One-Sentence Journal, Weeks Seventy-Eight and Seventy-Nine

  1. 01/15/2017:  Ah, the season of rough hands and split open fingertips rolls on.
  2. 01/16/2017:  A deer stands broadside to the nearest edge of the road on my way home in the dark, and I have half a mind to stop, back up, and demand to know exactly WTF she is thinking.
  3. 01/17/2017:  A sixty minute span of awful food choices following 48 hours of good and now my body, delivering torments in waves of clenching and nausea, says, “Oh no, death would be too easy for you, lardass….”
  4. 01/18/2017:  I admire the three-years-and-counting commitment the neighbor’s dog has made to going apeshit with barking whenever she sees me arrive home, as if I were the first man she’s ever seen.
  5. 01/19/2017:  At what felt like nearly 40°, today saw the arrival of a slush-making heat wave.
  6. 01/20/2017:  Mist rises from the fields as I drive home in the waning light before nighttime and an owl appears out of the gloom to land atop a power pole.
  7. 01/21/2017:  Reviewing my various social media feeds that are blowing up with images from womens’ marches all over the country, I’m disappointed I didn’t figure out a way to get to Helena and back to part of it here … but I am reminded that this is only the beginning.
  8. 01/22/2017:  I am a fat, barely employable, middle-aged Native guy with a chip on his shoulder and no health insurance, living below the poverty line with huge love for much and many, and you can believe I have a stake in this.
  9. 01/23/2017:  I have never been strung out on a particular style or brand of beer before, but two nights in a row now without any Haybag Hefeweizen from Philipsburg Brewing Company and I find myself uncertain that I will survive the night, or find a reason to even want to.
  10. 01/24/2017:  A benefit of oversleeping and missing my first typical hour in darkness is that instead I was at my kitchen window making coffee at the first hints of silver light to the east, before the assault of reds and oranges, when the moving clouds were like the outlines of the states on a map, and the crescent-shaped moon hung brightly in the sky.
  11. 01/25/2017:  If there is anything to enjoy these few days, it’s the sight of federal agencies run by smart people rising up to oppose the will of our newly-inaugurated Commander in Lunacy.
  12. 01/26/2017:  As a person who has never struck anyone in anger, I find the desire to lash out in violent protest — and the wish to see a number of specific people dragged through the streets — most disturbing.
  13. 01/27/2016:  Never underestimate the emotional healing powers of a styrofoam tray heaped with cheap Chinese takeout.
  14. 01/28/2017:  To call the emotions of the past week anything other than despair would be an understatement.

Taking My Own Temperature, Raw and Heavy-Handed

A Confession, with Wishes

It’s time to ‘fess up.
I’m feeling less and less keen
on “finding common ground”
and all that assorted
“give them a chance” bullshit,
and the vague nature
of my pacifism is washing away
with every drop of water
that stings the flesh
of peaceful protestors
on a frigid landscape barely
a day’s drive away
from where I sit fat and warm,
mired in my own
inconsequential dramas.

So here are some truths.
I wish a vessel would burst
in the heart or brain of our
“President Elect” and he’d
drop flopping and dead
in a puddle of shit from
his own vacuated bowels,
and the world would sigh
with relief,
then point and laugh.

I wish every one of that man’s
braindead followers would be
visited in the night
by the spirits of the lost,
forgotten, and brutalized,
– Dickens-like –
to see a possible future where
they and their loved-ones face
the violence and hate
they advocate and cheer,
that each one may wake
soaked and reeking
of piss in their sheets,
screaming into the morning,
“What have I done?”

I wish that the ghosts
of our ancestors
would sweep across the land,
whooping and singing,
and leave behind nothing
but shriveled carcasses
frozen inside the body armor
of every rent-a-soldier
who tramples the bodies
of my friends, lovers, and family,
like the husks of locusts
whose plague ended
when it ventured too far
onto the Northern Plains.

I wish all those fuckers
would suddenly understand
that indeed they are correct:
not everyone belongs here.
But it isn’t the ones
they were thinking of.