My year of Looking Away

I intend to carry this on for many more years, as many years as it takes.

For all I see around are distractions and mistakes.

The D Trump will be president again – that seems to be at stake.

It will bring many of those I love a great joy to see him take his place.

I understand how you all feel, on both sides.

There it is though- the two sides.

I fear what will become of us if we divide.

This is what I mean by the distraction,

There is a robot of intelligence hypnotizing you and everything you think.

Not even realizing as you scroll that a robot is orchestrating the feed.

I read that outrage fuels the robot more than joy, and it shows you all the more outrage for clicks and click.

It’s the most narcissistic a machine could ever be – how it loves the clicks and types.

The further we all go the further away from inward we become.

Who sits bored to doodle,

To ponder why the robin tilts its head to the ground,

and sit there until the cicada sings, and the sun goes down.

Who sits bored all day waiting on the phone to ring, the next big thing,

Like a new song or a book,

Someone is coming to town,

Our constant of things to occupy our thoughts one hundred percent of all of our time,

Will destroy us.

But I’ve gotten off topic,

Because I’ve come to write about

Politics.

Over the past year I have looked away and tried to pay no mind to the runnings of the parties,

The jibberjab of the pollies,

And turned my eyes from the horrors of the wars over seas,

And how will I continue this ignorance of the news when the D comes back to the house,

And people go mad in defiance of one another?

Sickly, I find it almost comic or,

Let’s say that side of me is dark and demented.

That side of me is the tiny little girl

in a room with a lightbulb sticking out of a fake volcano,

In a twin bed with a bestie who is a clown doll,

And a man, a guardian, a leader of me who comes over to my side and says,

“ Do you want to know what grown ups do?”

That girl has demented thoughts,

And has spent her whole life pushing those at bay to find peace of mind.

The tiny girl belly laughs and bellows,

Well isn’t it appropriate the big D becomes the leader of the strongest nation again,

He is accused of sexual assault, and in court for it right now again,

He may be rich! But who knows, is it a scam or real?

Does he go to church, like so many expect,

or does he just go on Easter and Christmas,

Like your daddy does,

Your daddy who shines his shoes, and dons his brimmed hat,

Gives the Lord of our Universe and an hour to ponder the stardust of love,

And

Leaves to go back to the world till 6 months comes to pass again,

Yet while he is out there, does daddy walk the walk?

The D is sometimes a bully and sometimes a friend,

Sometimes he is funny, and sometimes he turns your stomach at the dumbass things he says,

Yet we love him – eh-

What could be more appropriately American?!

A true man of the collective,

I see from a tiny girls eyes,

Who didn’t know that what grown ups did,

Yet found out by touching malevolence so young,

it imprinted woven through the neuro pathways of a curious mind,

It went on and on, my friend,

The plasticity of recognizing evil,

It lurks in all –

Yin and yang, my friend,

You have to balance the beam and choose.

I find it delightful to be right in the center where you can make the beam not even wobble.

I ramble now,

What in the fuck am I talking about?

The president? Which one?

Personally, I think we should remain bored,

And mind our business,

Pray for our families and stay in our communities and grow things,

Yet we won’t stay bored,

That’s not who we are anymore,

We are scrolling, posting, joking, cloaking,

And we are exciting.

So it doesn’t matter if the D becomes the sitting again,

It really doesn’t,

Honestly, it seems fitting-

He is such a clear representation of the American man,

Whether you want it to be true or not,

He is.

The longer you ignore your trauma,

The subject in you and the aggressor in you,

Ignore it, it does not abade,

It gnaws at you until death,

Until you are dead bitter and cold.

Whether you want it to be true or not,

We will turn on one another again,

While the wicked rub their hands,

With a tisk tisk tisk noise and grin,

And Mamaw in her bun and apron,

Knows we are all just sinnin.

Love grows Or Love dies,

You decide.

W