So. . .

So. . .

Mexico writes the U.S. government a postdated, out-of-state, third party check signed by Mexican Emperor Maximilian to pay for Trump’s border wall; and then laughs its collective ass off in Spanish.

Hearing the south of the border amusement our exalted Embarrassment-in-Chief slaps a tariff on poinsettia imports and nominates himself for the Nobel Peace Prize.

FOX News Channel announces the nomination, okays Sean Hannity's company health plan request for penis enlargement pills, and sacrifices a goat at the temple of the God of Misinformation.

AND all is well in America.

The GOPT

For two years I waited for the Republican leadership to rise up and take their party back from Trump. Then it occurred to me: they don’t want to take the party back. They like Trump. As long as they can use him to further their terrible legislative agenda, they don’t care what he does or says. Any party members who had any reservations about his lack of character or dishonesty are now dead or retired. There are no Republicans left with even a smidgen of conscience or honor. The Party of Lincoln is now the party of Trump; that is to say, the party of children in cages, white supremacy, Confederate fly waving, voter suppression, gerrymandered and stolen elections, tax cuts for the wealthy, religious intolerance, threats against political rivals, friendships with foreign dictators, military parades in peace time, nepotism and advancement of the incompetent, anti-science, anti-education, contempt for the rule of law, homophobia, misogyny, unrestricted access to firearms, school shootings, corporate personhood, rape and sexual deviance, early death from treatable illness, crumbling infrastructure, third grade level political discourse, deteriorating standards for water and air, rejection of Constitutional traditions and norms, open contempt for the press, attacks on the sick and handicapped, runaway military spending, skyrocketing national deficits and debt, and the use of nuclear weapons to threaten third world nations. Did I miss anything? This is the modern GOP. It is now the GOPT, the Grand Old Party of Trump. There’s nothing left to take back.

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. . .