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What Good Comes From This

Obviously I favor Democrats, but honestly they got plenty of problems that vex me too.

The political mystery it seems to me
Is why I ever thought it could be solved
When all the ones who run believe
In writing such repulsive laws

The right-wingers reject the facts that bear
Be it climate, labor, COVID, or on healthcare
On the left they still give shrugs
When asked to lower the cost of drugs

Right side thinks that war is grand
They would have stayed in Afghanistan
The libs are such a bunch of hacks
They would make vapers pay a twenty-times tax

And neither side it must be mentioned
Will legislate experiments
Will plant the gardens let it grow
To wait and learn what next to sow

That neither side affords a challenge
In primaries they want incumbents
Prefer the teammate to opponent
Even if that jerk’s unhinged

In states both red and blue
Districts shaped like lizard or shoe
And the Supreme Court won’t add two to two
That question is political, so fuck you

In the Senate the talking rule
Keeps the law old, mean, and cruel
All the good ideas we have
Are drowned in the saucer’s bath

In the House the seats so few
One hundred years boy how they flew
As decades’ population growth accrue
There ain’t room left in that zoo

Republicans are too far gone
That I would ever consider them
But as long as Dems are wrong
I vote for them, but look to heaven

Deliver us some better souls
Who will advance the worldly goals
That would relieve our nation from
These pains created by humans


Sorry for the bad poetry. If it’s a consolation, it’s better than the worse one I wrote before.

The closing lines should be read, by theists to mean aliens should bring forth their government experts to help us, and by atheists to mean that God should send His choirs to help us.

Have a nice day.

—A

The Exhibit

The gallery lights burned on
even as the record crowd still
filtered in through those hallowed
doors.

The gallery lights burned on
even as the record crowd still
filtered in through those hallowed
doors.

Men chuckled and clinked glasses as
they wandered the exhibit floor. A lady
with her hair up let go her child’s hand
the child ran off and into an old man
who promptly yelled at him.

The the main piece consisted of a large
bowl of silver cast with wet ice perched
between two stone hands. As the night
drew on the ice would melt and slip from
grasp into the bowl.

A famous journalist took note of this as
he grabbed a fresh drink. He stretched
tall and spoke, ‘Fellow patrons ought we
not stop this ice from its demise? Such
a wondrous piece should be preserved
for future generations.’

A few members of the crowd hesitated,
then affirmed his words. Others hid their
faces, afraid to speak. And others still
denounced this notion, said it was what
the artist intended.

‘The artist,’ said the newsman, ‘is not
present at the moment.’ He turned and
asked for the man to step forth. ‘As such
it is not his decision to make. It will be
ruined entirely if we do not act now.’

With that the writer stepped toward
the bowl and began to hoist it in his
arms. A woman shrieked and began
to slap him with her billfold. ‘It’s mine
you clod, I paid good money for it!
Unhand it at once!’

A priest in attendance moved them and
laid hands on the reporter. ‘In the name
of all that’s holy commerce has decided
the outcome, good sir let go.’ And the
local judge stepped up and laid hands
on the man and said, ‘I beg you stop until
the rights of the art can be established by
the court.’

The journalist struggled to free himself
from their arrest, stumbled, cursed, and
sprang forth. But he tripped over the child
and the work went down. The ice cracked
with the hands and the bowl made a horrible
clamor before it settled.