Speak truth to power,
And don't dismiss the facts.
Why insipidly focus on polls
Like the failing Times,
The Murdochian lies
And the Hedge Fund huskers
Do.
CNN is rudderless.
The media is fascist,
Bending facts to fit the frame.
There is no Venn Diagram
For comfirmative circles.
Don't treat the true and the false,
The outrageous and the normal
As glossed over good people on both sides.
The sides are not equally valid
Because the Post opines it so.

If she met him in a different life,
Not this one,
Where he lost his wife;
Would she give this guy a chance,
Despite his failed and trying romance
With her.
Could she understand the shortcomings and frays,
And take a chance he's changed his ways.
Could she touch his skin, smile with her eyes,
And realize he's not the same.
That man died
In remorse and regret,
He did what she can't forget.
Now years later,
Could she live -
Not with a man she can't forgive-
But with a man who doesn't show
The hidden scars the damaged know.

In my 20's
In the 70's
I was long in hair,
Donned vests and jeans,
From Goodwill Stores.
But I spent hard cash
On calf-high boots,
Raven black platforms.

Now in my 70's
In these 20's,
They threw me a party.

Hello 70's.
You Are Invited
To a 70's Party.
Groovy attire welcome.

Was I obliged.
Soon compelled.
Nearly obsessed.

Then the epiphany.
The Bard,
Reminds this walking shadow
In the long, gray-haired rented wig.

I am He.
You, She.
We are moored
Inexplicably.

I bide.

Whose face resembles a slapped cantaloupe?
Whose face could curdle cream?
Whose face is in a class of eejits all by itself?
Whose face spews out more **** than his ****?
Whose face resembles a boil in need of lancing?
Whose face would be left on shore cause the tide wouldn't take it out?
Whose face has a waddle waddling like Donald Duck?
Who?

Given the choice...
There is no choice.
No alternative
To poll your voice.
Be surgical.
Be precise.
This isn't the time
For being nice.
Fight against what you know's not right.
This is the quarrel for our childrens' lives.

So many roads lead back home,
But not the one where I was born.
That first wet road was slippery,
With curves and hills and holes,
But every mile I travelled on,
Without knowing, I headed home.

Those many highways,
Like a wheel,
Were radiating spokes,
But like the wheel,
They're circular,
So always lead back home.