Election poetry.

Like water, this division
this contrition unites.
Rolling over our best efforts
to remain with hearts.
Our eyes brought contention,
to be silenced in part
by Their ongoing, internal
concatenation.
Their diversion from accepted
tergiversation.
They bow down and worship
the god of the downtown,
the dot-com and Broadcast,
and partisan common.
(While Rome is on fire,
Nero is plucking his briefcase violin)
Ideas retreating from radio waves
it vomits, consumes it's pale renegade.
A nuclear family, A bastard son story,
The Singularity born, concrete matrimony.

The justice of doctrinal peace,
began to speak the benediction for
the wedding feast.
"If anybody has reason, or cause to conspire
for these not to be wed,
(the white house, and wall street,
sharing a bed)
Speak up good and loud
for in such a loud crowd,
it's difficult to see whose jaws are not wired"
And with that the two gave birth to a son,
the hive mind, the media the North Avenue slums.

Objection, an act of sedition.
And the red emperor passes
his baton to the next martial god.
Who, although dressed in blue,
returns the wink and the nod.
The donkey is walking with the carrot hung
just in front of its face. This is your god, this is your god.
The temples built 45 stories to heaven, to shield.
The skies advertising space. Campaigns purchased
the last hole punched in the card,
a generation of prosperity,
a generation of censorship.
a generation of control.
America, you may kiss the bride.

Porcelain: A Story.

She was a beautiful girl with a
porcelain face
and those kinds of dolls float on
water and waves.
Where it carries them to islands
or empties into lakes
and the paint runs down from their eyes
where it makes

Small puddles on her lips which fell
when she smiled
which, telling herself, she had not done
in awhile,
as she attempted to collect herself
in her usual style
the Missouri of Mascara turned into a Nile.

Where it drown that poor doll
in shallow expectation.
And the image she created with her
upbeat fixation
just didn't quite mix with the flood's
devastation
and she picked up where she'd left off
the week before

She filled pages and pages with dreams
and desire,
but seeing the waters had silenced
the fire,
and she remembered the light which would shine
from the pyre.
Her ambitions dragged and crushed, like the chains
on tires.

So the doll waded and floated in that river
for days.
And misery can make such a current
to sway
the most beautiful dolls to remove their
own paint.
And turn the bright porcelain into
a dull clay.

But on the shore, which from the river
looked plain.
There was One who was watching the
helpless doll's pain.
And when the river had washed off
the last of her paint.
He whispered...

Oh beautiful girl, now where is your face?
This world and your sorrow have stolen your paint,
and wiped off the joy I wrote in your blood.
With delicate brushstrokes and all of my love
I weaved and I painted and called you my own,
and this river you cried has now brought you home.

She was a beautiful girl with a
porcelain face
and as hard as she tried to remove
all her paint
One little brushstroke was all
it would take
to restore the image of the smile
He made.

And when the doll looked at what
he had done.
She cried just one tear which started
to run
down her cheek which was now as bright
as the sun.
She could tell she shone brighter than ever before,
but could not understand what the art was set for.
He looked her in the eyes and said "Only you."
As hard as you've tried to erase your hue.
I could never forget it, it's everything true.
And I've made it again,
I make all things new.

Lost unknown.

It's easy to disappear
when you're not trying to stay visible.
And although it was once a sun,
it dimmed and collapsed.
And all the movement got so bright
it blew up on the inside.
What used to shine
cooled down with time,
and its easy to think it died.
It's so easy to disappear.