Poems As it Gets Deeper
"I wonder why we listen to poets when nobody gives a fuck"*
*Most of my titles and subtitles are song lyrics stolen from my favorites who are big enough to not target me with cease and desists. But this one is so perfect for where America is right now that I’m giving due credit. The song’s “Ashes of American Flags” by Wilco, written by Jeff Tweedy.
I’m still doing most of my communication about the current American situation through poems. Each day brings something new to write about. Unfortunately.
11/10/24 I remember when he was born. The first nephew of my best friend. 1991, and he made the local news, born while his dad fought in Desert Storm. The newspaper photo taken so soon after his birth, his head still torpedoed like his mother's birth canal, her eyes failing to mask dazed fear. He said it was bold of us to be intolerant of his vote while we claim to be tolerant. Not that his aunt and I ever tolerated hate. We didn't even tolerate college boy next-door neighbors and their bullshit Thirty years ago. He ignored his aunt's concerns of a president who thinks her disabled child and my queer one should be dead. But he stands firm. We're bullying him as he straps on his firearm and patrols the highways of Arkansas. ———————————————————————————————— 11/11/24 The fortune teller told me watch for 11:11. Manifest what you want when you see the numbers. I want comfort peace and delight in a country where we can't even do life liberty and justice. I want that for me, you, your dumb cousin, everyone. Every single one. Manifesting one soul at a time. ————————————————————————— 11/12/24 He's ready to go. Visiting the Chrismas markets of Europe or running for asylmn. I don't blame him for leaving this place that refuses to dignify his humanity but throws him to wolves who promise cheap eggs. You think he should stay and fight? Make America Queer Again. Keep busting his ass, weathering the abuse. The staunch unbelievers won't change and the apathetic won't care. Let him go. Middle-aged queer men, their elders long dead from the first new plague. They acted up, sewed the fibers of their love into a quilt to suffocate hate. Watched Matthew succumb on that fence in frigid Wyoming. Let them go. To Portland, to Brussels, to Japan, to where they can be free. We don't deserve their goodness. ————————————————————————————————— 11/13/24 Tariffs—stock up on coffee Trans Awareness week—post my kid's pronouns and get serious and mean when I need to correct people who call them a she. Plac C—start vandalizing with the stickers that give directions on how to get abortion pills** Find a new doctor—try not to think about how long it's been since my cervical cancer was removed and if it's back. Ask if they use painkillers for new IUDs if I can talk my kid into getting one for Christmas Deafen myself and scream—Jack White howls about deadly greenbacks Venmo a tip to my massage therapst— remember cash from now on Check the cat's food—is the only food he will eat made here? Stock up on that? What else? Spend time aware—of the blue bracelet on my white wrist. Work. Cry. Get stoned. There isn't enough time in any day. **Plan C sticker campaign —————————————————————————————— 11/14/24 What stage of grief is screaming laughter? I've lost track. This is the meaning of ABSURD. Each fucking clown that enters the little car headed to the chaos carnival makes me laugh even though I know it's no joke. But if it was a joke I would have thought I got it. —————————————————————————— 11/15/24 The last time I went to the chuch of my childhood the preacher taught us He-Man was evil. And I felt the evil, thick like hot tar pulling the underside of my belly, tugged into gray nothing. I knew He-Man wasn't evil. But the depth of evil swallowed me and I didn't go back. Today I realized it was true, that evil was in that sanctuary, perculating in Jesus' name. I was only there to sing with my beautiful grandmother, not to learn how to recognize the tug of evil when it arrived. Praise Him.
