Malignant normalcy

“Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” African proverb A duck is not a goose  quack, quack. Call it what it is quack, quack. We stood on the old stone steps, my sister and I, steps that watched over Lake Huron and there she was,

Frio y caliente and all that is between

What is this virus that stalks – it hunts, it preys, then it sells us an image of coyotes pacing upon the desert’s floor where the prickly cactus is gurgling, and the snake bends to the earth while footsteps wind beyond rivers marking a line that is unremarkable – an arbitrary thing, useless to the

the age of extinction

the fretting over every living thing begins with the clone of a clone of a clone the scent of ivory washing out souls that make us whole birds of paradise turn into fossils the gap of feathers reside in mud and sand from hill and cave they document lacunas that are only evident when tides

Emergency

The brown babies are threatening grownup men and please, the sorrow that hangs like tinsel upon a Christmas tree weaves into the branches never breaking free – no baby should ever threaten when dementia has taken hold and clings like a cocklebur upon my well-worn clothes. Sing Sweet Honey sing the songs of conscience –

Of teargas and borders

It is ever the poor we blame, the precipice on which they stand requires a nudge and a shrug and then we can turn to the reeling – our spider lives mask this visage of ourselves, the spinning of webs of conspiracy, the jumping from hoax to hoax, the fox has become the hunter, cunning

This nation of immigrants

In the hallowed halls of Washington the quintessential American traitor once was called. That little war with Spain based on lies about the Maine – no Twain did not approve. Aliens and sedition – we all from this unceasing law each immigrant from old clobbered were yes – by freedom’s bell. the Irish from a

Mosque burning

I seek the language For this lunacy – the tips of my fingers push these words out. Still nothing. 3/24/2017

Bellicose United

This is how democracy dies. Take a Saturday night massacre and make it common like daylily yellow in June – other colors subdued. This is how the outraged cry – ‘I will not be that one.’ The tank at Tiananmen Square is an image that remains though the spirit is crushed human beings undone. This