We can dream...




"Donald J. TrumpVerified account
‏@realDonaldTrump
China steals United States Navy research drone in international waters - rips it out of water and takes it to China in unpresidented act."

* Emphasis mine.  Trump's misspelling: all his, baby.

*un·prec·e·dent·ed

ˌənˈpresədən(t)əd/
adjective
never done or known before.
"the government took the unprecedented step of releasing confidential correspondence"
synonyms: unheard of, unknown, new, novel, groundbreaking, revolutionary, pioneering, epoch-making;

Our good books tell us
Christ walked on the water
but that God was brought
to the New World on galleons,
so I ask you, wise ones, teachers
and preachers of History,
how it came to be that the Son
didn't require a boat like the Father,
and how the hell you managed
afterall to get things so backwards
when the soldiers and priests
kissed the the ground and walked
on God's children around them.

He had a way
with a pen,
my friend
the part-time
con artist, full-
time drunkard
with twinkles
in his eyes
like stardust,
and wrinkles
from laughter
as loud as
a clap of thunder,
and it was
really a wonder
to watch him draw
his last breath
with such depth
like an outline
of a shadow,
a sinkhole
in the shade
on the side
of a dark ridge.

Oh, those poor
peasants
without a ***
to **** in
who celebrate their
thin-skinned twittering
king ascending
in his gilded elevator
of gold stolen
from the empty plates
of those
who do pay taxes
with real axes
to grind
it boggles my mind
just what in
the hell
could they have been
thinking
I mean, Sweet
Jesus, we'll all be
refugees
in the end.


Where e're we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees,
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies.

--Shane MacClowan, "Thousands Are Sailing"

I remember how the blood
on the tip of each blade
of grass in the sun
where it had splashed
made them look
like tiny swords you see
in picture books
when my friend placed
his hand on a stone
and took a knife to his finger
right through the bone
for pointing out the faults
of his father to his face
who later hung himself
in disgrace and the son
with the stump
by his right thumb
felt the pain
one thousand times
as he flung his father's shame
all around praying for
a cleansing rain to come
water the flowers by the grave
and wash the sheen of his sin
away to make everything
all clean and green once again.

I head out at twilight
only to return each dawn,
wading the muddied waters
of my youth, and mysteries
of a history misremembered,
or wishfull, wistful memories,
wanting to revisit in dreams
those things that defy the laws
of physics, yet knowing I can't
go back, and each breath I take
reminds me forever of that fact.

Black smoke on the mountain
bends over the moon like flies
around rines all fed up
with the night, like a bloated
face floating by in the river
sleeping through
death's long montage,
that dark mistress sipping
gin on a balcony with no wind,
her curtains still as a blanket
placed over the drowned.