The possibility exists that on November 8th
a circus clown may become Ringmaster
of the World and that will be a *****
trick played on humanity by God.

My world is too dark, I can’t see.
My world is spinning to fast, I can’t breathe.
I feel like I can’t trust anyone anymore.
Every time you text me, I’m hoping it says you still love me and that you made a mistake.
I wanted things to work out.
I have been hurt to many times, I don’t remember all of them anymore.  
I try to block it out, it does no good to remember.
It still haunts me though.

It's easier to vent here,
Where the people that find what you have to say worth hearing - can, and do listen.

Maybe if I used auto-tune
When speaking about how I feel.
Or used catchy lingo
And played a sick beat
You
Would
H e a r
Me.

This whirlpool of useless words,
A point made a thousand times over -
Speaks no louder than a whisper
T(w)o ears that are closed.

I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.

My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.

I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,  
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.

Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.  

Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio  
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.

I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.

I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.

A fig tree grows
in a back yard in West Seattle.
The splayed waxy leaves span the air.

A few green unripe figs are developing.
Hard to spot,
but there none the less
If we do have sun,
the fruit will ripen to a dark shoe polish brown.

Let's assume
birds do not pluck at the figs,
saving the crunchy seeds for us
to savor
and worry our tongue
some lazy afternoon.

sit back be forceful but don't allude
scheme and ******... you may get fooled
castigation comes in many shades
embracing and loving forms a delicate braid

spirit is everywhere even when unseen
like past reflections can be very keen
take things firmly by the arm
the rest will seem to follow like a charm

I glanced down a street long lost in time
reflections danced freely in pantomime
agreed and settled through turgid word
at times so flagrant... spiritually absurd

grasping at passing... flirting gain
arrived with admonishments down the drain
search for solace in scripture and voice
without a purpose and little choice

twist of a ***** and flip of a coin
we enroll in our fantasy... standing ready to join
a howl of delight and a feathered cap
steady our stroll clear over the gap