In Ukraine there are buildings
without roofs, without floors;

people try to live in them
without arms, legs, or faces.

We call that “a war.”
In USA there is a place and a face

that looks the same.
Here, we call it “unfortunate.”

In Nepal we call the sliding of a mountain
into its valley “a catastrophe.”

In USA we call it “consequence,”
call it “inevitable,” call it “foreseeable.”

We call it “another story” on the news,
a “did you hear about” on the Internet.

In Germany the people turn their backs to us
and in Canada, they raise a whitened tight fist.

In USA we don’t think much of either.
We have our own problems with history.

In the meantime, clouds roll overhead in all places —
nimbus, cumulonimbus — we call them by big names.

In scattered moonlight we call them lovely;
in bright daylight we don’t call them much.

Wherever they are, they look much the same;
their teeth don’t have an accent.

In Ukraine or Nepal, they rain without ceasing.
In Germany and Canada, they gnash along without an end.

In USA — good old country, good old bones —
we just put up an umbrella and wait to die

surprised by the moral of the story —
when it ends it won’t care about our forefathers.

It will rain on us too regardless of the colors
of our flag, our sacred blood.

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

Silent white folks in Greendale
walk their dogs by. Loud families
of Black folks come up
to the sidewalk and tumble
out, go up to the
informal day care center
next door, leave after
dropping off their kids.
The ones don’t talk
to the others; in fact no one
says a word except
to their phones.
Everyone’s lawn
was mowed yesterday.
Tonight there will be a full moon.
ICE sits below in the shopping center
lot. Unhoused people
of every race and age stumble
around them. The televisions
speak loudly. The radios
chatter more words than music.
A massage parlor lurks
down the street, unopened
for now. A lot of stores open,
a lot of stores closed up tight.
Trash blows everywhere and goes nowhere.
It all seems to be holding its breath,
from Greendale to Lincoln Plaza.
It’s all waiting to pop
and nothing can yet be said
about Grafton Hill, Vernon Hill,
Tatnuck, or all the rest except
it is all waiting to pop.

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

What a difference they make,
these words I choose to use:
whether or not I select a bison
or a butterfly,

whether or not
I praise the President
or choose
to see him erased,

whether or not
he stays loyal to his fate or rises
up like a lion or a dragon
to contest it — I will be content

knowing that I sat back and studied
all of the earth and considered carefully
which words made the most sense
and offered the most fury to the moment —

these are my words now
until I release them. I give them
to you knowing how little
they have meant before now,

believing they mean more,
so much more than they ever did —
they honor the bison snorting softly,
shooting clouds over his hooves;

they praise and revere the swallowtail
coming so fitfully over the fields, settling in
on one flower then another; and
they alternately curse and ignore

a fat old man in the Oval Office,
sleeping and raging alternately,
stinking of shit and Irish Spring soap.
I release them once I’ve taken them

into my arms. They are better off
now. Lion or dragon, buffalo
or small bird-like critter — immortalized
like this, or captured and fragile like that;

it doesn’t matter. It is all
a game world we live in. We and they
will live or die regardless of these words.
So: roll the dice, then. Roll them out

upon reading these words,
and see what follows them —
roar of lion, flame of dragonish snake,
or your gunshots in his halls of power.

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

I am drawing a blank
on how to start this.
On how to keep it going
long enough to call it done.

I sit so angry and so weary with the fat President,
the old Congress, all the senile judges
and their unblinking masses agreeing or,
more precisely, ignoring.

I am drawing a blank
on where to begin. On how
this got this far. On what part
there is available to act in.

I sit with eyes closed to ads
for erections, old age care,
free money, free food and drink —
and quickly, quickly, all of it.

I am drawing a blank
on where to begin. On how
this got this far. On why, in fact.
On why I kept my eyes open.

I sit with sneering voices
in my head about music, about
the thickness of guitar strings,
about the greatest bands ever to play —

I am drawing a blank
on where to begin. On how
this got this far. On what part
anyone will not sneer at and laugh, laugh.

I close my eyes and if I could
I’d close yours as well and we’d go down
equally unimpressed and afraid
of any reactions to our weariness.

We’d be together and we still would not know
where to begin, but we would begin.
Even raising a finger to it seems small.
Maybe we would have to wave it off and just go?

I am drawing a blank on where to begin.
On how this got this far.
On what part there is available to act in.
On what actions are even worth taking now.

I am drawing a blank, a circle
inside a triangle inside a square,
again and again. Nothing inside the circle.
Only a circle inside, waiting to be full.

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

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