I wrote this in KO’s workshop today, pretty much ignoring the prompt. Instead I wrote statements in response to 11 Tarot cards I’d drawn right before class. Cycling ’round and ’round until time ran out, not always staying with the exercise.

A cheerleader at heart, she makes sure all her guests have a drink.

His hand. Her hand. A panorama in between.

They steal and think we cannot see them.

The sun will set later today than yesterday.

What sanctuary can I offer and to whom?

He plants his feet. He plants his rod. All to avoid thinking about the future.

Tomorrow, ten years from now — equally calamitous.

Concerns, queries, brow furrowing brought to you by a milquetoast in Maine.

One of the Wise Ones says we can’t save everything but everything we do save is worth saving.

It reminds me, this chaos, of a savage game of pick up sticks.

Is it all about the dollar? Or is it the small dick power plays? Or maybe, the vengeance of bias, biases rutted so deep as to ruin their souls.

I hardly care anymore. Just make it stop.

A fish rots on the beach. The Good Angler who walked on water has left the scene. Fuck the multitudes.

Looking over the harbor and surveying his kingdom, the Shitty Landord is alone, the smell of his rotted flesh and soiled undercarriage making sure of that.

When the fires start, where will he run to?

“Be of good cheer,” the hostess chirps. And I kid you not, the bib of her white apron is adorned with ruffles.

Whom do you love? With what clutching fear? With what failed mercy or release? Hiding can be a shared pursuit.

“Appears to possibly exceed the bounds of the law.” Waste much ink? How about two words: IT’S ILLEGAL.

It’s illegal chant the crowds. Some wear scarves against the cold. The sun will set later today than yesterday. Does spring carry gladness anymore?

In the churches, dirt bags in red ties offer false humility, false witness, false surrender. Craven soldiers of the Crazy King, their claims to superiority of any kind, but especially of the spiritual kind, are laughable. But sssssssshhh! We don’t laugh in church.

“Can I plant a flag on Mars?” asked the flat-faced, google-eyed one. What flag you might wonder but never mind –YES. YES! Please go to the red planet as soon as you can!

The Fire Hose Method appears not to be working. Except that everyone I know suffers. We might fight through our exhaustion, our demoralization, with cranky knees and hips, with newfound intolerance to the cold, or not. I lack the will to place even a single phone call.

Ssssssssshhh. Don’t ask what else can they steal. Our dignity, our history, our fundamental societal structures, our futures. Isn’t that enough? No wonder Jesus turns his back in disgust.

Blasphemy, you charge? Here comes the trad wife with a tray of pigs-in-the-blanket, Pillsbury Crescent rolls for the wrap of course. I want to bump her arm and then snuffle up the appetizers from the floor, her delicate ankles in my peripheral vision. At some point, I’d look up, crumbs on my chin and shirt and ask, “Well, if you can make up shit about Our Savior, why can’t I?”

Here’s an idea for leaders of the Blue: STOP ASKING. I am not whispering here. Don’t you understand that we’re prepping our taxes and scrolling, scrolling past the endless donations to Senate and House races and PACs (all non-deductible of course)? The tally will not be made since seeing the total might make an artery to the brain collapse, leaving me drooling and in need of care 24/7. The purse will reopen — but not today.

She licks the buttery crumbs off her cheeks to her hostess’s dismay.

If you eat more fish and less beef, the planet might last longer. That’s all I’ll say about that except to add that being hit by an asteroid begins to look like a reasonable alternative to what’s coming.

I would like to see the Worst-Man-in History-Ever-to-Be-President stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial and begin his blathering self-congratulatory comparisons of himself to that great lawyer from Illinois and then watch the giant marble arms lift from the chair, reach out, and strangle the charlatan, the pathetic, incontinent, lying Orban-Wanna-Be. Leave the imposter limp and unconscious.

If only he was like Lincoln in that one way. Theater tickets, anyone? I’ve begun to think that Luigi missed his shot. The glassy-eyed South African or the Gaza-grabbing idiot would’ve made better targets.

People would celebrate in the streets then. Crowds like you’ve never seen!

Soften your edge, says the Buddhist. Accept your anger, then move through it. Not today, I’m afraid. Too many pigs-in-the-blanket still in the offing.

I just saw a psychologist opine that swearing has a way of making people feel better. No shit, Sherlock.