,
you, and you know who you
are, are killing my country;
you, and you know who you
are, are killing the constitution;
you, and you know who you
are, are hiding out waiting to
be re-elected;
you, and you know who you are,
are allowing despots to determine
who we are;
you, and you know who you are,
are standing by while fascism takes over;
you, and you know who you are, have
sold your soul to the devil,
metaphorically speaking,
and sold us down the proverbial river;
you, and you know who you are, are
cowering and the devil laughs and Hitler
laughs and every damn despot whoever lived
laughs like a hyena (simile-ically speaking).
Do you hear them, you, who know who you are?
Do you?

The Sport of Last Resort

The world is going to hell in a fascist hand
basket and here he is watching the last day
of the white man’s sport of last resort (all
others having been sacrificed to the athletic
ability of brown and black people until the
brown and black people are given equal oppor-
tunity and then maybe we will have the favor-
ite sport of fascists as they choose to keep
people of color out of the country clubs and
into concentration camps, gas chambers and
incinerators) — golf.

The Article Spoke

The article spoke of the termination
of human life and the extension of
all other life and as hard as it was
to swallow such talk, it has to be
considered. Life will go on with or
without us and it is insanely insane
to think otherwise unless you are
part of the dying breed of flat-earthers
(Don’t go too close to the edge) and
six-thousand-year-old earth believers.
In which case, you would be devoured
by creatures that roamed the earth
just a few years ago maybe like my
Chocolate Lab.