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Good weekend

This past weekend began with a nice mellow Friday, the end of HSA testing, and then, gasp, a Pushcart Nomination for Fiction, which is pretty cool, all on top of the final hours of GWB presidency (do I dare say presidency?)

I started this blog to both give myself an easy publishing outlet, as well as store a bunch of ephemra I am drawn to, and in the spring this blog will backup my professional arts and humanties blog with Delmarva Quarterly.

Back on election night I wrote something for our president elect. A hopeful little thing...I've revised it some. And just for fun I'm posting my jab at GWB...I couldn't just make fun of his incompetence, I had to nail him for having no love in his wee heart.


Because Obama has won today
one must force change

which translates into:

cut out junk food, car pool, save, avoid the drive through, invest wisely, volunteer, turn off the TV, read more poetry, read more books. Tell jokes.
If your hair is white
dye it blue. If it is blue dye
it pink. If you drink
too much, learn to like yoga, or poetry,
or painting, or buy art to caress all your days.

If you hate your body change it
and wear the disguises you admire,
they are no more different than boiled bones,
arrowheads, gold chains, black
Wall Street suits.

Because Obama won today
chew patience, for long years
of slow work are paved only one city block at a time.
How long did it take to build the Parthenon?

Because Obama won today
keep it real. Because
Obama won
allow yourself
to open up
like the country once was.
Not the geography,
but the spirit.

Because Obama won today eat color,
lean your life, give your heart away.


it was his turn to nurse the baby,
and bottle warm in hand, stepped
into her room,
she writhed with maturing bone
and he watched her
turn like a fist, dumb
to what he accomplish with touch.

The memory of that night
hangs on his bones like snake skin.
He has walked in the wood,
he has witnessed suffering.
The stones he has carried turn over in his sleep,
they become dreams where his teeth fall out
and hang by nervy string.
He cannot stop counting them.
They are like white statues falling

in a square, white sun
on tombstones that whiten air
as they recede beyond the pines.
He gauges only what is his to lose.

Advisors speak.
He looks towards the polished lawn. Recalls
his girls singing and picking daises,
but there is no clover, no bees,
only green silence. His daughters
have moved out of his voice,
a room they occupied once.
It is quiet. He wonders
where have the honey bees gone,
where are they now?


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