A half truth is worse than a lie.
They have a tendency to spread, and don’t die.
A forked tongue serves tempting mouthfuls
of sugar coated hate.
From Charlie Kirk to Andrew Tate.
You wanted change. Be careful what you ask for.
Without compound sentences
there’s no thought behind it all.
Telling men what they want to hear–
they’ll make America great again,
with plenty of cash, chicks and beer
for all the guys. Get wise.
If it sounds shocking,
that’s because it’s wrong.
The sun is still in the East at dawn.
Hate is hate, and water is wet.
We haven’t seen the worst of it yet.

A bullet fired.
Blood spurted.
A man fell.
I cannot tell;
I never saw.
No tears I shed.
Is it a war?

Don’t care.
No condolence
to share.
Reap what you sow,
cater to  below--
sow the wind.

Forgot about it.
Another death, another day.
Not much to say
about this hell called Earth.
How many thousands died today?

Then..

Clicked on the video.
Saw my friend talking
to the dead guy.
He listened; she talked.

I saw flesh and blood.
Two humans.
A normal conversation.
They even agreed.
They were real.

Now we reap the whirlwind.
The conversation is over.

I have a pet dog; his name’s Wiley.
He doesn’t bark. I don’t fear his bite.
He walks behind me silently
and howls with his pack in the night.

I’ve got a cat named Rufus–
though we call him Bob.
He pads stealthily; he makes no sound.
His pointy ears and fluffy tail are all I see
in the deep grass.
The rabbits fear when he's around.

I’ve got a bird named Hawk.
I watch him soar in the distant sky.
Red and gold feathers bend  the air
perfectly, making me wish
I could fly.

I’ve got a rabbit named Jack.
He eyes me suspiciously
from the lawn. And hops desultorily.
Then he’s gone.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

When the dark spell was broken I began my journey;
I walked to the top of the hill.
I sang a song, along with the spotted towhee.
I saw the world below me and I strengthened my will.

I built my house in the shelter of the deep green valley,
of brick and stone, with a deep blue pool.
Under the stately pine and the swaying palm tree
I swore to follow no man’s, but my own one rule.

A butterfly flew into my house one morn
and came to rest on my sleeping lips.
Then flew away–you know they don’t live long--
I dreamed a dream of an eternal kiss.

I awoke to find that my guardian angel
was sitting beside me, singing his song.
“Don’t worry” he said, “I will never leave you.”
“I believe you.” I smiled. But we could both be wrong.