The new old normal ambles down the aisle
while we who shouted down its second stride,
some of us turn to beds to wake, to smile,
but dreams are coming, death and tax aside.
From where I hid, beneath, a trumpet raised,
our bodies, to be perfect, after All,
depending on selective doctrine praised,
now deck the trees, with merry ethanol.
Believe me: I won’t feel the killing blow,
won’t know it hung above us by a thread.
What lies above, what waits for us below,
exists in memories not of the dead.
My tenure, breathing shortly, til the end,
might not be real, but this is not pretend.

A sweet lemon drop
can make my raw tongue retract.
I don’t taste acid.

For all the pencil probes I put to “Her,”
I’m neither satisfied she is nor not.
Is there a crack? What can we now infer?
They will not go away, whether they ought.
I charge at “God” as if a contact sport.
He’s twice my size, possessing all the balls.
I hail the Virgin Mary and abort.
I hit the wall, imagining it falls.
This pastime for the one who would but can’t
is not quite faint of heart, nor fully beat.
The “God” I know won’t care if I levant.
“What does that mean?” The sound of it is sweet.
I could decamp, abscond; “He” would not know.
I think that I would miss them, should I go.

A lie can travel at the speed of light
while truth obeys the limits of the road.
Hand over fist, returning bit for bite,
the cheater prophets game our overload.
“You won’t believe this old and simple trick…”
“So, here’s the thing they don’t want you to know…”
Behind the Bush, they’ll “Photoshop” the Dick.
You think the globe is warming? Here’s some snow.
Nine tenths of what we “know” is without proof,
and I just pulled that number from a hat,
but I think Socrates would hit the roof
if he knew we believed it’s less than that.
We trust our basic rightness by design.
This is not proof, but God says that’s just fine.

I do not hate Creators or the Son.
I do not hide from light or love for shame.
Just look, and find the All in anyone;
the tetragrammaton is not its name.

Dear Yahweh, if your love is without bound,
why must my brother hide his love of man?
Is this your will? Which way to read is sound,
of Torah, Talmud, Bible, or Quran?

If any way is true, then show us now.
Our children die, for how you spell your name!
For many years, I might have called you “Tao,”
but now I think your way is not the same.

Why do you punish ants, and give them crowns?
Of billion trillion stars that we may see,
why come into our little country towns,
see love and faith, say “Give it all to me”?

Our world is just a speck, a mote of blue,
so why do you intend to see its end?
What god above was small enough to you
that, after all, a half of us descend?

Why do you care? For love? Then “save” us all!
Speak clearly, for the writing’s on the wall.

In interest of the ruddy heifer’s lot
that chews its cud unyoked on yonder hill,
one does not raise her sister for the pot,
to stew, as if the bovine form you kill
if you eat not this one, nor offer that
to some exalted creature in the sky.
Stock of her breed is not her pound of fat!
Should pallor care if pallor waves goodbye
when all its kind’s the rainbow, and “its own”
is either one soul’s interest, or us all?
Before my species, you, I will disown
your arbitrary pigments of cabal.
My sphere is mine alone, or planet Earth.
One’s not “your kind”; the other gave all birth.

If words can reach and carry to the stars,
reverberating, soundless, through the void,
then hurry to our children’s ears on Mars:
“Don’t make mistakes your parents could avoid!”
Young voyager, I love you. I am not
a bigger person, for my little words.
Intend your consequence. For naught, or ought
you set a roadblock ‘tween the cliff and herds?
Perhaps a conscious mind is not enough,
when all the worlds converge upon their ends,
whatever means, whatever your rebuff,
whatever’s too damned easy for your friends!
Go crazy, but then pass a fucking law!
You know the climate’s changing. “God” says, “Naw.”

Look on my face, in present morning’s light,
and hear me say, “These psalms are not enough,”
with stormy air, with God occulting sight.
You’re right! Add to the canon, your rebuff!
I’ve set it on my forehead: “dust to dust.”
Saint Anthony of Padua, we cry!
Though I am not a man for “God” to trust.
I will not ask forgiveness, when I die.
“God” has no absolution for my sins,
for acts against my brother son of man.
My sister, “He” will end, and “She” begins.
No tyranny can live beyond its span.
Unspeakable, we say it ev’ry day.
I only thought, there’s one more thing to say.

[The following is a work of fiction. It is an excerpt from a recorded dialog between president Barack Obama and president-elect Donald Trump behind closed doors in the Oval Office, as imagined by a student of physics. Without irony, the student believes it gives reason to hope for Donald’s leadership.]

[Sound of doors closing on the recording.]

B. O.: “Donald, let’s skip the pleasantries. I’m gonna say to you what I think any rational and decent person would say to you, in my position.”

D. T.: “What’s that?”

B. O.: “Don’t do it.”

D. T.: “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve won, Barack.”

B. O.: “You’re right… You’ve won. You’ve won the contest, Donald. Now, you get to claim the prize. What’s that prize, Don? Do you have any idea?”

[About two seconds of silence]

B. O.: “Don, I have a hunch that you’re only looking to take the world for a ride as long as it benefits you. You have to understand the state of division this country is in, Don.”

D. T.: “It doesn’t matter! I’ve won, Hussein! The people love me, because I’m the real change! I can have anything I want.”

B. O.: “Don, Benito Mussolini ruled over a country for 26 years that descended into the bloodiest war in human history. He was caught attempting to flee to Spain, shot dead, and beaten and hung from his heels afterward. He had a might sight more political experience than you. I give it two years.”

D. T.: “You got a lot of gall! You got a lot of gall, Mr. First Black President of America, you damned puppet of your party–”

B. O.: “Don, what’s the current amount of the national deficit?”

D. T.: “Excuse me? I mean, it’s trillions, trillions–”

B. O.: “How many?”

D. T.: “Ten!”

B. O.: “It’s a hair under twenty, Don. Who’s the prime minister of Zimbabwe?”

D. T.: “What does it matter? Pick some irrelevant African country–”

B. O.: “He’s got nukes, Don! You don’t know this shit! Nobody knows this shit! I know fifteen college dropouts who could make ’em in their fucking basements, Don!”

D. T.: “What are you talking about?”

B. O.: “I hate to say that I didn’t expect you to know barely the first damned thing about nuclear physics! Don, universal proliferation is unavoidable! It’s already happened! I was serious about the college dropouts! Some of ’em even graduated, Don, with fucking doctorates! Where’s your doctorate from, Don? How many years you serve as governor? I couldn’t say this in front of the press, but it’s just you and me, pal, for an hour or so, so have a damned drink.”

[Sound of a bottle hitting the desk.]

D. T.: “I’ll have two.”

B. O.: “So will I!”

[Sounds of drinks being poured.]

B. O.: “Donald, you wanted the prize, but you didn’t want the responsibility that came along with it. None of us will survive without you, now, Don. You thought you could get away without the responsibility. None of us will survive unless you can perform the function, Don–not me, not you, and not a single person we love. It doesn’t work that way, anymore. We’re in the damned Atomic Age, now. We’ve only had the bomb for about 71 years. Our fathers are older than the bomb. Mugabe can get away with it, maybe, but we’re the presidents of the United States. You’re not getting out of this, Don. Now you gotta work to save your own skin. They hung Mussolini by his heels, but I give you two years. We clear? You’re bullshit’s not gonna work on me. We both know what you’re doing.”

D. T.: “What are the nuclear codes?”

B. O.: “Donald, let me take you through basics, first.”

[CLASSIFIED]

B. O.: “So, that’s where the light switches are.”

D. T.: “Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God, I don’t know what I’m gonna do!”

B. O.: “It’s gonna be okay, Don. I bet you don’t know how the Electoral College works, either.”

D. T.: “What am I gonna do? Am I gonna die?”

B. O.: “Hopefully not, Don.”

D. T.: “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

B. O.: “You’re gonna do your best, Donald. Now, let’s go out and talk with the press.”

D. T.: “Wait, wait a minute. I can’t do that, yet. I need a minute.”

[About 4 seconds of silence]

B. O.: “Donald, you’re the president of the United States, now. You can’t show fear in the face of anything. You can’t let anything get under your skin, anymore.”

D. T.: “I need to think about what I tell the press, for a minute.”

B. O.: “Tell ’em we talked about the good and the bad. Tell ’em we talked about ways we have to protect them. Don’t let that beautiful face of yours crack. Most importantly, keep it to a minimum.”

D. T.: “Alright.”

[Sounds like face being gently slapped.]

D. T.: “Hopefully I didn’t ruin my makeup. Alright, I got it together again. We keep this short. Let’s go.”

B. O.: “Let’s.”

[End of recording]

Forgive them, God, they know not what they do,
though, neither, then, do you, and I am not
a better man to save them by a coup.
Start capital, and end it with a dot.
Just tell me once, exactly what’s the plan?
I have a pen and paper here, for scratch.
Write me a number: what’s the price of man?
Two candidates, one outcome–that’s the catch!
I might have read a chapter from your book.
(Skip to the end, the part I most deplore.)
It’s bloody, small, and petty–with a hook:
at every chance, call Babylon a whore.
My pettiness is, now you have your way.
What worries you? Why so little to say?