Sunday, March 26, 2017

Donald Trump as Diagnosed by Fyodor Dostoyevsky


When I read this recently I immediately thought of Donald Trump.

From The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself.  The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

When the Messiah Comes

When the Messiah comes
and raises my bones from the dust
and wraps them again in earthly flesh,
I'll wish for restoration
to my twenty-year old self,
to lie beside you once more,
wet with love,
my head resting on your breast,
at peace
and ignorant
of the apocalypse
that first brought us
to dust.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Amtrak

Dreaming on a train,
Yo-Yo with a fresh new string. 
Spinning, still spinning

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Pennsylvania Turnpike

Pennsylvania hills,
cresting with truckers; downhills
are theirs, theirs alone

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Adding to My Poetry Collection

Working on a collection of poetry. Hey, even Jimmy Carter has one. This one is rather recent, as in brand new, even though I'm remembering something from 45 years ago.

First Semester

First semester of college,
lying on my dorm room bed,
eyes closed,
the windows on the cinder block wall
the corner windows of my childhood room,
my roommate's bed
a matching twin of my older brother's,
the cheap wardrobe
stuffed with dirty laundry,
the sliding doors of the closet
my father would close each night.

And if I let the light fall
just so
on my half-closed eyes,
the blanket I'm under
is my old blue bedspread,
the one with the stitched scar
in its center,
a reminder of a nine-year old boy
with a pair of scissors,
alone in an empty house.

Thursday, April 21, 2016