Is there a center line through humans all?
And might it break? And could that matter much?
Why must he say such icky things to unball —
to bend his passion outward? There’s a scrunch
through his center line that breaks in his gut.
It breaks where he’d be a man. Yet still why?
Why name her your little world? To share the cut?
Admit defeat? With her together cry
of some ancient evil you have absorbed?
A tree will grow around a nail, a fence or stone —
Grows on- and up-ward. But still it’s torn,
disfigured, demented even. Can moans
be nails or links of fence? He’s broken there
in his center line. We can’t fix the tear.
We’d find him some wife who could share
what he is; but when would be kind and fair?
She his little twirl; he her old bother.
She play fodder; grateful for what he taught her.
When would that be any good at all?
So we just say stand up as tall
as you may within your own seeming self:
See if you bend to bushy, beaming health
or not

Why God are we gathered here together?
Saint Bernadino of Siena
encouraged the faithful to hurt their brethren —
those witches, sodomites, and Jews: all enemies
to safety, prosperity, and home.
We learn from this that zeal is not enough,
that devotion and service alone
do not make holy what is rough
in human hearts, their hands and minds.
He did perhaps some good in his time
but evil too; and the world is lined
with blood by righteous speeches mined.

America shining on a hill
in its own lonesome poetry.
Republicans clap as Trump says what he will.
Elections stolen, all corrupt but he —
all the tricks of demagogues clear as day.
Democracy betrayed, we lose our way.
A nihilistic suicide:
Breaking all for the sake of wounded pride.
It’s one thing to kill yourself,
another to grab us all while you fall to hell.
What evil fills the chests that applaud
a man who would be King, worshipped as God?
Where are we now
How has this happened?
Do I misunderstand
chords snapped
clouds o’er my land
where I always was
safe and rich in time and things,
free to pursue life as I would sing
it out
best as I could
?

There’s a break in the centerline.
Pretending justice is perfect —
another cover for lies and crime.
Supposing you know the secret —
another smothering of the sublime.

There’s a break in the centerline.
We are evil who dwell upon the earth
But some things we seek and find
are better and some are worse.

There’s a break in the centerline.
Trump’s not Trump. We’re all piles
of impulses — some cruel, some kind.
Trump’s not real. We’re all miles
of notions — some true, others lying all the time.
America’s not America.
We’re all stories that feel themselves.
We’re all wounds trying to get well.

There’s a break in the centerline.
I know the sickness is yours and it is mine.

There’s a break in the centerline.
What can we do?
What’s any good?
How can wisdom grow
in us, our words, our deeds,
our organizations, systems, choices shared?

There’s a break in the centerline.
And I feel lonely, lost, and scared.

We ask you God to guide us together to the Love
that melts away all cruelty, all push and shove.
We ask you God to help us together soar
above the demons matted in the floor
dripping mingling in dusty old
carpeting. All that stuff that may hold
a soul captive, may break a boy
down his centerline
may wreck a heart and toy
with life. For we all should shine
like stars in the heaven
like fires in the sky
All rises with the leaven
Rejoices and does not lie.

Author: Bartleby Willard with Amble Whistletown
Editor: Amble Whistletown with Bartleby Willard
Copyright: Andrew Watson, with imaginary friends and other cheap comforts