“To a Fellow Politician in Washington, July 6th, 2017”

I remember you once asked,

How should I best serve the people?”

What I’ll tell you will sound hard

but is naturally and fearfully easy.

First, you wanna work at night

when the dazzling stars inspire smooth rhetoric.

In private, mind you. Public needs require secret newsfeeds.

Be sure you have the right tools and the right spot.

What you design in the dark should sound like this:

Each American should have their own place of rest,

fashioned with our lightly taxed cloth

pillows full as a soft father’s hands,

blankets tight as a woman’s grip.

His bed should be framed by the sturdiest wood,

fitting all and only his substance;

teach him to be an individual

and chase his own American Dream,

with no helping hand but yours.

They may wonder about random stuff like

the grave, or the coffin, or what happens at night,

but you can always call the rugged earth a smooth garden

or the grave God’s good and biblical passport.

They’ll each fill so rested and relaxed,

they’ll soon fall asleep and pose no more questions.

Only then can you slowly root them in the country.

If they were awake, they’d tend to wander

about and beyond the border of the lid.

This is OUR nation, afterall.

When others ask “Why?” “Where?” “How?” “When?” you can say:

A terrorist kidnapped him” or “He wasn’t educated right” or such.

They’ll never suspect you.

And even if the sleepers awake, it’ll be too late.

They’ll be shut in the black, screaming.

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“The Iron Seesaw”

The mountains attest that the world’s uneven;

no smooth plain of plenty everywhere,

no home of eternal, unconditional care.

A side of my face, whole and healthy,

the other, charred and worn,

while some laugh in the winter

and others weep in the spring.

 

This intolerable, heart-breaking canyon

splitting nation from nation,

fellow human from fellow human.

How daunting to the dreamer!

To the one longing for balance,

for Heaven to exist and never Hell.

 

A shifting monument stands in the world,

made of steel, coated with blood;

an iron seesaw,

fit for innocent kids who dream.

On each side and every pendulum wave

a childish chant: “I win! I win!”

 

So long, so long they play,

seizing their own moments of glory

when they touch the sky

and see all the world before them

laid out like a money-making blueprint.

The humbled somehow humble the proud

and the proud humble the humbled.

 

All you can see is the old, red metal

jaggedly pointing above dusty ground,

all you can hear is the screech of metal,

a life twisted into death.