The Trump anti-Muslim tweets were off the chain today, even for Shitler. Evil, racist dick-bag, white supremacist David Duke praised PEEOTUS for insanely retweeting a British far-right hate group. Recently fired Today Show host Matt Lauer was exposed for exposing himself to female employees and gifting a sex toy, accompanied by a lewd note, to a colleague. Heartless skesis Jesus-crook Pat Robertson ridiculously worried over the future of men accused of sexual harassment. A conserva-twunt on Faux News suggested Obama’s “deep state” operation is killing people. Mueller ominously postponed a Flynn associate’s grand jury testimony regarding Russian shenanigans. A dick lord Fox anchor reminded America of the nonexistent “war on Christmas.” The Crabs reviewed the David Lynch-like Sparkle Season decor at the White House. A Serbian war criminal guzzled poison after learning of his failed appeals. The Drudge Report and Breitbart seem to be engaged in a moob slap-fight. Prince Harry’s fiancee will be pressured by the neutral Crown to temper her anti-Trump rhetoric. Finally, in a moment of “WTF,” Garrison Keillor of Prairie Home Companion has been accused of pervy antics.
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A bear is chasing me through a meadow
and I’m running as fast as I can but
he’s gaining on me—it seems
he’s always gaining on me.
I’m running and running but also
thinking I should just
turn around and say,
“Stop it! Stop chasing me. We both
know you aren’t going to catch me.
All you can ever do is chase me. So,
think about it—why bother?”
The bear does stop,
and he sits on his haunches and thinks,
or seems to think. And then
the bear says to me,
“I have to chase you, you know
that. Or you should. And, sure,
we both know I’ll never catch you.
So, why not give us both a break and
just stop thinking about me?”
But, with that said, he gets back on four feet,
sticks his long pink tongue out, licks down
both sides of his snout. Then he sighs, looks
behind himself, then at me and says, “Okay,
ready when you are.”
at my kitchen sink, the bathroom upstairs
clogged with family from out of town
spending the night after the wake
and the after-wake—cold beverages
have been consumed and comfort food,
leftovers bulging both the fridge
and the minifridge. In our fifties, both
half-asleep half-awake, we face each
other. My sister’s smile foams white
down her chin at the end of a day
on which no one has smiled. We laugh.
We may never brush our teeth together again.
No mirror down here to see our haggard faces.
We rinse, we spit. As we were taught.
I stood on the porch of our raised cottage
and saw my two ruddy children
crouched below in the grass
over a hard-backed beetle
and I was taken with this phobia
that goes up and up with me
and suddenly I saw myself fallen,
my body twisted on the pavement,
a thigh bare and scraped and bloody,
and my two children, wooden
with fear, bent over me
saying softly, “Mama, mama.”
And I knew then, as one comes to know
things that lodge themselves in us,
that I had no way of telling them,
my children, how I would
leave them some day as ashes
they will toss out over moving water,
how they will feel abandoned
in ways that even dreams cannot express.
Lord, make room inside me for this.
Seems like a long time
Since the waiter took my order.
Grimy little luncheonette,
The snow falling outside.
Seems like it has grown darker
Since I last heard the kitchen door
Behind my back
Since I last noticed
Anyone pass on the street.
A glass of ice water
Keeps me company
At this table I chose myself
And a longing,
On the conversation