With humor, rather than anger

It’s the middle of the night

in the wee hours of the morning

and somehow we’ve come to understand

how that all makes sense.

The birds are southward,

and turtles and snakes and frogs and bears

are dug down deep

while deer run for their lives

from people with guns in orange camouflage,

and a turtle might stir

as hoofbeats pound over

and have the passing sensation

that it isn’t as cold as it might have been

for those earlier in its line,

while one politician tries to tell it

that the place is certainly getting warmer

and another is telling him that that’s just

another lie they tell to fuck with the commerce,

because that’s what each’s group wants them to say

and sometimes they don’t watch their language.

This comes as no surprise to God

as He sits back and doesn’t even bother to laugh,

there be no real reason for the disagreement;

it’s not like any of them are going to do


to prove his side right

unless He says it’s so.


And the hunter eats the meat

as it’s supposed to be,

and the dust that flies

off the skin that will become a rug

will one day be salt that can be squeezed

from the drops of the Dead Sea,

when the turtle’s line will be

further along,

when it might be warmer still,

and it still won’t matter much more

than which side’s dude kissed more babies

or which side’s nailed fewer interns.








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