The Year of the Tyrant
Follows on the heels
Of a half-dozen passes.
It could easily stun
Any one.
It could easily scare
Away the would-be years
Whatever fresh claim,
Whatever new interpretation,
Is an amazing grace.
That titanic figure,
Invents interpretation,
But remember, we are articulate.
Am I making my point?
Let’s assess his intrusion.
Every aspect of what comes close,
Is just his chosen narrative.
All of our cranked tendencies,
Are a cradle to the grave.
There is no closer deity
Then the devil before us.
This is not hyperbole.
We are standing up to the grand,
With shoehorns of hope,
And a future,
Created by claim.
We, the damned,
Are more concerned about the people
Selfless, unnerving,
We are not flawless,
And we are not
Always good-hearted,
But we are smart enough
To not dismiss the lies.
It is a true act of sorcery.
Or secrecy.
Only a tyrant insists he is right.
Only a tyrant reaches the wide
Without running,
And without speed,
Only to say his fall was measured
And planned, but don’t believe your eyes.
We are seeing this.
This glimpse into a reality unknown.
Praise what comes
Because the impossible is possible.
For only a tyrant feels they are praiseworthy
This is nothing new,
The year of the tyrant.
Of Tyrant 2
I heard the church choir
on West 71st street.
I felt: angels
& then,
despair.
Put on a happy face, Darlin,
says a man
while I walk
with groceries in hand.
I glare
& I flare
then I sooth
my pocks &
my strays.
What do I have
to hold on to,
but hardness?
The constraints,
are open-mouthed
with squawk.
He is everywhere.
thumbing hate into Sunday.
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