Deplorable Old Men* (Day 250)

And now they’re saying             He is a racist.

Those guys, you know               How much money they make?

If I made that much money        I’d be thanking god every day. 

But these guys just want            To protest this and that.

Right, and he is the only            One who isn’t scared to say it.

Those guys make so much         Money.

You know what I say                  I say: You don't like America? 

You should get the hell out         Go to another country.                 

But what country                        Would want them?

(What country, indeed?) 

*A minimally edited/annotated conversation from rural America.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo of Kremlin: Francisco 

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 

as well as 

sit  a pale egg 

unhatched 

the poison slurry 

fills the cracks

appalling  we are 

spit-and-polish 

egos  where a small 

few head 

he goes all in  

they follow even unto

silver-plated truth he 

traded in 

exchange for 

long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Indulgence No.4 (Day 233)

it helps

to flood the stage 

with protest

like hearing every side 

from the wide clear skies  

of my late 

summer 

autumn  

falling  we went out 

undisguised  sweated  

and when 

we came home 

feeling angry  vile  

riled like 

a snake   

an unexpected freight train   

like the days 

of warm rain beyond 

the bruise-green clouds   

we had a precedent 

for the day 

of the storm 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos

After the Bookstore Closed (Day 230)

about an hour after 

our local bookstore closed

the sky darkened

to green   the wind came   sideways   

from nowhere   thunder 

racked my house and slam-banged 

around   an old man grumbling   

on a brittle winter day   so like 

human beings   their cultures gathered 

around clouds of voices   raising heat 

and ugliness   the sounds distress me   

my body reflecting   not just words but 

the humid heavy breath of the street   

blowsy   a little hot   they keep saying   

our bright star is exploding   our world 

set ablaze   eyes like deep pools 

of wisdom   and fascist fists are

pummeling my heart   if I can fight this 

I might stop falling into the jade sky   

and wake up warm and safe and dry 

but   on the other hand   we could be 

staring down the inscrutable

barrel of a millennial storm

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: terren