Could shame him for his stench
in a public place — all covered in
sweat and Irish Spring soap and
looking nearly fully asleep
here, at a banquet of nations.

Could shame him for his lusts, his appetite
for young women’s flesh –he yearns
for their touch upon his flab until he
can fall asleep upon them and they have
to wriggle, gorges rising in their throats, to get out.

Could shame him for his feeble arrogance
based on his crude cartoon vision of
what America was, is, should be.
He turns his back on a big beautiful land
and paints a pool with algae and blue blood.

Could he be more a bad sitcom
than a press conference? Easily.
Except he won’t. He will be a horrible
experience, a plague, a mystery of dead hearts
that worship his smell. He will eat death

like a candy and throw wrappers down
while sycophants and toadies kiss
at his back side and pretend to understand him —
because they do and they will. They know him,
know which tiny corner of the bread isn’t moldy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

We didn’t know. Not all of us,
of course; the cat knew, the animals
in general knew; only people
were dumb enough to go along

with whatever the Adversary said.
He could have said “the sky is green”
and someone, everyone eventually,
would have agreed, provided evidence

to explain to those of us skeptical
why were were wrong, established
a society of believers, started online
social groups for the diehard green

believers. That half-assed Satan could have said
“I love the inflation” and people would have
agreed and thrown their money down
like fools on trinkets, cell phones of gold,

other baubles. Those of us not interested
in taking it up would have thrown up
our empty hands and turned away
under the green sky, swooning

and sneering below the rising cost
of pet food, birdseed, and oil. We would
have gone blind first, angry second;
lost in the miasma before long, as planned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

When I look up, I see the debates,
all of them. The news anchors
debate the commentators debate
the experts. The commoner debates
the elitist. A renegade doctor
debates an angry mother. My neighbors
don’t seem to debate but
their bumper stickers do it for them:
judo, Yoda, skateboarding,
all saying yes you can
while others say no you can’t;
the argument carries out across
the perfectly mowed yard. And I
debate everything — my partner,
my doctor, the shop clerks, the
car guy tire guy oil guy — they
seem to need it —

still, I come out at morning
and look at the last dim stars,
hear birds (one at a time
then two and then three and finally
more than that) and notice a car
heading by for work; he waves
and I wave back; it seems quiet,
naturally so, and in agreement with that
I close my eyes and pretend
that it will always be so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

I rose at eight o’clock
and found myself in the text
of work. Praise then
to the body that held me fast
until I had completed
that which I set out to do

and thus armored myself
against the assaults of
nine, of ten, of this day
approaching me as if I
had become a target; praise then
to that body which buckled down

and remembered how the Work
counted and how it held me steady
and kept my pulse low in the face
of the challenges of the day:
the rich men, their lackeys,
their children, even

their children’s children —
I ceased care for them, their
sneers, their eventual disdain;
instead, I bent to the keyboard again.
It’s eight AM. This is time to work.
No time left to play, to mourn. Enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

I don’t want to talk about it
but there is a man in the White House
who does,
who talks about it
in the abstract,
who describes it as
big and beautiful;
who wouldn’t know beauty if it bit him
in the flabby ass;
who shouldn’t be mocked for his appearance
because his mind is as shaky,
shakier more than his body;
who opens up often
and lets it fall out of him
like rubella, like pestilence,
like any of a number of plagues;

I don’t want to talk about it
because I am frightened
of those neighbors of mine
who speak of
running away from his words;
who look to the forest
or some other place to hide;
who just
turn the TV off or turn
the radio off or
their ears off
when the White House speaks;
who just
can’t hear him,
can’t stand him,
who act like
mythical ostriches
in the face of his words;

I don’t want to talk about it
because of neighbors
who silently agree with him;
who feel
in their ulcers
that he is right;
who look
with evil suspicion
on neighbors of all sorts;
who settle
with satisfaction
on so little of the world;

I don’t want to talk about it
because
in the shadow of the fat man
in the White House
there are men armed to the teeth
and they seek me and
sneer at me and my ilk;
in the shadow of the White Man
in the House
there are reasons upon reasons
to fear me,
to fear us,
to fear what we might choose to do;
in the White Shadow
of the dark man in his White House
the orders
have long been clear:

clear and clean
this land;
if butchery is required,
let it come to pass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Tough, he said. Turn a sad eye
to the ones hurt, sure,
but then move on to
the joy of others over
the things they have done, or
will do, when their time comes.

I would do as he asks
but for the wetness of one child’s cheek.
I would gladly turn my face
toward the living but for
the dead lying alone on the street
where I live.

And when I turn from the misery
toward the joy,
I see it now: they are connected.
The dead on the street would not
be there if someone had turned
toward them before with a raging grin —

so it is not enough, say the dead,
that you feel us thronging around
you, that you dry the eyes
and cheek of the sobbing child;
so I brush off my hands, settle into joy —
I walk up to joy and seize it:

throttle it down, down to the
filth on the road; I wait until
it stops moving. I look back at
the One who spoke earlier and
gently smile; I turn my back on his sputter
and go on my way in balance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Let there be light,
let there be groceries,
let there be justice,
let there be gas
to fill the car.
Let there be love,
let there be calm
in the neighborhood,
let there be peace,
let there be lights
on the posts on the street
to shine on our way home.

Is it too much to ask
of our complacent, teetering world
for there to be simple things
that keep us safely
from work to home and perhaps
a night out once in a while?
Is it permitted to ask
of a damaged, still lovely land
that we are allowed out to see
an unbroken promise of peace —
or let it be broken, browbeaten,
yet still intact enough to guard?

Let there be ghosts,
let there be spirits,
let there be benevolent wraiths
to watch us as if we were whole.
Let there be lovers,
let there be flags
of war or of binding,
let us have a truth in words
that aligns with
how deeply we yearn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

First, there was an explosion;
after that, a cloud of smoke
lifted over the site.

Afterward, two people
thought of lying
about what they had done.

It was an afternoon
on a Wednesday. Overcast, grey
and rainy now and then.

The one man looked
at the other and then
they walked off, separately.

The cooling air cleared
as throngs milled around
the cone of smoke.

Once again: there was a fire,
a burst of smoke, and two men
walking away from all of it.

In the silence after that?
Birds; rain spotty on the pavement,
sky crying over the spot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T