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England in 1819– Shelley

The Gropenführer, ill-begotten would-be king
of bankrupt lies, whose deranged dregs still flow
through state news, racist filth a foul spring
of golden bull; whose bleating fawns don’t know
nor care for law, nor peace, nor public pain, and cling
to cuts that tax the frail; toady Senators who bow
to wealth alone, our health an untilled field;
police who should protect but too much prey
on weakness, cover up their shields and wield
a misused military might to slay
their own, with propaganda Bibles sealed–
all these, to bind the king with chains, we need repealed,
and pray election day may be our may
day may day may day may day may day

taking this bath
I’m reminded of a time
we’d steal our showers
from the cowards
writing county fines.
as if water were a margin
that could just as easily
be mined.
we’d pick the roaches
out of the cheerios
and pestered the Presbyterians
for their out-of-date canned meat.
but the worst of it:
we were born into a time
when modern science
taught the government
how to dig a well and steal
the water from under our feet
then turn around and
sell it back to us for a fee;
fine us when we took a wrench
to the pipes in our own yard
so, we could drink and shower with
the water under our feet.
that’s how poverty works;
it compounds onto itself.
they’ll fine a man with no money
and send him to jail
when he defaults,
because a man who can’t
buy back his own water
is no man at all.

The morning yesterday was hotter, the birds louder
agitated by the sun coming closer to the endless lines of the blue sky
the sea blue in short supply to cool a persistent dove stomping on the roof
no longer at peace.
Raging against the iron, no doubt burning
its feet a darker colour, blood boiling
the bird coos and croaks, the sound unpleasant.
The scant trees brush against the still air, all but silent.
Everything burns around me, the spinach green on fire
the dove yells, but I cannot move.
Pain of divine presence engulfs the body and picks at the brain
every morning, constantly, in the sweltering heat.
I cannot help the damned grey dove, I cannot help myself.
If only I had wings.
So, I watch intently, desperately, as the bird falls off the roof
engulfed in red embers, excruciating pain seared in its eyes.
Belatedly, I notice a shade of sapphire blue on the left wing
before everything turns to ashes.
A blue-spotted wood dove that the skies could not pardon,
and everything burns.

Don’t get me wrong, it matters greatly
who wins this election, but my God calls me
to love my neighbor, even those who hurt
the ones they should love enough to fight for.
When the drowning wonder if God does not hear their cries,
they should ask instead why we have not responded to them
except to mail our condolences. They’ll crawl to shore,
our paper prayers crumbled and washed away. They’ll know
of nothing in their hands but will remember
every scorch of salt down their throats. When they stand,
they’ll show no mercy
because they cannot know what they were never taught.
They learned from our polite smiles
that kindness diminishes your spine
so the real players can pick away your vertebrae
till the Jenga tower falls.
They’ll rage, undo, and change the game
but never rebuild as they seek
to burn the wood in our hands.

Don’t get me wrong, it matters greatly
who wins this election, but my God tells me
that everyone is my neighbor and to love them
As if they were my own flesh.
We can’t keep shipping them off-brand bandages
after we give the knife to the ones who slice their skin.
We should love them so much we bleed, tell them:
grab our clothes,
grab our hair,
grab our bones,
and we will pull you from the water.

the instrument he grips looks fit to cave
or simply disappear. hands blotchy /
destined to economise his strength (only) to leave
(only) debris here —

the bruise is built from cross-hatch —
eyes blank as he looks up, save for black
eights upon the paleness once.

as if magic, too —
the floor has turned
to dust.

and suddenly the music sailing over
must have been imagined / (because)
the craft he cradled carefully was
never made to return / the kindness
of a man who wished to retain

the tenderness
inside, despite.

Even in the heart of the city,
house crammed next to house,
there are visitations, unexpected
at times, otherwise a regular visit
as of a neighbor or friend dropping by.
Raccoon, opossum, once a lone fox
hunted the backyard, the woodpile
nursing a new brood of rabbits.
And the stray cats, one once captured,
ear clipped, neutered, given the requisite shots
by the local animal shelter; she shies away,
looks in the patio door to see
if anyone will put out some food.
It is the lesson of St. Francis,
the lesson of loaves and fishes,
the Samaritan’s responsibility.
Down the street, the Salvation Army
aids the distressed, but no shelter.
Men walk the streets, some in contemplation,
some in repetitive prayer, others, perhaps,
revisiting their lives, each step a turn
into the past. They walk the same streets,
the same time each day, stop at a corner,
look both ways but don’t see,
as others don’t see, men as invisible as ghosts.
In the backyard, someone new
forages for food.

Watching Morning Joe listening to the latest news
while sipping my coffee and staring at the break-of-dawn view.
All the despair from the upcoming election boils the blood that
flows through my veins. I wonder how we got to such a place.
No one believes in the truth anymore. I grab my head and hold it tight,
close my eyes, and see the dead walking by, without any thought,
following their misguided theories of every possible conspiracy.
Hollow eyes void of truth, makes me sit here with imminent
fear. What will become of this country, which many, like me, hold so dear?
What will happen when the Walking Dead gains control? The
vitriol and lies they spread that we so much despise. The pundits
are gathered, discussing and predicting with ease, “A great
red wave,” is what we will see. I can’t believe that they know
all, or do they wish to create a panic this fall? I notice
the glee in their eyes, speaking of this with ill contempt,
perhaps relishing seeing this country’s mess. Their voices are
tense with each syllable they speak, manufacturing the notion
that anything different is perhaps too late. Their tone emits
the sense that blue voices should stay home. We can’t believe
what they say is true, a vote for freedom and democracy is needed from
me and you. Discard all you hear and throw away the voices that
speak of such doom and gloom. If we should fail, the horizon looks
bleak, at least two years of perpetual impeachments they will seek.
Their platform is all about blood, feeding, and eating our raw meat.
Could it just be me with such a fearful view, from what I’ve seen,
I think I am speaking the truth. I am sure I’m right when I say
more tax cuts for the rich and shit for the poor, is what those fear-mongering
zombies have in store. Forget Social Security, if their wish comes true, will
rest on the horizon for all to view. They must stop luring the unknowing
into their mischievous band, we must believe that we can win the fight
for this great land. So now, my friends, our end of time is near,
Should we give up and succumb to the worst fear?
It’s up to us to turn the tide, no longer can we sit idly by.
With each dawn that rises, the autocracy could soon be here. The
democracy we have treasured for over two hundred years is the most
important item on the ballot this year. Inflation will be no cause to worry
when you wake up and see that the Autocratic Zombies have won this final
year.

We are best among our own
Where our very voice is known amid
The scatter and swirl of
So many veiled faces and
Ugly opinions

The options are too much with us
Perhaps a bit too
Perilous and slippery as are now
The stream-stones of our once
Sure-footed youth
When our mothers switched the porch lights
Off and on
Off and on

They
Peering from the pained
Windows in the fading winter blue
as if wishing well to play likewise
among the perilous youthful stones
Unsure of their slicked-souled and
Outdated shoes.

Our options divide us among our own
Like so many scattered and swirling
Tongues
Babbling with our veiled faces and
Ugly opinions

I wanted to make him happy, so I told him I’d barbecue. While he was at school, I went and bought pig meat forced into tubes and a bag of charcoal and I bought four patties of beef flesh ground and patted down into discs. I lit a fire and laid these things on it until the discs of beef flesh darkened and contracted, until the entubed pig meat blistered and began to blacken

and then I took all this off the fire and called my son down from where he was holding his eyes on a screen watching videos conceived and directed by a man whose voice pipes in at the end to hammer home his morals, to heavy hand them in case anyone’s missed the message. He says, “So you see…” and you wait for it, it’s in that sentence, the whole point of what you’ve just seen. The universal takeaway. They run one after the next, these videos, and my son sits and watches them, docile and mostly accepting of the reel, whatever comes next, whatever the message the voice at the end will ask him to accept.

We ate everything: he did, and I did, too. I was hungry, and the bread was soft, and I remembered times I’ve eaten those things, looked forward to eating things like those. We finished quickly. He ate fast, in huge, uncomfortable looking bites, he’d been hungry, and while we ate I ignored my phone pinging texts at me I knew was text thread of our neighbors’ grievances about how the playground on our corner is out of control now, preteens unsupervised and cursing, with nowhere to go now that school’s out. I’ve heard

that when a pig is afraid it screams like a human. I’ve heard cows have distinct adolescences, moody and prone to actions which might seem rash, nonsensical. My son sat and chewed, his back facing me, looking out into our yard, up into the trees beyond it. He was quiet and I was quiet, too. I wanted to make him happy.

The howls of wolves resound
where the recessed shadows lay,
a mass grave of darkness bound
between steeples and bomb bays.
Her world was old and silence
before the beasts descended
humming lies like violence
that she never comprehended.
Still, door to door she ran,
warning, yelling of the dangers
to every home the clergyman
had preached to love these strangers.
And ho–the monsters flocked,
each whistling in the sky,
while all the politicians talked
of peace raining from on high.
Everywhere the monsters spoke
made martyrs of the mute
while priests and politicians sold the smoke
that she led them down this route.