Distraction

 Distraction

Imagine this,

A huge data center is being built beneath that ballroom

where the East Wing once stood.

Like the ones they have in Israel

But newer, improved, and state-of-the-art

The data centers can also survive missile attacks

Let that sink in

AI and the government

are BFFs.  I wonder if it’s Lindy, Perplexity, or Jasper?

Probably a CIA classified platform specifically designed for covert operations.

The Ballroom is a distraction

It’s fluff

It’s the lid on what is really going on.

It’s the tip of the iceberg

It’s not about assassination attempts

and yeah, we’re paying for it.

…

 

 

Believe

 Believe

 

When you’re married to a narcissist

you think you’re crazy

 lazy

or hazy

anything but sane.

 

You’re the one to blame

for making him act like that.

 

So you had a spat

and then sat 

like a dunce

In the back of the room

with a spoon

drooling

over abstract things

like normal. 

 

Because he is a master

of lies

can corrupt, then disguise

like a cat

with nine lives.

 

Younger women sigh

hard as they try

they still don’t  know why

do not fall for this guy.

 

Because he’s helping himself,

not you. 

 

Boo Hoo.

get screwed

and tattooed

then skewed

blaze it across the sky

believe the lies

then fly

like a pigeon

racing with zeal

create a mystery

and while you’re at it, cook a meal

erase your history, and your family too.

 

Time's Up

 Time’s Up

 

Go ahead

Figure it out

The world is waiting.

Hell, I’m waiting

When I should be 

Solving the current existential crisis

While I get my pedicure

What color will it be this month

Make me blue, Make me blush

Hush, whisper me a prayer, 

No,  it’s Sardonic, and I know it.

What are you doing during this political unrest?

Are you shopping or rallying

Dilly or dallying, 

Silly Sally, make me a rhyme

Rhyme it with time, before I get behind

Or become resigned to my fate.

The Mad Hatter is running backwards in circles

While looking at his pocket watch

He’s going to crash, wait—into that gate.

Yup, like I said, it’s fate.

 

 

Shopping For A New Golf Shirt

 Shopping For A New Golf Shirt

 

So the objective is simple: convince twelve women to buy the same golf shirt. This activity has historically required a treaty, a mediator, and at least one witness protection program.

 

“Does it come in sleeveless? Long sleeve? Possibly… no sleeve but also a jacket?”

“What kind of fabric is it made of? Because my skin has opinions.”

“Is it moisture-wicking? Or is it the kind that holds onto sweat like it’s a cherished family heirloom?”

“I like the motif.”

“I think I have earrings to match. If I don’t, I will acquire them. This is now a mission.”

“Thirty dollars is cheap.”

“Thirty dollars is suspicious. What’s it doing for that price? Who is it working for?”

“Is it roomy or boxy? I want ‘effortless’—not ‘moving day.’”

“Tight in the chest? Because I’m here to golf, not to test a zipper’s will to live.”

“Does it make my back look fat?”

“Nothing makes your back look fat. But fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms should be illegal.”

“I love pink.”

“I don’t love pink.”

“Can we change the flamingos to ibis? I’m trying to look ‘sporty coastal,’ not ‘escaped lawn ornament.’”

“The pattern is good.”

“The pattern is too busy.”

“Busy patterns hide faults.”

“Oh, I don’t care—”

“—so long as the fabric doesn’t make me sweat.”

“I heat up easily.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m always cold.”

“How about the one with the flowers?”

“What flowers—lilies?”

“No, the orchids. Remember? The ones that look expensive and slightly judgmental.”

“It comes in different colors, too.”

And then—miracle of miracles—two of us reach for the same one at the same time. We freeze. We stare. We laugh. “Okay,” someone says, “if we both like it, it’s basically a scientific fact.” Twelve credit cards tap in unison, the cashier blinks twice, and just like that, we’ve achieved world peace… in matching shirts.

 

To The Man In The Red Cap

 To the Man in the Red Cap

 

When was the last time you opened a newspaper—

or have you only heard the world through a feed that flatters you?

Your candidate isn’t whiffing—

he’s doing what grifters do—until the room decides to breathe together.

An emperor in a rented costume, fraying at the seams,

a con man scraping the barrel—until the crowd stops calling it a feast—

even your side can see him. Seeing is where change begins.

 

Congress is in session—

The tide can turn.

They’ll read the script and miss their cues—but the crowd can rewrite the ending.

not to save anyone—unless we build saving into law, into care, into daily habit.

Keep your victory lap; I’m saving my breath for the long haul—and I’m not alone.

The party ends when we stop dancing to whatever they play—and start making our own.

It’s over like that spotless red cap—

a stain pretending it’s a flag—until you choose to take it off.

bright enough to spot in a crowd—plain enough to put down and walk on.

 

Maybe it’s too much to fit in your head:

history doesn’t repeat—it waits for permission, and we can refuse.

“Not again,” we say—then we practice: we show up, we speak up, we stay.

So it doesn’t happen—because we choose each other, in plain sight.

I still remember the stories

my uncle used to tell—so we’d know what to name, and what to stop feeding.

How he served in a U-boat’s belly,

pulled into duty before his voice had even changed,

at fourteen—still a child, treated like inventory.

Kids shouldn’t have to learn the world that way. If we remember, they won’t.

 

 

Earth Day

 Earth Day

I believe the planet will need more than one day to recover.

But Mother Earth thanks you—

truly.

If the dinosaurs were still alive,

they’d send a card.

The bees would sign it. In theory.

The endangered fish in the oceans

would also like to say thanks—

for buying that bracelet made from recycled plastic.

It was a choke hazard.

It’s still a choke hazard—

but now there’s a little less of it drifting around

those plastic junk islands.

Also, birds can still get those tiny, tragic hula hoops

wrapped around their necks. You’ve seen it.

This lonely planet thanks you.

She thinks it’s a great idea to send kids out

to pick up the garbage their parents toss out of cars.

There’s hope for tomorrow—

apparently.

People are so smart.

I’ll bet they can come up with even more ways

to recycle their own waste.

The Earth has a few ideas too.

 

But she’s a mom, so she won’t ruin your day.

She’ll just mention—casually—

her bowels have been straining for some time now.

She has a terrible itch that needs scratching.

It might shake a few people up.

 

Also, her disposition is shifting by the day.

Moody enough that the forecast keeps hedging.

It’s fine. It’s probably fine.

 

And the holes in her ozone layer are massive.

 

So yes—keep up the good work. 

Please send more debris into orbit in space.

She’ll be right here, holding her breath.

 

Training

 Training 

I laugh, looking back.

The years speed up—

Florida traffic when the snowbirds arrive.

Red lights feel optional—unless you remember you’re in one. I’ve seen enough to strip the naiveté from faith.

Crashes—car parts flung in a wide, bright ring of road. A debris field like the war my mother saw at five: waking to sirens, running in nightclothes, my grandmother scooping up five children and saying, now.

My shoulders are broad—

one of my better features—

as I round the corner of 69.

No one notices—until you’re treading water in the Gulf and need something to hold you up.

Yes, we were immigrants. I became a U.S. citizen in Honolulu forty years ago. We came by plane, sponsored by family; I was an infant in my mother’s arms while Germany still counted the cost of war.

I got a chance at a better life—better than my mama had. The man I married was a brute: brilliant, cruel. I loved him. I loathed him. He showed me the world and taught me to fight for my place in it. Years went by, soldiering on. Still, I learned: keep your head, keep moving, and don’t let the wreckage be the end of you.

Chasing Hope

 Chasing Hope

 

I try to catch up—

to the woman climbing the hill ahead of me,

the same rise of pavement I swear remembers our footsteps.

She’s there most mornings—steady as a sunrise,

moving with a brisk, practiced stride that doesn’t waste breath.

Her outfit matches the season—

light layers when the air still holds onto night, a brighter shirt when the day turns bold,

good shoes, a cap pulled low, a water bottle that catches the sun like glass.

She’s sensibly dressed for the climb, for sweat, for weather that changes its mind.

And still—she carries a smile the whole way,

as if she knows something kind about the day before the day has proven it.

I want to meet her, not just follow her shape up the slope—

to fall into step beside her, where conversation feels easy and unforced.

But she rounds the bend the way certainty does—

one clean turn, and she’s gone, swallowed by trees and distance.

The neighbor’s dog barks as I pass—sharp and sudden—guarding the invisible border of “too late.”

I picture the talks we might have if I ever caught her—

politics, sure—spoken softly, as you do with strangers before they become neighbors,

current events that arrive on screens overnight and feel different in morning air,

the weather—humidity, wind, the first hint of rain—small forecasts we can test.

Maybe she’d tell me her name and laugh at how long it took me to ask.

Maybe I’d admit I’m still learning how to begin—how to step forward without an excuse.

Hope, I realize, looks a lot like someone who keeps walking even when no one is watching.

Maybe I should jog, let my breath turn ragged for a minute, just to close the gap.

Maybe I should get up earlier, when the streetlights are still on, and the world feels unfinished.

Maybe I’ll meet her tomorrow—at the start of the hill, before the bend decides for me.

 

 

 

Pulling Weeds

 Pulling Weeds

Takes dedication—

effort, time management,

and self-discipline (the unglamorous kind).

The payoff usually shows up as blisters,

a few bruises, and the occasional puncture wound.

Plus deep-knee bends, squats,

ducking under the prickly bushes.

The result is rewarding—

but limited to the growth hours left in this season.

 

Leadership

 

It seems

doesn’t ask for any of that.

Unless you count sleeplessness,

ranting in the wee hours,

collecting enemies (including faith leaders),

choosing a gift for the dictator’s

birthday party,

starting wars, grabbing oil,

suing the government, and cutting deals

which, for some, is apparently easy.

Go team.

No kneepads required. 

Calm After The Storm

 Calm After The Storm

Today we awaken—
soft light trembling on our faces—
First, to absorb the hush of shock,
emotions streaming from tired eyes,
hands worn by the trials behind us,
unable to summon applause,
even as triumph calls.
Yet still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

In the hush,
we find the seeds of hope,
rest in the gentle shade of renewal,
witness what we have become—
then softly, surely, declare:
we have won.

We rise,
trampled and battered,
with storms at our side—
to the left, to the right—
still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

We pray to the sun for light to guide us,
then to the son for hope to rise within.
We lay down the weight of oppression,
conquer the beast of despair,
gather in the circle of survival,
and greet the new dawn we have won.

 

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

…

Rewarding Bad Behavior

Reeks

Like a game of thrones.

It throws the innocent from the turret

A witness to incest and lies.

And then cries like a crocodile.

Tears washed in blood and bile.

…

We crown the cruel with laurel—smile,

And dress their damage up as style;

We pay in praise for practiced guile,

And call the bruising all ‘worthwhile.’

We stack up perks in a shining pile,

While quiet decency lives in exile;

Then scold the ones who name it vile—

As if the truth should stand on trial.

...

So let it stink this tilted scale,

Till justice learns its tone.

GOD is an Ancient Alien

 

 

The rivalry fades—
science and faith,
their contest a shadow
beneath cosmic signs.

 

Ancient wisdom speaks:
Darwin’s distant god,
the zeal of holy wars,
words shimmering, shifting,
visions conscripting the mind.

 

Scriptures etched by divine hand
challenge chaos, command order;
yet we gaze across the span
of humankind’s unfolding,
seeking the wisdom sown
in primordial seeds.

 

Darkness whispers probabilities—
a reconciling reality
where bibles and theories meet,
where old truths and new questions
find common ground.

 

Can reason unmask
the mysteries time has veiled?
Perhaps the answer waits
where logic and wonder entwine,
in the mathematics of ancient belief.

 

Vog Sunrise

Scarlet sun slices,
ebony frame—
Iwa birds dazzling,
violet lilies in the rain.

Orange heat breathes,
banyan’s crown aglow,
dew on emerald leaves,
morning’s gentle flow.

Beautiful, beautiful—
but unlike fog,
this haze is born of fire,
its breath is sharp and strong.

Vog glows in the morning,
brilliance in the sky,
but beneath its silent shimmer
a beauty that can burn—
where fog only softens the dawn.

 

 

Rowing

 Rowing

 

Come, row with me—

my small boat cutting through the restless sea;

Two blades, one rhythm—chase

that far-off beach beyond the break.

We’re strong; we lean into the swell—

it won’t be long if we don’t let it win.

We’ll take that shore like treasure—paired.

…

 

Climb in—

our canoe waits, bow pointed true.

Let’s shove off—water slaps the hull—

into Kāneʻohe Bay—water clear as glass over coral heads,

to the sandbar—where rays stitch shadows in the shallows—then farther.

And swear this vow:

hold fast to each other,

through wind that tries to spin us broadside,

through squalls that drum the deck,

through reef-pass surge, where the tide grabs hard and lets go.

Our oars bite, surge, and flash—silver schools scattering below—

stroke for stroke—threading the reef, watching turtles rise and dip—

on the blue edge past the reef, where deep water begins,

until the coastline lifts out of salt and storm—ours.

 

THE ORPHANS

 

The orphans gather in a huddle and gasp 

at the dreaded discard aisle. 

while we sort through the endless 

stacks of brown and yellow dusty pages.  

 

Several cradle dead roaches and insect poop. 

 

Some are dedicated to family and friends with 

photos inserted or a charming bookmark.

We hunt to find a signed first edition, 

or a historic volume of Hawaiiana. 

 

Now and then to discover a lonely dollar

hiding between the often-sticky pages.

We wipe away the grime, mend the tears, and unfold corners,

as we absorb bits and pieces of data,

 

too fast, too soon. 

 

The orphans are then reasonably priced with a Venus red pencil,

positioned into a cardboard box and sealed with packing tape.

Their characters are further revealed at opposite corners 

with bits of orange, yellow, green, brown, blue, or gray 

 

duct tape, 

invented by a woman.

 

The waifs are then packed into boxes, counted, and carted away, 

stacked and stored.

Polished and poised, to be embraced, sold, and rediscovered. 

When will they speak to us again?

Momos and Destiny

Destiny

was eighteen,
dreaming of college
and a one-way ticket
out of that one street town

when Momos rolled past
on his chopper
having left the first wife, 
three children,

and Patty Feathers
a stripper with nine cats who kept him in designer clothes.

Destiny parked that night
behind the theater to meet friends.
Her head in the clouds
fantasizing about her birthday, leather boots, and boys
as she pushed through the beaded curtain,
into the rooms in the back of Zeus’s Everything Shop,
meeting Momos for the first time,

fresh from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist.

His moist skin was scrubbed and sweet-smelling.
His jive was as smooth as the fat marijuana cigarette he offered her.

Momos plowed every juicy female that crossed his path.

He tried to win Destiny that way, too, but she snubbed the ride.

Provoking his quest.

They soon met at a local dive. Destiny and Momos drank Southern Comfort, chased with Budweiser.
Shot for shot, they drank until a one-eyed Momos begged her to drive him home. And a besotted Destiny beheld her future.

He’d captivated her by walking a lobster on a leash,
hustling the drunks for money as he fed them the cherrystone clams, Snaps
the lobster had cracked with its claw.
And stunned her when he reached under her shirt and exposed her
to the bartender, like she was the prize at an outlaw biker rally.

Momos promised her the world.                                                                                        

Both dangerous and different, she craved his ilk.

Three years later,
even their infant couldn’t convert her.

She'd made her bed.
Momos was now her god.
His passion was hypnotic and biting.
His commands bled from her ears.

He burned his mark deep, lest she forget her place.


Her fate darkened
as Momos
pinned another vicious note
to a graphic sex manual with a switchblade,
her shortcomings were highlighted in red.

In time, Destiny became a beast, too.

Destiny studied. She became proficient at
"The Ways of the World," according to Momos.
She understood that none
of his friends would appreciate his art class.
The words he spewed 

and punched
into her face, her palette of black eyes.
The way he offended her allies.

Beaten down, she waited.                                                                                           

Ridiculed, she waited.
Terrified, she waited.

Hopeless, she remained.
Until Zeus looked down from Olympus
and saw what Momus had done, 
and a dreadful Destiny rescued her journey.

Momos however, remained the same.

Power mad atop                                                                                                                                              his plinth, he continued to lament, boast and blame.

Time passed before
they spoke.

Momos the frantic talked in circles.
He spewed
harbingers
declaring
he’d grown humble
after the attempted murder,
after the charges were dropped
and after she'd left him;
that his new conquest was a fill-in for her.

He professed to all that could hear      

that he still loved his Destiny.

But Destiny was no longer his    

to claim. 

Soon, Momos the miserable mocked the gods again.
Dragged his new soul mate by the neck
through her car’s open window.
Vowed to drive her to Hell for defying him. For saying no.
Heroic, she summoned the men in blue and Kratos the Enforcer to file her grievances.

Despite this, the fugitive fire in Momos raged on.
He became like Cerberus,
loyal guard dog,
compelling
The Fates
to impose their leaden doom
fusing his gifts and his skull
to a lower calling. And Hades sighed as the river Styx rose to greet him.

The Chaos is Intentional

 We were great, once—before the reset.

Now we dance to a new algorithm,

broadcast the old signals,

patch the archive,

delete the logs.

We are young and brash,

drifting like bodies in low orbit,

sedated on dreams of yesterday—

old transmissions calling from a parallel channel.

They scream, “Let us out of the vault.”

But we follow the credits, honey.

AI will absorb us—like it was always written.

We burn forward on thrust and telemetry, still watching the rear cameras.

I take my cutter and calibrator

to find the shape that hides

inside this cryo-slab:

strip away the noise,

step back,

scan again.

I get a lock—then I lose it.

Keep writing. Forge ahead—

ahead of the swarm of hunter drones,

their pings in my skull.

I need to breach the perimeter this time.

I crave the station-hush before cycle-change.

I am a creature of protocol.

Are we star farers?

Can we edit the timeline?

Can we warp the clock?

We still reenter Earth’s atmosphere—heatshield singing.

We came from water—primordial code.

We are mostly water.

We return to water.

The answers are out of range.

Juxtaposition Captures Spirit (and Wings)

 (Inspired by: “Juxtaposition” by Melissa Miller Nece CPSA, CPX)

 

 

Three spirits racing
Toward the rumbling wide dark sea.
Ocean’s thunder slows.
Time opens its bright palm wide—
Youth spills into joy, complete.

 

Blowing Bubbles

Bubbles float on air.                                                                                        

                                                            Air

                                                On                   On

     Float                                Float

On                   On

                                                           Air         

                                                                                                                        Bubbles float on air.

Bubbles are dazzling rainbow planets we escape to.

 

Bubbles  bridge        the      gap     between         the      past and the present.

 

The magic orbs        spiral              up

down              

                                                and wrap around our minds.

Bringing our peace into sharper focus

 

Bubbles circle fast and track slow. Baffle us as they scatter…just out of …reach

Bubbles          P  O  P  without notice                    while they dance on thin light                     

Blowing bubbles requires that we breathe deeply

­­­

 Bubbles float on air                               Releasing us from care.

  

Until the matrix calls us home.

 

 

 

             

Playing GOD

Open the Strait of Hormuz, or I will decimate you.

Iran, you have just lost your ice cream privileges

Go to bed and think about your decisions,

I’ll wait, but not too long.

Time to surrender.  Time to take your medicine.

Open wide and swallow. 

(Grins like a demon.)

Swallow all of it.

Don’t read.  Don’t educate yourself, do as you are told.

I am great.  Don’t you want to be great, like me?

(Leering and staring at women’s boobs.)

…

I grew up watching Star Trek.  I especially liked Spock 

He was so cool, so rational. Spock would’ve said,

“Interesting. 

You act like a god, but you are a puppet, a pawn, a hoax perpetrated on the American people.

Your rhetoric stinks, your smile is fake, everything about you is fake.  And your psychiatrist is calling. “ 

She is not happy — time to come back inside.  Put those carbon-based life forms back, and don’t forget to wash your hands. What did I say about playing with strangers?

But I don’t want to come in, I’m having fun.  

The party is over, Donnie. You go too far. 

I want it NOW. It’s NOT FAIR, I HATE YOU!   It’s your fault I missed the ball. You never get me anything good.  

SILENCE!

(Door to his universe slams shut.)