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December 31, 2016

Cats don't care about Trump,
(Even if he is a pussy-grabber.)
The day after the election,
They didn't hiss and pull out their fur
In grief, worry, and outright

Anger. No. They got up.
Played with hair ties
And tiny fabric mice.
They asked for treats
And chased their tails;

They curled into tight balls
And napped. Around them,
Morning rose high amid
Our collective disbelief
That some could hold

Their own country
In such low esteem
To vote that way -

But the cats each purred,
Rolled onto their backs,
Invited us to rub
Their stomachs.

This wraps up the year-long Poem (almost) Everyday Project. This, Poem #230 (not 241 as originally erroneously counted), was the last of the writing that was perhaps my best therapist during one hell of a tumultuous year. One that began with the deaths of Bowie, Richman, and Prince and ended with the deaths of Michaels and Fisher. One in which I experienced exceptional workplace drama, and where an outdated electoral system decreed a bullying troll had been “elected” and would occupy the White House.

But, thanks to poetry, we can survive much.

Now, onto a new project for 2020. Put your ass-to-chair and keep writing.

August 2, 2016

What profound words
Must adorn the last 
Blank spaces above the lines?

Should I 




Scribble my brain
Here as I have done
Each morning, since
Bowie left in January?

The (almost) last page.

This poem finished up a writing journal a little more than mid-project. It seems a little meta, but his is poem #137 of the Poem Almost Everyday Project. I started a new writing journal the next day.

As you can see, in the first draft of this, the writing really does go the other way. I did a little research to see how to make this happen in WordPress, but it looked like I needed to write in html code, which, well, I do not know how to start.

I was tethered

But floating for months.

Work can do that to you.


I had a weak radio

Signal – thank God – but

I couldn’t bring me home


Just yet. Check ignition

and may God’s love

be with you.  I’d hoped


To make Sunday’s service,

But floating with no

Sunday best, it was impossible.


Somedays the tether

Was so taut

It would not let


Me float away and Doctor

Said drugs would

Bring me home


From this malfunction.


Can Earth fix me –

NASA help – when


I left my tools

On the kitchen counter

Next to a tall glass


Of water, waiting

To be sipped and instructions

So difficult for me


To follow?


Poem #5 of the Poem (almost) Everyday Project. These are second drafts of  pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. Feel free to give useful critique.

People die.

Even Steve

Jobs and David

Bowie leave

the world – albeit


a different one

from when they arrived.


Innovators, life


their art has made

us better for what

they’ve made.


But the Cancer God

says – Now. Your

time is now


and the Earth must

learn to survive

on what you’ve provided


and to take it forward

from there. (Each of us

on our own,


a little hollow

and a little full

of what they

created and the vacuum

their exits inflate.)



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