Will the Donald kiss Zionist ***
As the crises reach critical mass?
A result that I fear:
It could start a war here.
But I voted for Stein, so I pass...

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                          The White House Inaugural Banquet
                           and the Idle Dishwashing Machine


                    Henry II: Fork?

                    Becket: It's for pronging meat and carrying it to the
                                 mouth. It saves you dirtying your fingers.

                    Henry II: But then you ***** the fork.

                    Becket: Yes, but it's washable.

                    Henry II: So are your fingers. I don't see the point.

                                                   -Becket (1964)

The White House dishwashing machine is idle, kids
Our leaders grub with fingers for their food
Cardboarded burgers as greasy pyramids
On mahogany Queen Anne tables strewed

The sycophants kiss their effendi’s (ring)
And fall to feeding at his soigne trough
No waiters are needed to pour and pass
The diners chortle and chew and choke and cough

The White House dishwashing machine is idle, guys
(Dessert is Velveeta oozing over French fries)

Just like Orpheus,
I descended.
Though,
my digression was
for different
reasons.
Yeah, I tried to
rescue you from
your hell.
Bring you out of
the degradation,
the debauchery.

It smelled like
***** and ****.
The swine squealed.
The harpies shrieked.
And,
I looked
too long.
I became you.

Thank God I escaped.
Fate dragged me
out by the scruff
of my neck.
You've made it
your home,
but, I will never
visit your underworld
again.

I run away.
“When the going gets tough,
The tough get going.”
But this was never what it meant.

I run away.
When struggles rise,
The so-called tough
Find answers, not alibis.

I run away.
I see it clear—
The same old patterns
Etched like black
On white veneer.

I’ve failed each time
To sell the truth,
To live the words
I’ve sold as proof.

Oblivious,
Self-absorbed,
A shallow star
On a fading course.

I am alone.
The crop I reap
Is born from seeds
I buried deep.

I seek no grace,
No pity, no balm—
Only to show
The harm I’ve done.

This is no plea
For some reprieve,
But a reckoning—
The pain I weave.

An apology—
To lay these tools,
This sad refrain,
This harm, to rest.

A truce to hold,
A call to mend,
No absolution,
But an end.

Sitting pretty on the window sill
Perfect and pleasing to the eye
Facing the rising sun
On a clear blue cloudless sky

Do you dream of open spaces?
Of stretching your arms free
Spreading like the mighty oak -
Or the lofty banyan tree?

Would you your leaves be swept by winds
Your breath carried by rain
Growing in the wilderness
With flowers wild, untamed?

And if I hold you close to me ...
Would I hear your soul cry?
Sitting pretty on a window sill
The perfect potted bonsai