Squirrel People

Squirrel people, weird mutants
crouch on rainy branches
cursing me,
cursing themselves.
"We can scale any obstacle, crack any shell,
but we can't open your fucking front door." 

Me,  I am smug,
reading by the fucking fireside,
my dozy comfort a finger at my arboreal lessers.
"Fuck you!" they say.
They are quick, resentful, sodden.
______

A 55 for Kerry.

The Realtor Said

The realtor said, "We must climb in through the open window,"
and heaved herself over the sill. 
I turned her brochure into a glider, and entered by air.

I said, "I am made of meat and bank accounts."
A talking cheetah on the living room veldt said,
"The place is haunted. 
There is a crucifix in my mouth--
you'll have to crawl in after it."

The realtor said, "We can conference with the other world."
I said, "In the ether or the air."
The cheetah was silent, and her yellow eyes were suns.

Well, girl, I bought it.
The realtor demanded that I paint with pastels.
The cheetah demanded to share my bed.
They both revealed you as the ghost.
I said,
"Tongues should be rough,
living space spiritual (secured by contract),
and love supernatural, locally acquired, ascendant, and wild."
_______

for The Sunday Muse #22.

Here

Here are the blue walls of the blue bedroom
of the Cape Cod cottage by the blue sea--
here is the blue handle of a blue broom
on the floor of the penitentiary.
Here are blue fish in a blue basket
to clean and fry on a blue afternoon--
here is the blue face in a blue casket
and the blue of the ocean and the moon.

Lapis this lonely feeling, slate the sky
Carolina the soft chime on the air--
peacock the pride, azure the things that die;
admiral the clock that takes me unaware--
sapphire this sense of the heavy, the high,
and this indigo poem, like foxfire there.
______

For the mini-challenge at Real Toads.

It's been brought to my attention that the following song is sung by Katie Malua, not Amy Winehouse. 

 

Wind

The wind is blowing

(I have skin, like anybody else.)

The sky is moving

(I have one face, the sky has many.)

I live,

I die.

(Sun, rain, crickets touch my skin.)

 The wind hurries on.

Book Review : "Everything Trump Touches Dies"

Everything Trump Touches Dies: A Republican Strategist Gets Real About the Worst President Ever by Rick    Wilson

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


In this book, Rick Wilson takes a clear-eyed, passionate, merciless look at the current President and his sycophants. Right down the line, from Trump himself to his boosters and apologists from clueless Jared to crazed Alex Jones, Wilson takes dead aim and skewers them, exposing their incompetence, idiocy, and pretensions in the process.

This isn't, however, just a hit man conducting his work-a-day business. This is an author who believes in what conservatism has always been, and points out both the contrast with what it has become, and outlines the way back or the way to perdition.

I laughed out loud many times while reading this; it is both serious and genuinely funny. It's a pie in the face of the puffed-up and a steel pipe to the kneecaps of the dangerous, the bigoted and the fake. Very highly recommended.



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