"reporters" poems
Aren't we going to be late for the dentist?
What are mom and dad talking about on the phone?
Why is Dad swearing so much?
How come we can't go to my dentist appointment anymore?
What's on TV?
.. Why is that building falling?
Why aren't the news reporters talking?
Why is dad crying?
"Why won't you let me watch the TV, dad?"
Am I supposed to be crying?
What's happening to us?
Why is everything bad?
How did we let this happen?
Why does everyone hate everyone?
------
Why would she call me while she's at work?
Doesn't she know we're going to the dentist?
"What?"
Why would she joke about this?
Why is she crying if she's joking?
... Why is that building falling?
Dear god how did this happen?
****** why am I crying?
Are those people jumping out of windows?
Why are they killing themselves?
Someone will save them, right?
Why is my daughter still watching this?
Why am I watching this?
How could someone do this?
Jesus, is that a second airplane?
How many people will they save?
How many will die?
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
viewer discretion is advised. The following program has graphic images that may not be suitable for all audiences
The television stains my eyes
I can barely see myself in the mirror
While steady reporters shed not one tear
Don't you see the dead behind you?
Don't you feel the pain of their families
While you just "tell the story"?
27 dead, most of which young children, in a school shooting
The sickness creeps into my bones
Its impact rattles my spine
Debilitating me, confining me to a stupor
Why? Why?
Why end such bright futures and presents?
Do you not see the damage that you've done?
Do you not feel the blood pouring from
Your own body? Do you?
back to you, overpaid talking man
A three minute blurb
That's it
Hundreds of people have been forever changed
Millions more afraid
And all you can do is harass them
Beg for interviews
While they still are in disbelief?
But beyond that
You show it over and over and over
All with the political lean
Of your respective stations
Could you not stop for once
And let mourners mourn?
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,
and an egg cracking over it.
The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,
while reality dissipates.
The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,
today is good; today will be different.
The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,
a sudden shift in atmosphere.
The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done
they tell you that you’re pathetic.
The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you
distance between you and hope still stands.
The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time
sounds of an empty home stir.
The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you
your average day.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:37 PM UTC
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.
Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the
In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.
i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery
THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk
THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS
Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.
the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
chaos.
death.
destruction.
the winds are rich
grains of economical gain blown on the wind
grains,
pieces of remainders of ruined lives;
ripe for reaping
reporters can smile their toothy grins
(pretending they don't love it- or the boost in their ratings)
politicians will preach and smile their equally fake smiles-
heads dancing with sugarplum visions
power hungry to bask in the warmth of the schism
-
politicians and reporters smile
looters loot
as figure heads kisses victims heads in style
oh what a lovely mess it is
so completely human
for a natural disaster
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
A mob boss for president…
Yikes! That's what we've got--
One who profits from crime
Without a second thought;
Who keeps his family close by;
Who's close to each paisano;
Who looks less like a Lincoln,
And more like Tony Soprano;
Who praises convicted felons,
And pardons them as well;
Who cares less about country
And more about his cartel.
Loyalty is his mantra.
His underlings owe him all.
He sounds like a mobster when
His back's against the wall.
He'll rip you a new one if
You ever decide to flip
And prove that you're a rat,
Or try to give him the slip.
"Flipping should be illegal,"
He brazenly repeats.
Without it he knows there'd be
More crooks on the streets.
A power-hungry bully:
It's his goal to be one.
Listen to his rhetoric:
"I know a rat when I see one."
His fixer threatens reporters
And does the boss's bidding.
But when he seeks revenge,
The boss isn't kidding!
Driven by ambition,
Egomania and greed,
He lets mob ethics guide him
To always take the lead.
He's the kind of guy
You read about in books.
Watch how he surrounds
Himself with other crooks.
Those who cooperate
With law enforcement will find
That he retaliates
If ever he's maligned.
Top decision maker,
He gets such a thrill
Promoting or demoting
Anyone at will.
Having a no-good mob boss
As leader strikes a nerve
Because it's hard to accept
That that's what we deserve.
-by Bob B (8-25-18)
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
I drank musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
he spoke of a beautiful daughter, and I knew he had
a peace and a happiness up his sleeve somewhere.
Then I heard Jim Kirch make a speech to the Advertising
Association on the trade resources of South America.
And the way he lighted a three-for-a-nickel stogie and
cocked it at an angle regardless of the manners of
our best people,
I knew he had a clutch on a real happiness even though
some of the reporters on his newspaper say he is
the living double of Jack London's Sea Wolf.
In the mayor's office the mayor himself told me he was
happy though it is a hard job to satisfy all the office-
seekers and eat all the dinners he is asked to eat.
Down in Gilpin Place, near Hull House, was a man with
his jaw wrapped for a bad toothache,
And he had it all over the butter millionaire, Jim Kirch
and the mayor when it came to happiness.
He is a maker of accordions and guitars and not only
makes them from start to finish, but plays them
after he makes them.
And he had a guitar of mahogany with a walnut bottom
he offered for seven dollars and a half if I wanted it,
And another just like it, only smaller, for six dollars,
though he never mentioned the price till I asked him,
And he stated the price in a sorry way, as though the
music and the make of an instrument count for a
million times more than the price in money.
I thought he had a real soul and knew a lot about God.
There was light in his eyes of one who has conquered
sorrow in so far as sorrow is conquerable or worth
conquering.
Anyway he is the only Chicago citizen I was jealous of
that day.
He played a dance they play in some parts of Italy
when the harvest of grapes is over and the wine
presses are ready for work.
2.3k
The radio clicks the worn out song
of days gone by and governments gone wrong.
Its static, the rolling of clouds before a thunderstorm.
The newsreaders rustling papers,
High pressure systems on the move.
The hush of the people as they gather to listen
Breath bated, held back by obedient tongues
The bulletins are nicotine bullets,
they're so incredibly easy to get hooked on.
News comes down the wire like commuters on the tube
Jostled and shunted along.
Through underground networks it spreads
With absolute efficiency
And yet the platform on which it departs is more than often wrong.
Outside the park swings are empty,
There is nothing unusual about that
But the kids sit by speakers with their hands over their ears
The high frequency waves dance around them.
This day is marked down as one they wish they could forget.
The headlines blazed into their minds,
More dead.
Oppressed.
Injustice.
Religion.
Elections.
Disasters.
Tornadoes.
Politicians flustered.
Corruption.
Famine.
And Hollywood Blockbusters.
And now we move on to the traffic
Two hundred more just come in from Pakistan
They say there's a pile up in Europe
There's an awful lot of wreckage on the road
and now they are left with no place to call home.
The M1 is running slow again, no surprise in that
Row after row of red brake lights
Join them together to make constellations
And you have your very own metropolitan galaxy.
Because who needs the stars when we have brake lights!
And who needs the moon when we have Big Ben.
Down the telephone lines comes a battalion of lies
“Honey... I'm going to have to work late.'
If you listen very closely to the nine o'clock news
You can hear the reporters wristwatch
And every five seconds that tick on top of his pulse
Marks another slice of news coming in.
The little hand chases the big hand
You cannot tell the time with just one.
The details escape somewhere between
The real world and what's put down in papers.
The trouble with black and white
Is that you miss all the shades of grey
And if you've never seen stars
Then brake lights, are just brake lights
And disaster is just another day.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Oh, if we live by public opinion.
Then many of us would be convicted cause of an accusation.
Evidence wouldn't be required.
We be required to answer questions.
Just to prove to others rather we are innocent or guilty.
Just because, it has been said.
Don't mean its true.
Just because it has been told.
Don't be its so.
Many has been torn apart in the press.
Investigated and bully by reporters to confess.
But, what if?
The situation was directed back upon them.
Remember even they has a past filled with scandals.
We are consider innocent until proven guilty..
The evidence must be shown.
And level correctly for a conviction.
And if you are not sure.
Watch what you mention?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
it’s simply awesome
how much energy
is spent to document
the newness of the news
no matter how repetitive
may be the words of the reporters
the hype needs to be built
no matter whether right or stilted
driven by fear the topic might be wilted
a minute later
and half an hour later
you hear the same with minor variations
adorned with various speculations
so that the viewers may get the illusion
it’s NEW – though it is old,
and just repetitive
an endless loop of hyped-up trivialities
of who did what and when and why
maybe with whom or not
makes you aware that even new banalities
rarely include what really matters
to the majority of people on this globe
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Life endures in loosing and gaining,
backstabbers and supporters.
Whether you enjoy drama in your life and the connection with reporters,
the news you tell them will just be announced for entertaining -
The media all around you,
the friends you thought stood by you.
I’ve been through those obstacles,
the times from when people choose to leave.
When I needed someone most, to listen and not be posted in articles,
all I got were blank responses, not once showing that they believe.
The trust I need towards certain people are now gone,
and that just gives me one strength, to move on.
True friends.
It’s funny how the saying goes,
in time you really discover who your real friends are.
That being said - take a moment, and think;
are the people in your life, the ones you can truly keep?
People who won’t judge or go around talking behind your back?
Around you all you get are stares, now you will know who caused the act.
I want you to open your eyes and see the reality,
I won’t lie or torture you, it’s like one of your family.
You deserve someone who you can trust at anytime,
give or take within every situation, every time.
I believe in you, so I give you permission to converse,
I promise I won’t hurt you - the emotion of feeling your worse.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
The papers said she was a small-town girl
from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with
the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer.
The boys, they liked her minced walk,
those black curls and tight black dresses,
But it was the smile that won you:
An aphrodisiac painted deep red.
The picture didn’t do her justice.
I examined her body on a cold slab on metal:
Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with
Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half.
I bent over to get a look at those eyes:
Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue.
Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied
Movies religiously. She was determined
to be known by the world—one day,
With bags and ambitions, she fled
To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst
Other Lost Angels; no permanent address,
though her mother received letters every week.
When the cops brought her in to identify the body,
I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet
Stitched up the sides of her mouth.
I hear the leeches got to the daughter first,
Calling up the poor mother
With some cockamamie story that her
Little Betty had won a beauty contest.
The mother answered their questions proudly,
Never the wiser, never know she was
Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary.
Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across
Headlines and the evening news:
I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams
From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s
Severed body draped, to give her
Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide
her Glasgow smile.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
To my friends whose hearts I'm about to break, know that my left cheek will shatter first before your hearts does.
I hope that's comforting enough to hear.
I've always liked the angle of the right side of my face better, therefore the papers and reporters shall see just that.
I hope that's relieving enough to see.
To my other friends whose eyes I will be leaving swollen ugly for days on end,
España's rain and floods shall hydrate you back to life.
I know because I have blessed the skies with my own tears on the nights prior.
Dapitan's dust and smog shall breathe air into your lungs, but not into mine.
I know because I won't he here tomorrow.
I hope that's alleviating enough to know.
Over the last month, I have never figured out if I liked España or Dapitan better.
But I suppose it's the former, for it shall have my sorry excuse of a body
for the very last time.
It's a bad metaphor for a feigned
and forced liberty,
as with this country that I lived in and loved better than the pretentious
and lifeless cities I've traveled to.
Singapore is but a fleeting fling.
Tickles your fancy but will leave you tired and in resentment.
Hong Kong is just another plaything.
Everybody would tell you she's good and all that, but she lost to your tastes still.
Macau is the lover that never gives but keeps on asking,
she was never the safest bet
nor can you lie and tell her she's the best.
Johor is just as frustrating.
She would be the hardest question in the test, the one you've thought of over and over but still stood miscorrect.
Bangkok, I have kept her dearly in my heart but ended up forgetting still.
My other lover from the farther west, but still wouldn't compare to the best.
But Manila, she lives in me. She is me.
It's a shame, I will never see her prosper and bloom in her waiting heydays,
whenever that may be.
But do I deserve to witness that?
I have never done anything to help pitch in her movement.
But it's a bigger, even better shame to have lived in this age of technology.
Forgive me for leaving too soon, Manila.
Welcome me tomorrow around high noon, España.
Forget about me like you did with your history, my beloved Philippines.
To the headlines, I am diving in headfirst.
To the tabloids, I beg of you to once more tickle the funny bones of a dead girl.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:36 AM UTC
*The unexpected snow, disruptive,
in ways more burdensome,
than mere fender benders and
swapping travelogue commutation miseries
ah, the tv reporters regale
with snow tales, human fails,
but where do you hear
of the children
burnt once by fire
then again, now,
again!
burnt by snow.
here, hear, listen here
technology moves forward,
grafting new shells of skin
on burnt children,
but tonite you're cozy thinking
of your valentine's heart,
not of the little ones,
whose hearts are unprotected,
by what we take so for granted
beneath our protective gloves and coats, scarfs and boots,
our prophylactic human skin,
theirs, fire ravaged,
now re-hazardous,
by southern snows burning
these children hurt,
unexpectedly,
cannot play in the snow that came so
unexpectedly,
lest it burn them worse*
"in the children's burn unit, postponed all surgeries except 'emergency'. Two days of outpatient clinic patients forced to reschedule,. That then, postpones their surgeries, second step grafting, etc. Our vents ran smoothly I heard via the generators, unlike last outage. We had to ambulance each individual patient.
I dread going in tomorrow but small comfort,
it will be warmer than my cold home."
Life first, poetry second
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Oh, you've seen them.
They either in suits or a dress reporting upon some society's mess.
Might be corruption, robbery, assaults and even ******
Some called reporters.
I call them the robots.
Dictated too.
To report the news.
Reading from a script that barely change.
Some flubbing words and trying to explain.
I only feel for the weather personnel standing in the storm of the rain.
We aware the sports reporter could do the things the reporters news.
But in away, they are robots too.
With less stricter rules.
But who reports upon them?
We know once scandal hits.
The competition avoids reporting these facts.
Then again, they do have a "respect" pact.
The robots reporting the news.
Sometimes, I wish there was just one anchor.
Then it would be better concentrating upon one person.
But one gender will complain.
That's how we got co-anchors in the first place?
And this water down reporting isn't news in the first place.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
beats banging the bolts of your brains your mind slumped back with thoughts of genocidal terrorist gangsters polluting your countries veins, rocking lines like no way but did bush rock the planes, and **** did we really give al-Qaeda all that money 6.9 billion **** yeah that sounds pretty funny, but back in the day they were the backed boys in blue fighting off the the red corner for their freedom to be renewed, but that wasn't enough for them
reunion of peace lost with the greed of the beast and the hate for the west and the hate for different beliefs, capitalism s bad but not bad enough for lives to be releived or taken, **** bugs me but im not shooting the lead at a different population.
and im not conforming to 911 being binladen cause the videos shown give me the impression those attacks were a little more expensive than the planes on the rota, the truth covered up like ill put it under the sofa or they wont notice just tuck it behind the toaster, its not for common knowledge to be a pile of **** out off cnn's rosta does anyone remember Mcintyre whos stated on paper that he beleives the pentagon was hit by something different than whats printed on the usual reporters notepad soo whos the joker?
the world needs answers now before this conspiracy is just another late night channel on the tv, or the page on the internet that no one sees xcept the fat man nursing a ***** and a bag of nachos with a little too much additional flavour bread cheese and cereal its all over his bed, forgotten how to live soo hes browsin instead, this mans a lost cause you stay tight to whats in your head
and im not guna turn around and say that my rhymes keep your brain feeling alive ive used that space to save you time so you can see the things i see
the way the world is lookin at me
and this **** keeps my dreams infant and my body just another delinquent, reeling around in this filtered hypocricy with the love and humour on hold till this chapter unfolds
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
Mirrors recur here frequently
In verse and lyric.
I'm reading obituaries and
Seeing pictures of what will be.
Death recurs here frequently,
And pain, lots of it.
Broken people too.
It's like we're ambulance chasers,
****** reporters running down a story.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
Synthetic sympathy is like an epidemic across the surface of our baron horizon of sophistication, where predictable greetings and condolences are proclaimed with interpersonal detachment.
An aperture is a hole through which light travels across a threshold of darkness.
Gullible are those voters who strive for independence whilst firmly clamped in the jaws of proclaimed democracy, where reporters become lively at dramatic scenes of carnage and death.
Oh sibling of the expanding universe - I implore you to project your voice across constitutional and cosmological municipalities.
Let us run for office beyond the confinement of bureaucratic galaxies.
After all, our modulations echo throughout solitary cells of our revered bedlam.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
They constantly on the television delivering the news for today.
Love to grilled, quiz others but serious they contractual to say not a thing.
They the reporters.
But pay attention and notice.
Once they retired or writing a book.
Now they got an opinion about everything they have seen or support.
Then the reportic robots act like their minds working.
Go figure what a signed contract can do.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?
and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.
and is populated by....
.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,
..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.
....it is those pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and teabags re-used
seven times.
....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.
....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor
...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.
this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
“Nasty Woman”
Olivia Leap
In a society where a man can rise to power with statements like:
"What did these geniuses expect when they put men & women together?"
When asked about military ****** assault,
When he can claim that: "the look obviously matters...like you wouldn't have your job if you weren't beautiful."
When talking to female reporters,
And against powerful women, more qualified than him, one who decides to try and move against him, he mentions her husband "disagreed" with some of her positions,
As if the husband had say over her actions.
I am proud of my gender.
I am a Nasty Woman.
I am female and I am strong.
I will not accept that one who is so offensive and unqualified as this has any power over my mind.
I am a Nasty Woman,
And I will stand with my fellow transgender sisters, my cis sisters, my queer and gay and bisexual sisters, my immigrant sisters, my black sisters, my muslim sisters, my minority sisters, my oppressed sisters and we will not step down.
I am a Nasty Woman
And I will not back down when approached by racists and sexists who believe that the future is somehow going to be better.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who will not forget that a man can say he would look a gorgeous woman in: "the fat, ugly face of hers" with no repercussions,
That a man obviously racist, fascist and misogynistic can somehow sweep through our country and rise to power.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who is disgusted that someone who states he would date his own daughter if they weren't related
Is praised as a powerful man.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who is deeply upset that people even think of supporting
A man who states that all that matters is to have: "a young, and beautiful, piece of *** beside you
That a man who obviously shows indifference and disgust for those different than himself and his ideal views, has so much power.
I am a Nasty Woman,
And I refuse to respect someone who has so little respect for me.
I am a Nasty Woman
And I can't wait for one year, two years, four years from now when
The people will take back our country from a ***** grabber"
Who couldn't respectfully hold a debate without dropping the "nasty woman" card,
Which I am proud to now carry
And will carry forever
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
Jose Escobar, 31
Deported: 2 March, from Houston, Texas
Jose Escobar, from El Salvador,
has a son, Walter, & a wife
Rose Marie Ascencio-Escobar,
a U.S. citizen,
now home alone
in South Houston,
Jose Escobar moved to the US legally
from El Salvador with his mother
when he was 15,
and both qualified
for protected status.
His mother erred in filing
renewal paperwork when he
was still a teenager,
his protected status lapsed.
Mr Escobar spent years trying to
sort out his status and received
a stay of deportation
from a judge in 2012.
But with Trump
the deportation process
started up again
& he was detained
at his check-in with Ice
& flown to San Salvador.
His family is devastated.
"I'm begging President Donald Trump to look
into my case and see if my husband is really
destroying America,"
his wife told reporters.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC