An infant, eyes wide open, stares into the world and sees nothing. An adult narrows his vision and sees what he wants. An old man closes his eyes and sees everything.
Phil Lindsey, August 10, 2016

The sludge
of mud
       that creeps up
to my eyes
squelches me
down like quicksand
***** a large
breathing object
                         into
its grainy film
an antithesis
       of sea
lungs sputtering
out brain reeling
in remnants of
clusterfucked,
panic –driven
welting
and I am ready to
burst out
legs trapped
yet voice high
heart squealing
in the fire
bring me to
somewhere
it’s a situation
                    dire
this madness
cupping me through
time-realms
and I must find it
that liquid that
wet flow of writhing
struggling
breaking
            free
of those heavy bands
of slimy kelp
holding me
squirm me out
I don’t care
if I get the
muck of centuries
in my hair
for in my veins
my blood does see
I crave the sunlight's
strokes
and
        I
            must
breathe

My liberal friends, who love to preach
who deign to enlighten and to reach
the lower orders with their light
to guard what’s left and set things right
must deal with recent facts unkind
which threaten the Progressive mind.

Your narrative took a massive hit
so **** it in—acknowledge it.
Your media, misinformed and lame,
now limping, has to bear the blame
for polling as they hoped to hear
leading (and speaking) from the rear.

Indeed; you claim we won by Hate?
in this you tend to under-rate
your sanctimonious fusillades.
Your nemesis, against great odds
was voted for by US, and won.
(So sorry that God’s will was done.)
Our diverse voters clinched the fight.
You thought we had none on the Right?
Hispanics? Thirty-odd percent.
And black votes came in (heaven-sent),
more numerous than they were for Mitt
so shut your pie-hole. Deal with it.
Without them Trump could not have won;
we’d be deprived of all this fun!
The people did not buy the goods
you foisted on our neighborhoods.
And patriots now meet brand-new friends:
political correctness ends
when Truth joins hands with common sense.
The truth will ALWAYS bring offense
to smug elitist hypocrites
and democratic counterfeits
projecting their neurotic fears
upon the Right. Oh the things one hears.
We’re fascist and unfit to live,
we eat our children; never give
a **** for the poor or a prayer for a soul.
The “War on Women” our evil goal.
We hear ourselves described as bigots.
Bilious brew–and we must swig its
bitterness in constant sips
as insult pours from your spiteful lips.

We’re rigid, white, misogynistic
(my, how you wax antagonistic.
Thought you were all about tolerance
and doing that Multi-Kulti dance…)
We’re gender-biased (and repressed)
unkind, unwise, uncouth, unblessed.
What-- since we don't like Globalism,
technoid One-World Kommunism
we dwell in some hateful **** state?
(You blather on…it’s getting late
to re-use all your left-wing smears
which barely reach our deafened ears.)

As young folks like to say: tough *****.
You’re stranded outside the holy city.
Our vast right-wing epiphany
out-sung your PC tyranny.

Age ain’t nuthin' but a number, they said.
Only each of those numbers
means you’re one step closer to being dead.
Sure, I can still wear a short dress.
But why would I—
there’s no need to impress.
The hormones have fled, and in their stead
I have wisdom and serenity. I’ve said goodbye
to the burning desire to coax someone into bed.
Yes, I could hike the Himalayas, if I try;
but my arthritis means
every step of the way, I’d cry.
I play the guitar, but don’t get too far,
before I feel it in my elbow.
Didja notice Jimmy Page
rubs his arm?I guess he didn’t get the memo--
the one that says it’s just a number, your age.

I’m here to tell you age makes you humbler.
NO ONE my age says “age is nothing but a number.”
Numbers mean something, they add and subtract;
by the time you’re my age, you’re in your second act.
In fact the second act is closing, I’m moving on to the third—
the final act--where you’ve got to sum it all up, but, rest assured:
I’m not pining for my lost youth,
when I had better health,
but less truth.

Perched atop thine cliff’s black chasm
Abyss yawns to freedom’s skies,
Toying with this fool selection
Kissing pride’s compounding lies.

Projecting to a dire future
Twelve months hence to sample view
Chaos in thy vacuum’s spectrum
Options cost…too late to rue.

Think now of thy pride of nation
Hark back to thine battles fought
Annihilate with wrong selection
Causing reputation’s rort.

Tear thy flag with greed and malice
Hear the world jeer at thy fall,
Elect this fool to be thy King
And witness , burnt to ashes...all.

M.