State of the Union, 2025

So — soon he will proclaim his innocence
of being what he is. I guess that all
along, though, his projected, spittled sense

of injury has said this. Any call
for justice wounds his ego, we all know.
How many of us — we, among the small

of wallet, large of conscience — would be slow
to wound that softness, had we but the chance?
We have but tongues to lash with, lungs to blow

away his blather — merest words to lance
his pustulence. His boils. His vast balloon
of speculative wealth. Our words would glance

off ears made dumb by bullet. That old tune
of "I am not a crook!" will follow soon.


Cheers . . .

This Is Another Country

This is another country from the one
we lived in yesterday. Here, with a gun

held to our temples; with the threat of rape
and graft and grift; with mobs of men who ape

the posture their imposter ruler chins
and sneers across the stage to make his sins

look holier than ours; and with our Posts
and Times pretending to be friendly hosts

to sane appraisals and unaltered facts:
we cross the line to lands where bestial acts

and purchased truths and porn-queen beauties feud
with one another to be ranked most lewd.

We had a Lincoln and a Washington —
but in another country from this one.


Notes:
Since I wrote this today, around noon, and am posting it mid-afternoon, it remains within the realm of possibility that it will change in minor ways before I consider it finished.

An unfortunate thing about political verse, besides the fact that it rarely speaks as well as a non-political verse does, is that the versifier feels the need to put it out in the world promptly.

Today, it is of the moment. Tomorrow, it may seem to be of a moment passed.

A train hardly cares if you make it to the platform in time to catch it. It irks you, though, to miss it. Even should you lose your hat and put on mis-matching socks in the effort, it matters to you.

Cheers . . .