Construct

You cannot see
from this poem
that I am thinking
in italics.

My font choice
is my first falsehood of the day.

When you asked
How did you sleep?
Understanding in modern society
that such questions
do not seek an honest answer
I respond with a monotone, Fine.

A Second lie.

So it goes through the day.
A few bold face lies
but half-truths or subversions mostly
seeking advantage or conflict avoidance.

All in the convention
of ghosts emerging from a cornfield
and materializing into ballplayers—
like in the postcard from Dyersville, Iowa
push-pinned to the wall
above my writing desk.

I like to think my life has a moral
guided by an unseen hand—voice.
Build it and he will come.
Ease his pain.
Go the distance.

But baseball taught me
to steal signs and second
and if I am not cheating
I am not really trying hard enough
to win.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Dissemination

There it is.
As plain as skin cancer.

Another Presidential
fiction is born.

Not like Athena
from Zeus’ forehead.

But a thumb pounding
Twitter screed.

Part of the never ending spew
of his black hole self absorption.

The news looks back along the coverage trajectory
and sees pitch black.

How easily the profit motive
drew them past the event horizon.

How oblivion became a luxury
and absence a blessing.

How our scarred feelings
fail to notice a subtle touch for attention.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney