Rise from your grave. It's Easter Sunday
two-thousand eighteen years A.D.
Spread the word with hashtag/twit-feed;
make it cute.   No urgency . . .

Fluffy pinks, chick-yellow duckies
Nestléd eggs and pastel notes
just might charm those raging hordes
who long to slit some Christian throats.

Virtue-signal while you're shopping
Watch the game and charge your phone.
Allah's bunnies won't stop hopping
Till they make your land their own.

Sweeten up your springtime idols'
pastel poison. Drain the dregs:
Antichrist is here to offer
jellybeans and chocolate eggs;

Sweet untruths with trinkets given
lying in the plastic grass.
Easter morning, market-driven—
Christ is risen . . .   kiss my ***.

Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough
for another thought or poetry in my head,*

Up came this documentary poem
The Wednesday of May 24 was the day
President Trump meets with the pope Francis
at the Vatican: smiles and pleasantries aside
Who’s coming up with these lies?
Who have ties
with Russia and Putin?
We the outsiders are still unclear
about another golden buzzer:
But under a crystalline blue sky is where
Pope Francis and the President meet
Here I tipped my pen to
MARK LANDLER and JASON HOROWITZ
Reporting….
The fraught silence in political history