If no one objects, I'd like to share with you a poem I wrote in 2018 as part of an as yet unpublished collection called Etymologicon (which I consider as a treatise on word origins, as rendered in quatrains).
At the time, as you might surmise by reading this poem, I was already dealing with the emotional and psychological strains brought on by the unfortunate results of the 2016 election, thanks in no small measure because of the archaic Electoral College and the fact that we cannot directly elect those who occupy our highest offices via one-person-one-vote.
I'm sure there are many within this community who are frustrated and angry that we ended up with such an insecure, racist, misogynistic self-dealer in the White House.
There's at least something tongue-in-cheek about my descriptions in this poem, and I hope you find at least that little tickle of humor that we all need right about now to help get us through these strange times.
And yes, there is a bit of the political in the poem. Intentionally. I just had no idea back in the day how bad it would get with that miserable excuse for a human being occupying the highest office in our land.
Think tweets. “Language trapped in a cardboard head.” And: “From the zealously trembling quick-nimble pen-wings of the Royal-we.” Remind you of anyone? Perhaps a would-be Royal-we with a phone, and it needn’t be mentioned, one that’s so much smarter than him? (So smart it hurts. Nyuk nyuk nyuk.)
Without further ado, here it is:
DEUS-GHOST IN THE EX-MACHINA
Language trapped in a cardboard head—again and again,
A few words reincarnated from your quivering feathers,
Yanked backward by the wily trickster—balances scraps of
Blue metal with restless animals and deities: coyote, ocelot.
The tribe’s oratory, ensnared, encircled—by charter, by one
Wooden ruler, in a world out of balance—within a dark leather
Mask: a cyborg monarch hanging for an unwinnable war, over
And over, high on a wall, with not many reports of resurrection.
From the zealously trembling quick-nimble pen-wings of the
Royal-we, jerked face to the rear by a cunning deceiver—His
Machines act unpredictably—an especially fruitful dumpster
Diver, with dangling wires, and disrespect for the natural world.
The exhibition of political indignation is entertaining: it serves
As a counterpoise to scratches and cuts, wan and discolored—in
Contrast to a constant stirring of breathing, sentient creatures, or
Shining divine natures, heavens, skies: field tiger, prairie wolf.
I know, I know, a bunch of you, if anyone reads my poem, are already asking “What does it mean?” Well, does it have to mean anything? Do Sir Word-Salad’s tweets have to mean anything? Do his so-called press conferences? I know, I know, those are obviously rhetorical questions…
Anyway, my poem, as modest as it is, means a lot more than that crap does. Except that unfortunately the Royal-we, the one I’d like to see soon enough—actually, it can’t be soon enough—in an orange jumpsuit, along with all his corrupt handlers, enablers, and fellow conmen, is still pretending to be in office, and we all have to suffer through it, like it or not.
He does seem to fill some niche in this world. It’s only been just over $130 million that the taxpayers have spent on his floating mulligan so-called golf habit. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.
Hey, guys, I wish I had a sense of humor. God only knows I need it by now!
Meanwhile, stay tuned! More to come. I’ll bet my word salads are more delicious...