How can the White House Press Secretary,
an evangelical, Southern Baptist devotee,
devote time defending the slime
that issues forth from the president’s mouth all the time?
For her lies upon his lies, does she ever repent?
Or does she think she’s fine because one day she’ll be heaven-bent?
Do her actions now not count,
believing the truth she can just flaunt?
Will someone please send her the Ten Commandments,
so she can look up numbers three and nine,
about her taking the Lord’s name in vain and
her bearing false witness time after time?
Perhaps, she should speak with her dad, the preacher.
He may have a few things to teach her,
or maybe not.
When he campaigned for office, he probably lied a lot.
Perhaps they should convert and make for the confessionals
and stop their corrupt ways as political professionals.

The heating and cooling guy
was coming at eight; Six forty-
five a.m.; he wasn’t sleeping
anyway; bad dreams; night-
mares; images of his cruelty
to the innocent and helpless,
a life of brutality. Then his
wife said, “It’s August.” Of
course, August, when death
occurred.

The micro-brewery is located in an old
bank building. The vault has pennies
embedded in the floor. The safe’s

door is left open, of course, and people
can sit in there sipping their brews and
straining to see the dates on the coins.

The brewery is named Fetch and the
vacationers just knew the owners were
dog lovers. Excitedly, they sat at the

bar and told the bartender that they,
too, were dog lovers, especially lab
lovers. The bartender just smiled at

them. “So, the owners are dog lovers.
We are, too.” “I don’t think they have
a dog. I don’t think they have anything

against dogs, but I have never thought
of them as dog lovers.” “But the name –
Fetch; surely they are dog lovers as in

‘Fetch, boy, fetch.’” “Actually, a fetch
is a kind of wave that is generated by
wind blowing in a constant direction.

They are water lovers; they have a sail-
boat named Fetch and sometimes when
they are riding a fetch, they will say,

‘Fetch, boy, fetch.’ This is a seaside
town. People love their boats.” “Right.”
The couple wandered off to the bank

vault to sip their brews and count pen-
nies and strain to see the dates and
make sure the bank vault door doesn’t close.

The commentator said that the
comments didn’t pass the “smell”

test let alone any kind of “smile”
test. Need we mention to whom

the commentator was referring?
Right, the one who can’t pass a

“lie detector” test nor the “vile
with or without a smile”

test.

He sits on Swedish granite
     staring at the train that slowly 
passes. He wonders if she will 
     come up and sit on the slab of 
Swedish granite, too, or if she 
     will continue the contrariness 
she practiced so well for all 
     those years they sat on wooden
chairs, leaned on a wooden 
     table in the kitchen and smelled 
her mother’s homemade bread
     back before the chemicals 
crept inside the wheat seeds
     to stay even longer than she will 
stay obstinately beneath the 
     Swedish granite headstone he 
picked out because of his 
     heritage. Maybe she’s angry 
because of the granite. Is there 
     a variety of Dutch granite? 
Would she come sit next to 
     him then and watch and listen 
to the train moving slowly 
     past the cemetery, just the 
two of them with an 
     uneasy peace, still?

It was a wet winter in the desert
blushing forth in beautiful blooms
along the hills and on the mountains
as spring unfolded in the sunshine.
But the omen came: watch out for
a dry summer; all that vegetation
will wither into kindling for camp-
fires of giants to spread from north
to south, east to west and then the
monsoons and soon there will be
the instantaneous roar of dead timber
and debris rushing through the canyon’s
swimming holes and the snakes, coyotes,
javelina and bears will watch the
carnage from above the fray high in
the hills that predicted, fateful
day.

In the morning when he takes the dog
Out he has to navigate the mid-summer
Spider webs just outside his back door,
Front door, garage door, every door –
Flailing away hoping a spider won’t
Land on him and start his day with
A sting or bite, and so his day starts
With a minor fright. Then he goes in,
Sits at his computer, looks up the news
Of the day and the flailing begins
Again, and this time he brushes webs
Of potentially, poisonous, political
Arachnids away.