In with a bang out with a whimper
Gone is the bombast, the fist pumping high,
The people have voted for a country that's simpler
Fairness and decency their blaring war cry.

Obstinate tweets well may he air
While brooding and scheming for legal dog-fights,
That darkness and gloom he'll pervasively share
Will always be ******* by hope's purest lights.

We as a people believe above all
That the footsteps we walk are of giants untold,
Where no single man with bluster and gall
Will trample the feats of our heroes of old.

This not to say a man with great charge
Cannot some good things bring into our lives,
But where we do not want such man to just barge
Lies within that true heart our Nation so drives.

So as with winter where leaves fall and die
While circling clouds block the sun's warming rays,
Spring's blossoms first peek initially shy
Exploding as one to a flowering blaze.

War is warning of chaos if the dragon is slain,
whathe-el, yes,
god, yes,

we have a myth for for this, for now,
a metaphor, aforethought, it is
that Promethean redemption,
aha, the sun goes down,
let the healing begin,

this is a classic,
not every inspiring thing has origins in a book.
Word, gramma say, way back,

-- reminds me, I put gas in the Prius today,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
**** bays was, back when I first heard
Johnny Cash, thinking' he was some kinda
man in black, from assorted darkness legends,
I hear him singin'
I fell in to a burnin' rang o' fire, went
down
down,
the flames shot higher…

I was about seven… **** bays was where
hot-rodders and cruisers hung out,
if you grew up on a paved road
to California and Nevada,
at a junction in time and space,
~ 150-170 miles south of all the tests,
same winds that brang rain t' St. George…

The moment, the music, a crossover hit,
hallelujah,
like
-- reminds me,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
young Chaldean manning the store hears me,
as I -- say, ******* HAHA, as I re-cogitate the first
bars of I walk the line, then I see the
guy behind the sneeze, wall agree,
I love this music, we both say,
and he goes on to say,
I wonder what it was like to be alive
when he was alive…
I swipe my card and say, it was like
being alive when I was alive.
like
-- reminds me,
mark that fact - you spoke to an old man
buying papers, this is the future,
did you never read of the last being first?
the boy bade me have a nice day.
So I did.

Insults, Covid, Fear and Strife,
Banter, Boasting, Blame-game rife;
Media jostling for prime view,
Spinning stories, quite a brew;
Politicians reveling in their game,
Twitching, Gloating, craving fame.

Passions raging amongst some
Gasping for their day to come,
Spewing sentence with each breath
A wrong outcome same as death;
Facebook, Twitter set alight,
As they preach into the night.

To us spectators looking on,
With eyes averted, gaze forlorn,
We can but wonder, whisper soft
How this cannot but one exhaust,
When every day the squealing drowns
Rays of hope that reason pounds.

Yet the sun still rises in the sky
With chirping birds that Autumn winds seem amplify,
Where trees murmur in the breeze,
Waving to gently falling leaves,
With air that’s fresh and light surrounds,
Whilst in our chest life's hope abounds.

Bitter, battered, bruised and spent
Throwing punches aimed to dent,
Bobbing, weaving, sighing loud,
Gladiators playing to the crowd.

Armed with words that cut like steel
Inflicting wounds that won't fast heal,
Nostrils flaring, bulging eyes,
Parrying blows with stifled sighs.

Indignation, slights of old,
Each man's purpose bitter, cold,
One sole aim, that fatal blow,
Boiling anger on full show.

As to us the silent horde
Stunned by this discordant chord,
We watch and wonder how we came
To such a place so sad and lame.

Is this all we now deserve
Screeching buzzards without verve,
Gone the poise, the weathered charm
Just two sluggers out to harm?

So what I helped a bit,
Turned a blind eye,
Have I not always taught him
To reach for the sky?

He’s a good boy,
Maybe just lost,
But he tries so **** hard
Little knowing the cost.

I must though admit
I too was quite thrown
By the sheer huge amounts
Of payments since shown.

And then here comes Trump
Full of his bluster,
Figuring we’re the Indians
And somehow he’s General Custer.

I know facts aren’t his bag,
He’s short with the truth,
But even he can’t deny
Custer’s end was uncouth.

Peppered with arrows,
Stripped to the skin,
A little demeaning
To want to be him?

But then I forget
The guy’s a big star
And with make-believe
He’s clearly gone far.

Time for a reckoning,
My boot’s on my foot
A strong upward kick
And he’ll surely stay put.

//

if a woman
drops her clothing
and shows what is
too precious to
be shown even on
film,

she has her miranda rights,
her indecent exposure trials
and ever dollar used to bail her
out of a cold cell were they offered
her a hospital gown

but she also has the
eyes that follow her up
the street, asking, begging
to touch
and if that woman says no,
or says nothing
than the woman still has

control of what is done
to her body,
control of every hand that tries to
pry away her god-given
right to be safe in her own skin

//

if a girl decides to
wear a short shirt,
or fishnet tights,
or bright lipstick

that costs anywhere from ninety-nine cents
to ninety dollars,
and she applies it with a heavy hand,
like her mascara and eyeshadow,
then she is still

human, she is still
a valid human being
who does not deserve
your time and voice
to call her a ****
or say something along
the lines of

don't go out looking like that
or you'll get *****
but **** is never,
ever, ever
the fault of the victim

//

if a woman
or girl
decides to cover her hair,
to abide by her
religion, the religion that
held the hands of every woman
in her family,
from sister to great-great-great-great-great

grandmother
she is not a threat
to our country
she is a member of our society,
a valuable and beautiful one, at that
who's culture can guide us
to be even kinder
in the name of god

and if a woman
or girl
decides to long sleeves
and a high-necked top
with a long skirt
alongside her hijab,

she is not matronly,
she is modest,
and modest is as beautiful
as a gucci crop-top
or a pair of sky-high louboutins

//

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

*there were men
who were there for us,
who fought for us,
and then now,
there is a man who will fight
us as we march,
so we need to be strong
and support each other,
remember the golden rule,
and know each of our gods
would want this for
our world

Thank you. For everything.

Cecilia touched the red splotch on my polo shirt, removed it with her finger, and wriggled her nose, as the overhead light brightened with a hazy blue. She licked her finger. I was just glad when she pulled out a chair, sat down, moved closer to me, as I poured myself a ***** cran. Cecilia clapped her hands once, and then clapped them again, as the ceiling slowly morphed into a blanket of green smoke. I guess it looked more like the planet, as the smoke turned into small pockets of water blue.

She closed her fingers over my wrist and choose to look at the floor. "What happened to the carpet?" Cecilia asked, her eyes raising. "What do you mean?" I asked, looking down at my feet that were drenched in honey and chocolate. The TV crackled to life and a picture of Joey Biden appeared and he was writing in a diary. He wore a tennis hoodie, sweatpants, and Birkenstocks.

“What do you think he’s writing?” Cecilia asked, as she munched on a pineapple.

Joey put his pencil down on the desk, then walked over to the window on the right-hand side, opened it, and took a green **** sitting on his nightstand, ripped it, letting out a plume of smoke.

I shrugged and took a large bite out of of the pineapple.

“Something funny? Something serious?” Cecilia asked again, not seeming to notice the green smoke filling up the living room.

“You want my honest opinion?” I asked. The walls trembled from the hammers beating against them. A baby grand piano was being played somewhere upstairs. Outside, stray dogs were barking up a rainstorm. I tossed the pineapple over my shoulder and pulled a candy bar sticking out of the couch cushions. I felt the years of decay and melted caramel apple coating my palm, as I hunched forward, and tossed the candy bar out the windows. The dogs howled gratefully and crooned an old jazz bebop tune.

Cecilia laughed, clicking her heels together. “No, lie to me like you do when I ask you, ‘does this dress make me look fat,” she said, as Joey reached up to his bookcase and inserted his diary in between a history text book and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. He sighed, closed his eyes, and began to talk in Portuguese.

“He’s writing something about ****. Probably because he just got high,” I said, as I put my hand over my mouth and yawned.

Joey stopped talking in Portuguese and then he got up, walked over the TV screen, touched a button. The screen went black.

Cecilia’s face was shrouded in green smoke, green as crinkled dollar bills. “Do you want to go to sleep?” she asked, stepping over the passed-out brown bear laying in a puddle of honey and chocolate.

“It’s our anniversary,” I said, moving my finger gently over a plush red box. I turned and looked at Cecilia who was grabbing my face and kissing it. The box fell into the honey and chocolate, sticking to the floor.

I bent down, picked up the box, and opened it. A paper airplane floated out and unfolded itself, landing neatly in Cecilia’s hands. She began to read it, “Dear President Obama. Thank you. For everything…”

I closed my eyes and listened to an old Louie Armstrong record playing on a turntable a foot away in the kitchen. The needle scratched. Then, the volume lowered down.

The curtains closed.

And the TV buzzed as the dogs burned each house in the neighborhood.