Fear of Falling

 by Brett Rutherford

The man who would be king
avoids high parapets,
hill-tops and cliffs,
lest one swift wind,
or an assisting hand
should tip him over,

a parachute, twice-checked,
is always in reach
of his small hands
when his private jet zooms
from place to place.

He dreams in cold sweat
of a long fall from space,
not to some placid sea,
but to the very spot

where a sink-hole opens
to receive him.
So eager is Hell
to have him.

Disgrace With A Capitol D

 

A passionate essay written January 9th, with the facts-as-we-know-them about the right-wing lunatic attack on the U.S. Capitol. Pittsburgh writer Jonathan Aryeh Wayne sums up how we got to the catastrophe of January 6th, and profiles a number of the bizarre invaders who wreaked havoc in the Capitol. This is an urgent and angry essay. This free PDF pamphlet was produced the same day the author finished his article. This publication takes The Poet's Press back to its origins in underground newspaper publishing. Please download, read, and share this intense article -- while you still can.

This is the 293rd publication of The Poet's Press. 7 pages.

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The Day Is Normal in My City

The day is normal in my city.
In the garden, Manuel is working,
and in the nursery, Celia warms
milk and prepares bedtime stories.
The children have not disappeared.

The lady chooses among three gowns.
The gentleman selects a red necktie.
They are going to the concert hall,
and there, in a walled garden,
behind brick-work and iron gates,
the man will clench his hand
(his cigar is not permitted),
while the lady sips her Sauvignon Blanc.

They will hear the Emperor Concerto.
They will listen to a grand Te Deum
with three hundred performers.
Up in the high balcony’s cheap seats
the mothers of the children’s chorus will smile.
Their children have not disappeared.

After the applause dies off,
the well-dressed crowd will flow down
the grand staircase.
The day is normal in my city,
but the unanswered question hangs
like an ominous storm cloud:
You, sir, you, madame! Did you vote for him?
Your children have not disappeared.

*** *** ***

This poem was written first in Spanish. Here is the original:

EL DÍA ES NORMAL EN LA CIUDAD

El día es normal en la ciudad.

Manuel, en el jardín, trabaja,

y Celia, en el cuarto de los niños,

calienta la leche, y ensaya

los cuentos de hadas.

Los niños no han desaparecido.

La ama de casa elige entre tres vestidos.

El esposo escoge una corbata roja.

Van al teatro para escuchar un concierto.

Y allí, en un jardín amurallado

detrás de ladrillos y puertas de hierro,

el señor apretará la mano

(su cigarro no está permitido),

mientras la señora sorbe un Sauvignon Blanc.

Oirán el Concierto “El Emperador.”

Escucharán un Te Deum grande

con trescientos ejecutantes.

Las madres del coro de niños

sonreirán desde el balcón superior.

Sus niños no han desaparecido.

Después que el aplauso se apague,

bien vestidos, la audiencia

fluye por la gran escalera.

El día es normal en la ciudad,

pero la pregunta sin respuesta

se cuelga como una nube de tormenta.

Tú, señor, tú, señora — ¿Votaron por él?

Tus niños no han desaparecido. 

The Cannibal Hymn

The Cannibal Hymn is at least 4,300 years old. It is found in Egyptian Pyramids, and also occurs as a "coffin text." It was so alarming and primitive that the Egyptians eventually stopped making copies of it. It is one of the masterpieces of ancient literature. Here is an abridged, modern adaptation the era of King Donald. (2018 slight revision).


Warming, the weather turns terrible.
The stars frown.
Fracked bones of the earth tremble.
The coal mines are empty and dark
at seeing the Donald rising,
a god of inherited fortune
who feeds on the flesh of his mothers.

Though Donald is Lord of Wisdom, bigly,
his mother does not know his name.
She meekly calls him The Tiny One,
The Giant-Insane-Baby Who Eats the Sky.

Donald’s glory is in the clouds, bigly,
his large hands span the horizon
like his realtor father before him,
though his son, Jared,
is mightier than he.

Donald’s tweets are behind him.
His party, his Dark-of-Water are at his feet.
Jesus and Mammon are over him,
the eyebrow-serpents are on his brow,
the Donald’s guiding over-comb
protects his forehead,
each hair alert for enemies
to add to the death-list.

His neck is there,
not to be moved from his mighty Trunk,
nor shall he arise from his golf cart
except to smite bad people, bad.
His mighty implement is not a mushroom;
yea, bigger than a Behemoth's
is his engorgement.
Donald is the Bull of the Sky;
flag-waving, he alternate-facts
his enemies into submission.

He lives on the past:
without reading its books he
devours its innards.
Everything he does, he does firstly.
He swallows even scientists
without acquiring knowledge;
their magic counts as nothing.
Donald himself suffices.
He assembles his cabinet, then fires them.
Assembles more, and eats them.
Beware the field of spit-out ministers!

Donald appears as the Great One,
shoving aside the foreigners,
yea even Montenegro’s leader.
He calls on tribute lands for tithes,
withholding his hands and mighty arms
on account of less than two percent.

He sits with his back to the Potomac.
He needs no Congress for his advisor
since Him-Who-Is-Not-Be-Named,
the faraway Tsar advises him
on this day of drone-and-missile-sending.

Donald is the Lord of Offerings.
His coffers swell, his tax returns
known only to the gods below.
His meat and his ketchup suffice him;
no foreign chef does he require.
At night he eats his enemies
and sends out tweeted warnings
that the pundits and journals tremble.

His thoughts are like falcons, bigly.
It is “Bring-Back-the-Slave-To-Service” who is Sessions
who lassoes them for Donald.
It is “Snake-Even-Worse-Than-Donald”, the Pence, who guards and keeps the Congress fattened for him.
It is “She-As-Dumb-As-Willows”, named DeVos,
whose job is to keep them meek and stupid.

It is Ryan, slayer of Big Government,
demolisher of Bureaus,
who cuts the throats of the victims, singing,
McConnell the one who will extract the innards.
Conway will cut them up for Donald,
and Sanders the messenger whom Donald sends forth
to say the Yea-That-Is-Nay daily.

His consort Melania, and Ivanka,
darkly-beloved daughter, who cut them up
and pour spice into the Donald’s dinner-pot.
Bigly, the meals, with ketchup.

The ones who serve in Congress,
yea, even the Senate and the House,
from their heights they serve Donald.
The uninsured are butchered, the unborn
one and all are guaranteed to his platter.

Donald eats everything:
athletes for breakfast,
businessmen for his business-man’s lunch,
children for dinner with alt-spice and pepper.
Veterans and seniors are burned as incense.
A cauldron of women for a late-night pussy-grab.

Donald has filled the sky, and is the sky.
He crowns himself with the Pope’s mitre,
the crown of many Kings. He dreams
of Jared, Ivanka as Tsar and Tsarina
of Russo-Europe, the coming empire.

He has swallowed the Red States.
Though he does not like their savor,
He will devour the Blue.
With the help of his Dark-of-Water,
he will march against the Urals
and snap the necks of the Asian warlords.

He has swallowed all knowledge
and never once passed gas or turdling,
so he has forgotten nothing.
His reign will be limitless; he is the sum
of all the enemies he has devoured.

Whomever he likes is good,
whomever he dislikes is loser, Kenyan.
Soon no one will be left unbowed.
The rest will be eaten.
Do-gooders and liberals are helpless before him.
His tower of gold and marble the highest,
himself on top, immortal, beloved
of gods and the blazing stars.

He is forever, and forever, the Donald.