“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 Christmas Globe”

Though I stand in submerged silver, I don’t suffocate.

My fashioned flesh follows the years,

clothed in the same yarn and painted with the same face.

My setting remains where it’s always been, my background.

My knob is turned somewhere I do not quite know,

like the turning of clear air into snow.

I sing a universal tune

for His sovereign pleasure,

for his manly delight over me,

for her joy in twisting me,

for their purpose in ruling the globe.

But whether by chance or destiny,

my worldview was shattered one day

by a clumsy hand of power.

Though I can still breathe a sweet melody

and dance the old way in the old land,

they find me useless now.

For I’m no longer worthy in cracked design.

Yet I do not mind.

Though I’ll be thrown away, still molded in my limits,

I can see with free eyes unwashed with glittering lies.