First He Came for Everything (with abject apologies to that better Martin: Martin Niemöller)

First he came for the Mexicans, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Mexican

Then he came for the Muslims, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Muslim

Then he came for the transgendered, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not transgendered

Then he came for Hillary, and I did not speak out –
Because I am not Hillary

Then he came for the media, and I did not speak out –
Because I am not in the media.

He’d been coming after Obama over his birth certificate, which was weird
(for like years), and we kind of spoke out –
Because what the hell? But it didn’t seem to make a difference, and he still got elected,
Because: we live in Crazytown

Then he came for the Constitution, and I did not speak out –
Because I have no idea why

Then he came for the head of the FBI, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not the head of the FBI

Then he came for Spicey, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not Spicey

Then he came for the Attorney General, and I did not speak out –
Because I was not the Attorney General

After awhile, he came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

And I was kind of glad it was finally over

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Posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Politics, sarcasm, Satire, Trump, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

(titeless)

I know
we’ll meet again
some sunny day

(or so they say, these times, being what they are)

and there’s this… apprehension
this tension…

and what if we do
on that
sunny
sunny
day

what do we do
(“what will you become” in just that voice)

do we… dance?
do we… slink about?
punch, or
caress,
then punch?

what do we become

when we come,

again

and

again,

become… met again…

and is it sunshine

or just some fire,
on the wall
of that same old chestnut?

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Intelligentsia S&M

“It makes my panties wet,

When you get literary like that”

So I locked eyes with her, 

And slowly mispronounced… “Proust”

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Time Does Not Erase

Time does not erase, it etches deeper
water, wind, ripping stone, sculptor forming
this face, this voice, torn away by a reaper.

Dreams of when I lay down with you, father, sleeper,
found your body curled, yellowed and deforming.
Time does not erase, it etches deeper.

Waking to a silent house, the passing street sweeper
a photo, yellowed like your skin, features mellowing, reforming…
this face, this voice, torn away by a reaper.

My memory a grim, persistent bookkeeper,
etching in ink, any missed figure marked as alarming.
Time does not erase, it etches deeper.

Therapy’s costly, but alcohol’s cheaper,
momentary fading, as our belly’s warming…
this face, this voice, torn away by a reaper.

Flail about, should you become a lighthouse keeper?
Anything to flee these long years of mourning.
Time does not erase, it etches deeper
this face, this voice, torn away by a reaper.

Posted in Death, Father, Obsession, Poem, poetry, Uncategorized, Vilanelle | Tagged , , | 10 Comments

Alt-Administration

President Clinton has appointed her daughter Chelsea, to an unnamed role, but with security clearance and an office in the White House. Chelsea will be joining her husband there, who is one of Clinton’s top advisors. Earlier in the year, Clinton appointed the editor of the Daily Kos (Markos Moulitsas) as her chief advisor, along with Debbie Wasserman Schultz.

Over the course of two months, she has insulted the heads of all of America’s most important allies and friends, and has been essentially trolled by the Irish Prime Minister during his visit to the White House on St. Patrick’s Day. Her overly friendly hugging of the Canadian Prime Minister raised major eyebrows, and his clear revulsion at the embrace has made for late night fodder. She has slashed military spending in her budget, and has reallocated funds to a variety of pet pork-belly projects. While her majorities in the House and Senate continue to support her, there are cracks appearing at the seams, and her chief pet legislation, and expansion of protections for LGBQT rights, seems to be dead on arrival.

She has spent 5 of her 9 weekends since taking the Oath of Office at her vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard, at a cost of $3 million per trip to the American taxpayer. Bill has decided to stay behind in at their home in New York, at a cost to taxpayers of $4.3 million per month.

Her “movement” continues to be dogged by scandals and FBI investigations. Recently, the heads of the FBI and NSA testified before the House Intelligence Committee, essentially damning her for lying about George W. Bush on Twitter, and revealing that there is an active investigation into her administration’s seeming ties to the Chinese government. Her National Security Advisor has been forced to resign, due to ties to the Chinese government, whom Clinton oddly seems to favor despite their government’s continued pressure’s on US allies and clear attempts at territory expansion by military means. Her continued insistence on using an unsecured Blackberry has sites like Breitbart accusing her of using the device to communicate with what they are calling “Her masters in Beijing”.

Her refusal to release the tax filings of The Clinton Foundation, citing “privacy concerns of our donors”, are simply fuel for the pile, allowing right leaning news services such as Fox to speculate that those donors include the Chinese government, and/ or Chinese billionaires with close ties to the Communist Party leadership.

Her popularity rating is now at 37%, the lowest of any President at this point in their early Presidency.

These are troubled times, indeed.

Posted in Clinton, Politics, Russia, Trump, Uncategorized, United States, USA | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Gull

It rises above
the dunes shadow,
gull rising, October sun, the early fading.

Rhythmic bleating, endless and ungrowing,
oblivious to  pendantic dancing,
word to word, glance to glance, measured conversations.

This middle movement, these greying eyes, faded glances,
the fading touches,
…the gull rising, bleating.

The sand under calloused feet,
the quiet shush shush of feet on dry, beaten rock,
the shadow of the gull,
the still of midnight ocean,
the muted roar, echoes
through silent nights

The sorrowed sailor,
beating towards always empty shores.

Posted in Creative Writing, Loss, Love, poetry, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Quick Sand

Wallace Stevens
quickened at 46.
I may yet make order
on some beach
or another.

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