What makes deception so difficult to digest is not the parade of smiley
face jellybeans that insist on poking themselves directly in front of the
anchorperson’s lens like ads for auto insurance or blood pressure meds, but that innate intelligence lodged in the gut that automatically rejects political
sludge with its noxious fumes of false information. The gut cries “Enough!” It will not ingest fraudulent debt.
Detritus clogs the drains. Recycled and regurgitated in verbal attacks,
glaringly self-evident before Eyelashes or Kool Aid hogs the stage to monetize the lie… meanwhile, “statistical analysis” stalks the shadows of irrevocable threats. Spray gun poised, target set… Show me the truth. The way. The something.
You clip your nails, trim your cuticles and search the cupboards for an
excuse to go out but the stores are boarded up and the streets have lost their maps.
According to the latest and most reliable amputation, the political candidate who is the most unlikely choice is due for a
haircut at seven where he is supposed to announce unlimited visitations for those who are faking it or out of limbs for the doctors have assembled in the Far Eastern Counting Room next to Lawn Mowers and Lingerie. Drug dogs are prohibited.
The current head of corruption has just agitated an unreliable source into announcing that after the first cut and a reliable body scanner, no invitations will be issued to anyone with a reptilian bloodline unless they can show a validated sperm or vital mark. “V” for “Vampire.” Protesters will be shuttled to the broom closet behind the vault.
“WHAT is considered reliable?” squawks Tessie, removing her
Snails and Diamondbacks are the menu du jour and dinner is served in the left chicken wing overlooking the right brain
where a silent butler passes out, then stamps each guest for non-functional parking. Meanwhile The Playmates have arrived with their fishnets and spurs. Tuxedoed and prepped, Mr. He steps up to the plate and calmly waits for clanking
spoons to cheer him to oblivion.
Yet it goes on because it must. In God we--
©Carol Adler, 2012
My maple tree was just a sprout
like me I when I first dug it up and
transplanted it next to the garage.
Growing taller and faster than I ever
could, with childish awe I watched
it thrive on wintry thrashings that
stripped it to the bone,
watched it bruised and bleeding rise up
again and yet again…
It seemed to have all the right
answers for meltdowns,
bullying, ear-splitting storms. And then
in the spring, hunkered down in
childish awe, amazed I watched it stretch its limbs and
as if nothing had happened
joyously reach out to the sun.
I was too young at five to know that my
maple tree, unlike me, was not
invincible after all, and unlike me, would never
survive. Thank God when they tore down
the garage and the pavers came
I was already gone.
Somewhere in Maple Tree Heaven
it lifts his leaves and waves at
me: “How ya doin’?”
“Fine,” I grin. “Just fine. See you soon!”
©Carol Adler, 2012
DECEMBER 5, 2010
After nine months
of sucking on small-talk and
nine months, stuck between
anger and revenge
it was time to strike out
time to assert myself
before it was too late.
I needed a
strategy for a
If only I could free myself
and swim back to the
I kicked, I squirmed,
I struggled to release
myself from her mental
but as soon as I
crowned, the winged guards
posing as Seraphim whipped out
the Professors of Ancient Languages
demanded my ID
Cerberus bellowed, security
came running and just as
I was about to confirm my
just as I was about to let out a
I found myself falling
headfirst into a
a bloody abyss
the photographer adjusted her
focused for the
the doctor squatted and
positioned his mitt
seventy-two years later
I can still taste the salty tears
from that moment of lust
still smell the unholy ethers of
©Carol Adler, 2010
|Letters of Creation - Works by Carol Adler||