Yet Another of Our Exalted Leader's Failed Business Ventures. . .

“Trump’s Lemonade. It’s the best lemonade. $10.00 a cup. Cup not included. Contains no real lemons or citrus fruit. Purity of water cannot be verified. Illegal in Rhode Island, American Samoa, and parts of Southeast Asia. Drink at your own risk. May cause nausea and/or viral infections in rabbits and people allergic to rodent milk. Copy write pending.”

What's Really Important

I would trample on the American flag like it was a red carpet at the Oscars if my doing so would free just one child from a cage.

It’s time for some people to get their heads out of their asses and focus their attention on what’s really important. The systematic abuse of children is more worthy of public outrage than the mistreatment of a few threads of colored fabric.

I Am A Changeling Child

I am a changeling child, a creature of wind and the wild,
A dance in the moonlight and sunlight sometimes defiled.
I am a day in December, the crackle of a dying ember,
A moment soon forgotten and a last chance to remember.

I am an agnostic pilgrim, a former faith grown thin,
A quiet voice in your head and an unquiet deafening din.
I am a witch in the wood, a delver of shouldn’t and should,
A spell cast among the trees and the riddle of couldn’t and could.

I am the last notes of a song, an intruder who will never belong,
A dead soul among the living and a life gone horribly wrong.
I remain just outside the door, a defect in the heart’s deep core,
A questioner of answers and a believer only in God as metaphor.

I am a soul neither wicked or good, a perspective misunderstood,
A phantom among the trees hidden by cape and hood.
I am a prophet self-styled, a glimpse of a smile un-smiled,
A fairy circle refugee or so says this changeling child.

Fragment From February

My heart breaks on a daily basis. Every fragile bit of heaven crumbles in the clumsy fingers of the everyday. Pummeled by stone and the cold non-attentions of barely breathing life. I am a casualty of deep time. A rose plucked from the lapel of a zoot-suited god. A fragrant wreck washed up on a shore already littered with warped planking and crippled sea birds. With metaphors and rhymes. Snatched from the jaws of poetic mediocrity. I slow dance to the fractured rhythms of the wounded and bleeding children of the Earth.

And when blessed, blessed sleep. Lays it salacious fingers on my quickly greying temple. The resulting dreams are blood pool heavy with melancholy and articulate inactivity. Filled with empty empathy and heroic longing. A malady quickly becomes a life. For what my arms cannot move or hands cannot mend my chest absorbs like a dime store sponge. Thus afflicted I walk the straight and narrow. Wounded by every cry and every whisper. Prey to the imperfection of a muscle tied together with spiders’ strings and angels’ breath.

The Storms on Titan

There are storms on Titan.
There are whales choking on plastic.
There are madmen with nuclear weapons.
There are quarterbacks thinking of suicide.
There are comedians raping women.
There are storms on Titan.

There are children in cages.
There are judges taking bribes.
There are liars defining the truth.
There are bureaucrats writing letters.
There are oceans rising in rebellion.
There are children in cages.

There are fires in California.
There are cops shooting black men.
There are glaciers melting in Greenland.
There are preachers defending the Devil.
There are students crouched under their desks.
There are fires in California.

There are storms on Titan.
There are fascists parading like veterans.
There are frogs and honey bees dying.
There are players kneeling in protest.
There are plagues of mosquitoes in Raleigh.
There are storms on Titan. . .

WITHOUT

I can live without.
Love but no reciprocation.
Physical extension without movement.
A tunnel with no light ahead.
I’ve learned to make do.
So I make do.
With what I haven’t.

I have nothing to offer.
No regret worth mentioning.
The way I am isn’t the way of the world.
My world revolves independently.
I know my boundaries.
And I stay inside.
On a sunny day.

I am what I am.
Time won’t change or improve me.
Move mountains via the freeway.
Add sand to my hourglass.
Small God and small miracles.
I expect no civility.
From the cosmos.

I can live without.
Remember her with few tears.
Consign my history to the dung heap.
Write revisions in red ink.
Salute my non-belief.
I am comfortable enough.
To admit what is and isn’t.

I Am Not Wise

I am not wise. I am only worn down.
I am not smart. I am only well schooled.
I am not kind. I am only sick of cruelty.
I am not beautiful. I only hide from ugliness.
I am not fearless. I am only apathetic.
I am not alive. I am only ambulatory.