You’ll never be Obama

  You, Don Trump, will never be Obama.   Sometimes when I hear your words or see Sean and Paul and the others on the playground I want to run and hide.  I go by the merry-go-round, but I can still see you running about pushing random people to the ground.  Usually the slower ones….

Title Your Way

Can I write a poem about love? Can I reach into the depths of whateva’s left and scratch the surface of a half-beaten smile and jimmy out a broken tooth or two to peer into the bloody grinning gap to eek-out loveworn lumps of shimmering gut squishy, glossy heart tissues nudes pews glossolalia nerves connect…