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


I have a fist full of anger.
But I cannot aim it at Trump
or his enablers.

What ever I pick up to do
the anger contaminates the task
no matter how much I think I have let it go.

I tried washing my hands with soap and water.
I tried washing my hands with turpentine.
I tried rubbing some dirt into my palms.

I picked up a flattened stone
and wrote Anger on it
then skipped it across a lake’s surface.

All I accomplished was for my anger
to ripple across the lake
and out through the countryside.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney