Thursday, November 17, 2016

Oh Wild Truth

Oh wild Truth,
you are too much for me—your hands flying
like dragons with their long bones,
your solar heat, your sharp axe tongue.

I love you, but I can’t stand your moods.
Sometimes you hold me in your wings
and sing such beautiful songs, but most days
I am crushed. My ears ring. My eyes are always burning.

Maybe we could be casual friends
who see each other on the weekends.
Or what if we tried texting?

A Reflection on Donald Trump's Incredible Victory

He says things.
But what he means

to people is a well

walled by stones of each man’s fear
or hope, filled deep with liquid mystery.

Fame is disembodiment.

If one soul lives in many mouths,
it dies. But he ached

to be bigger than himself

and, breaking through his bounds, his sanity, 
his scalp, that’s what he is. Victorious.

A symbol.