April, 2017

The April Fool
He is not jokin’
Beneath the Sideshow
Power has spoken.
With pen in hand,
He’ll slash away.
The New Agenda
Is in play.
No Laff Track clap trap
Obscures that sound
Of Human Rights
as they get ground


A daily verse to the perverse.
A daily rhyme to the sublime
insanity that seems to bind our time
together, (tho yes it could be so much worse).

One thousand three hundred eighty nine more
Continues this push-pull cheering, sobbing
Great or Grating? Still, this subtle robbing
Eroding what stood proudly once before.

To shadow hands, our world is just a toy
With pawns and puppets playing out their roles
For those who broker lives and steal souls
But still, it is our right to find our Joy.

There’s more to hope for than this verse displays,
And more to do than sit and count the days.


With Pruitt
The EPA’s man,
you’d best
breathe deeply
while you


There once was a judge named Gorsuch
Who didn’t like poor people much.
So the Dems tried to muster
A House filibuster.
Those with privilege seem out of touch.


A Russian dictator named Putin
Solved his problems though poison & shootin’
But upon deep reflection,
That he hacked our election
Is a matter, still, of some disputin’.


The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the stalwart GOP
Cruz and Rubio were slippin’, and the rest were lost at sea.
Poor Kasich seemed a RINO and Jeb Bush was still a Bush
But no one quite expected it was Trump who’d kick their tush.

The Democrats, they had their gal – or maybe she had them.
For the DNC conspired to keep ol’ Bernie in the ‘pen.
This time around, no Barry O was there to block her way,
But no single mainstream pundit won the bet on that sad day.

TV Debates were called a draw, and no one quite knew why
A man could be the victor for not spitting on his tie.
But from the bleak fly-over states to fields of alt-right hate,
They knew a pussy-grabbin’ clown would make this country great.

Behind the scenes, and gradually, a new advisor crept.
He sported a gin-blossom nose, and clothes in which he slept.
He hated DC Bureaucrats, and vowed to clear the air,
And had support from Mercer, the Anarchist Billionaire.

But in the meantime, Donald led like Nero back in Rome,
With Conway perched upon her knees just looking quite at home
While at Sean Spicer’s podium amongst evasive lies,
Alternate facts just sat there. In piles, and drawing flies.

His campaign promises fell moot – no wall, no Muslim ban
But privacy and “climate change” were tossed into the can.
His Healthcare plan was DOA – it simply wouldn’t fly.
The Freedom Caucus voted “no” ‘cause not enough would die.

Behind the scenes, Steve Bannon stood. Quite mum about his plots –
A world where he and Alex Jones would get to call the shots
Then when his bloated face had graced the front of Time one day,
Some folks, they started askin’ ‘round – who is he, anyway?

They say he came from Goldman Sachs, and left as a VP
And then he went to Breitbart News and trashed the Left with glee.
He made some propaganda films that proved the Right was right
And all along, with Mercer, his good buddy, he stayed tight.

Who really knew what Bannon wanted when he came to town.
The Donald’s ear? He had it. Still, the word was gettin’ ‘round
That past the policy advice, he had far darker aims –
He longed to see the system crash and burn and left in flames.

But Donald Trump defended him just as an old friend should.
And he who sits at his right hand once said, “Darkness is good.”
But something happened here today, the whys we’ll never know
Kept secret too, the deeper truths beneath this sad sideshow

For somewhere in our Government, behind the fastened doors,
Where Generals can fantasize about their Global Wars.
Back in the hallowed NSC, you’ll hear a joyous shout,
One thousand, three-eight-five to go, Steve Bannon has struck out.


It’s not what Bill O’Reilly did
And not that Trump condones it
It’s not who’s in the White House,
But the secret group that owns it.


There once was a man named Assad.
As a ruler he thought he was God.
With astounding velocities,
He committed atrocities.
I’m sorry. This world is too odd.

Because then, without asking please,
With his bombs, Trump made more casualties.
Then lamented the cost
Of innocents lost,
But he still won’t let in refugees.

As distressing as I find these times,
I’m still sitting here writing rhymes.
My daily obsession
Helps stave off depression
Til I get locked up for Thought Crimes.


One thousand three hundred and eighty two
And each day, new events, so sad and strange
With peace and justice sadly out of range
While power rests in hands of just the few

Say no to crimes of rigged elections
Vote out the shills bought off by cash confections
Remove the ones who’d piss on your protections
And those who have to kill to get erections.

Retire elected puppets bought and paid
By billionaires and right-wing think-tank thugs
Blackly financed by sex and guns and drugs
The ones who of the Truth they are afraid

There still are ways for stopping evil’s climb.
Find power in the ballot while there’s time


This is number 1,381.
And we’re havin’ so much fun…
Lay me down
Roll me over
Do it again.


I want a government that works for guys like me.
That builds us roads that work and schools that teach.
Not some prosperity forever out of reach.
But spacious skies from sea to shining sea.

Don’t give me leaders who just stand around and bitch.
Plot narrow points along a party line
And live their lives in mansions far too fine
While making poorer poor and richer rich.

And when we’re old or sick, to lend a hand
To those who lived their lives as best they could.
A government that serves collective good
And acts as grateful steward of our land.

And then I see the government we got
And wonder how the hell that it got bought.


Yesterday, Dr. Dao was enroute
To Kentucky, but given the boot.
This brutal tirade
Has now sadly made
The concept of “Friendly Skies” moot.


Sean Spicer, he sure has a flair
For blurting untruths without care.
How senseless and crass –
“Hitler never used gas”.
He should talk to some folks who were there.


Kim Jong Un –
Please put down the gun.


Eleven tons of power
Fall down from the sky
And in a mile radius
No time to say goodbye.

“We don’t kill no civilians”
We’ve heard that one before
We also know that truth’s
The first casualty of war

The journalists all in a row
Will take down what is said
Then play it back in black and white
So we don’t see the red.

I have no love for ISIS
Or Radical Islam
But please explain – why did we drop
This Mother of All Bombs.

He called this mission a success
A huge, tremendous score.
I’m pretty sure he liked it
And soon, there might be more.

The game of global Real Estate
A grab for oil and sand
There’s no Art to the Deal
Just the button in his hand.


Golden eggs are a charming addition
To an annual White House tradition.
For the party this Easter
He’ll grab a mom’s keister
And charge all the kiddies admission.


Ayn Rand, could you lend a hand?
Or is it for you: all about Me.
Must you shun complexities of We?
Is your Sacred self so god-damned grand?

I get your fetish for the human will
I also have wondered, “Who is John Galt?”
But is it truly the collective’s fault
When the lucky few take far beyond their fill?

Is human value but a bottom line?
Our greatest purpose only to consume?
To simply be – have we run out of room
In bowing to free market’s Frankenstein?

This poem comes to me as one big question
And from your answer I might get indigestion.


As months progress,
The question burns ~
What is inside


Behind the black mask
There lies,
For sure,
Another agent


There once was a rally in Berkeley
Where some goons on the right acted jerkily.
Them fascist provokers
Brought clubs, knives and pokers.
While the police looked on somewhat quirkily.


This morning, we saw on TV
That FOX News has dumped Bill O’Rielly.
He was given the boot
And a Gold Parachute.
In all fairness, he never touched me.


On Earth Day, a nod to Scott Pruitt.
Climate change is a hoax. Nothing to it.
As things slowly get hotter,
Some day, under water,
He’ll sadly admit that he blew it.


Rush Limbaugh is an addict.
Bill’s a sexist pig
Ann Coulter is a scarecrow
With no brains beneath her wig.

Then there’s Tucker Carlson
With his mommy-tied bow-tie.
And if Glen Beck should come to mind,
I only wonder why.

The local Michael Savage?
A bully and a hack.
I’m glad that Milo went away,
And please never come back.

“Performance artist” Alex Jones
Is paranoid and mad
And Koppel said Sean Hannity,
For America, is bad.

These shouting, ranting pundits
Hot air like passing gas,
Debates like All-Star Wrestling
But only with less class.

Where are the thoughtful voices
To speak for the Red State
Who don’t spew tired insults
And ratings-driven hate

On either side, politically,
It’s reasoned thought I crave.
Somewhere, old William Buckley
Is a’ rolling in his grave.


Days to go: One-Three-Six-Seven.
All good children go to Heaven.


Three Cheers for our boy Jeffery Sessions.
His policies, mostly regressions.
While for Justice he’s crowing,
His white sheet is showing.
No wonder there’s voter suppression.


The billionaire Betsy DeVoss
Of the whole country’s schools was made boss.
For our students I fret.
Empty minds full of debt.
And each science class gets its own cross.


Our grants for the Arts are quite small.
Not much of our budget at all.
But they still get the slash
To help free up more cash
To build 2,000 miles of wall.


Our President: narcissist, manic.
Still, some say there’s no need to panic.
Some march, others fret.
Some have voter regret.
Dusting deck chairs upon the Titanic.


One-thousand three hundred and sixty-two
Days until this administration ends
And still the Corporate Media pretends
This sad joke is not on me and you.

On what to do, elected Dems still draw a blank
So marchers pick a cause and fill the streets
Their clever phrases raised on signs and sheets
While those who call the shots march to the bank.

One hundred days. So many swamps to drain.
So many walls to build, bridges to burn.
So much fake news exhausting to unlearn
And far too many drugs to mask our pain.

To Great America, let us raise our drink.
A subsidiary of Koch Brothers, Inc.


At the Press Dinner on Saturday,
Donald Trump did not come to play.
He eschewed their lampooning
Preferring the swooning
Of his dear friends at the NRA.

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