Limerick

With arrogant blindness, as brutes see, 
Trump chose Anthony Scaramucci
To speak to the press, 
But he won't talk unless 
We all call the Donald Il Duce. 

Listen

Talk to me you said, but I am talking

In my heart's limited vocabulary 

Not merely words but whole sentences 

Dense and awkward reams of poetry 

Fall to dust when you catch my eye 

I tell you with my catching breath 

During our brief concurrences 

That warm so much more than skin 

I speak to you often as I can, never aloud 

For I fear my words might deafen you 

You might stop your ears 

Graduation

It happens to every nation. 

The promise of youth fades 

And you must grow up and support yourself 

Because you can't depend forever 

On everyone saying how special you are. 

Your parents gave you expensive gifts 

And sent you off to school yourself

And carry on their good name; 

You squandered your inheritance

On shiny baubles and rich meals, 

Never respecting your debts. 

You hired yourself a cheerleader 

To speak on your behalf; 

Tall with an impressive jaw. 

He glitters when he walks 

And when he sits upon his throne and tweets, 

But it takes a while for you to realize 

He's a few semesters past his prime, 

He was home-schooled in debate, 

He gets checks from exotic zip codes, 

And his quiet friends write all the lines 

In the homework he does and charges you for 

(Your hard-earned money, siphoned out 

To pay the bill that is always larger than you thought). 

He may console you, and tell you how 

You were always the big man on the continent, 

Strutter of the world's stage, 

But the tales he tells are increasingly silly 

And the harder he blows, the less people listen. 

The more you see this huckster for who he is, 

The more you wish friends would help.

But your friendships are all shallow,

You only helped them face bullies when it was expedient, 

And your influence dried up 

After one too many venal wars. 

No one wants to visit you now 

Except to take advantage. 

It happens to every nation; 

You're no different. 

To throw this shyster out on his ear 

Takes disciplined democracy 

And very great resistance. 

Inauguration

I mourn the lack of a Paul Revere 

but I have no confidence people would listen 

if he didn't tweet (much less, shout) 

about the dangers stalking black churches, 

mosques in Texas, Standing Rock, 

assault in an office in Greenwich, 

and ruling out words at Liberty's feet. 

We left our welfare to talking heads - 

some sparkling as they eye the camera, 

others primly quoting scripture

(all well-paid, regardless), 

most avoiding the eyes of victors 

who warmly congratulate one another 

saying, welcome now, the end of respect 

and a beginning to the rule of fear. 

Fear is in the mind. If risk 

is not worth the reward, 

why, the Experiment is truly over. 

Let us live out our nation's creed. 

Let this week be your Inauguration. 

Midwest Campaign Color

I liked Ike and I liked Mike 

but they are of two different kinds 

and I never confused one for the other  

I never thought the picture painted the person 

I never pledged my all for pretty lies 

or how aggressively one could dunk  

they say that love is blind but 

I can distinguish between a game 

and pursuit of the general welfare 

some loves are still sacred 

and not able to be summarized 

in a symbol or a sound bite 

and liberty means nothing at all 

if it isn't shared with rivals

so clutch your desperate foam fingers  

and rally for your team 

I'll be here with a first aid kit 

when your icons slip and fall 

because this "game" as you call it 

is more important than your fandom

Bubbles (2009)

He speaks, and my ears bleed.

I imagine his words
as bubbles rising in a pond
while I lie flat on the bottom
and watch them float away.
Fish visit and communicate
with gentle nibbles on my neck,
then they swim away. I can tell
they were only looking for food
or they would stay with me and help me
try to make sense of this
confusing torrent of bubbles.

I wish I could quit listening.
I could give him words, I'd like to,
but that would only be trading
hate for hate, and I won't do that.
We should trade better words, but then
he'd have to have some compassion
(or indeed, any heart at all)
but his mouth keeps droning on and on
repeating the same old harsh words
like screaming an incantation.
It sounds like a madman gargling.

Still on my back in the pond,
I watch the bubbles carefully
to discern what they mean
and how I should respond.
Are they signs of danger?
Are they simply harmless air?
I hold myself still in the water, angry,
fearing I risk self-destruction
if I fail to pay attention
even for a single moment.

His words snag flesh like hooks.
I wish I could yank on his words
as if they were a fishing line
and see him tumble into the pond
where he must lie with bated breath
and watch the last of my long regret
drift away with the bubbles.

Garden Party (2009)

I attended your garden party
uncertain of your invitation
I saw the garish blooms you grew
and listened while you told about
the problems of your latest projects
wordlessly I listened

I saw tanks of helium

and clowns, inflating red balloons
one small boy who lost his cried
I sympathized with him and wished
that I could fly away from here
following his balloon

a company at your command
performed your little one-act play
I overheard the words "revealed
on stage in acts demonstrative
one encounters characters
more intimate than life"

I thought, how apropos the words
how poignantly ironic
given our previous dramas 

you moved on to other roles
and left me with few words
I'd rewrite if I could

how comforting a garden party
in one's own well-planned garden
how difficult to know one's lines
when one's script is withheld
and how it all makes one wary
of future invitations