When she’d been LDS—
a Molly Mormon on the outside
& some kind of nondenominational,
free-spirited Christian on the inside—
she’d had friends, good & plenty,
but when she’d lost her testimony
of Joseph Smith
& returned to her Protestant roots,
she reclaimed her creativity.
When she went back to school
at a liberal arts college,
where she was often
the red elephant in a room
full of donkeys
in varying shades of blue,
she realized that the life she was living
wasn’t a remake
Her view of herself was such
that she felt most comfortable
when she stood behind
His view of himself was such
that he felt most comfortable
when everyone stood in front
to hear him speak those words.
She felt like a silent ventriloquist,
a Wizard of Oz who made
the dummy come alive,
even as he felt like he was
the ideal receptacle
for such pep rally rah-rahing
that made them believe that if he won,
they all won.
Rebel of a Lost Cause
When Lily Bedletter ran for political office,
her private life was made public—
her emotionally-Facebook posts—
even the two black eyes
she’d given Susan So-and-So
way back in third grade.
The voters made their judgements—
not by casting stones at her,
but by casting ballots against her,
for they knew so much less
about her opponent,
and the less they knew,
the less they could dislike.
2018 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 5
She blurred him from every record,
burned every photograph,
the ink dripping off the page,
mixing with the ashes at her feet,
but it wasn’t till he returned to the earth
in a pile of dust,
that she was able to breathe it all back in.
One man discusses climate change,
the other, pro-life policies.
Two futures—imminent & distant—
the former, having affected his ancestors,
the latter, his descendants.
It was a book of drunken incest,
& admonitions for slaves
to obey their cruel taskmasters.
There was the genocide of children–
rainbow promises that never again
would God destroy the earth with a flood,
with every other thing.
It was the story of a jealous God,
a God who played favorites,
but a God who sent His Son–
a better version of Himself.
For here lies the Morgan family memorial–
who lived together by choice,
who died together from having that choice
& whose ashes,
in the same vessel,
death imitating itself.
When they lost their wealth,
they softened their conservative values,
for to accept help long enough
was more important than making
what was already hard,
harder than it had to be.
The Shutterfly edition
He was fact,
she was fiction,
they founded journalism.
For her, every day was a holiday;
for him, every day, a holy day,
but as they grew closer to each other,
they became what they were meant to be.
She was left brain,
he was right brain,
so when they worked together,
they knew not what the other did.
He wore his politics on his car,
she wore her religion around her neck,
& each believed one should trump the other,
but the wise saw the two were Siamese twins,
joined at the heart.
She was retro,
he was vintage,
they created a new modern.
The Technology of Accountability
Their values, ever evolving,
the dust of time and memory doth veil,
but videotape lieth not,
and they can no longer change
without having to explain why.
2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25
A Certain Kind of Congress
She was a natural blonde,
he was naturally white,
Kenny and Barb,
from the South Side
of Malibu Heights,
in a minority’s plight.
So they moved to the
where the Hobbyists,
like the hands of giants—
played The People’s servants,
only to help them become the served.
2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 15
Call Me When
Call me in four years when
maybe we can be friends again;
or better yet, call me in eight,
when the Presidential deck,
rather than being reshuffled,
has been replaced,
for how strong is the animosity that
transmits like static electricity
amongst the winners,
the losers, the lost,
and those who remain
in half-mast shock.
2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 9
The spiritual sister of ditto,
it lets the pastor know,
just how far he can go.
Feedback from the flock—
a barometer of not just his words,
(cited from narrators,
be they reliable or unreliable),
but also the deliverance of those words,
and his interpretation of them.
The secularism of the divine,
the divination of the secular,
is becoming omniscient,
in this Age of Technological Trans-Humanism.
The man of the cloth
cannot be divorced from politics;
just as the politician
cannot help but marry religion,
for they are two sides of the same coin.
Heads or tails,
no one knows,
which one has more control.
Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 360
Acts of Congress
An assemblage of polar opposers,
of wingers left and right–
many whose reign exceeded that
of queens and kings–
could all but agree on one thing:
a disdain for the American people.
Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 354