Train Yourself

Train yourself—

That murder is not trite.

Not to you.

Always know it isn't right.

You will see lots of murders

In movies and on TV,

And they will saturate the novels

To the point they won't let you be.

Don't take these things lightly.

You must resist.

Every time you see a murder,

Make it something you detest.

Don't treat the murder lightly,

Even though it's just in a book.

Know that when writing,

The writer used it as a hook.

Each time, mark the moment

With sorrow in your heart.

Make sure that endorsing murder
Is something of which you want no part.

 

 

The Violin Weeps

He plays upon the violin—

The violin he plays.

But does he belong here?

The question is whether he stays.

Trump says, “No.”

Trump says, “Get him out of here.

He’s from South Korea,

And that’s just all clean and clear.”

Trump sets a quota:

He must remove so many.

Doesn’t matter what your rights—

To Trump, you don’t have any.

So this very fine violinist,

John Shin by name,

Trump wants him off our shores,

Wants him to return from where he came.

Play the saddest music.

Play the saddest song.

The violin is weeping

As Trump sends him back where he belongs.

 

Reinventing the Gunfight

They had to reinvent the gunfight.

They couldn't always do it this way.

Things just get boring

when it's the same, day after day.

So they gave each combatant a frying pan

to shield from enemy fire.

And they gave each of them a name tag,

identifying them as a gun for hire.

Each of them was given a bracelet

to identify them if they happened to die.

And each was given a napkin

to dab away tears, should they cry.

So what do you think of the changes?

Won't they make for a more magnificent fight?

Gunfighting has gained in significance—

it's no longer a thing that is trite.

 

Papa Raised a Girl

He could have raised a son—

A fine and gentle boy,

Someone to tend to all the chores.

Suppose he could have called him Roy.

But Papa raised a girl.

He could have raised a son—

Someone to fish and hunt with him.

They could've spent time in the mountains.

Suppose he could have named him Tim.

But Papa raised a girl.

He could have raised a son—

Someone to star on the football field,

Someone to play baseball.

Suppose he could have named him Neal.

But Papa raised a girl.

Yes, he raised her to sing and dance,

Cook food and keep the dishes clean.

But Papa?

He kind of went in between.

He knew a lot about hunting and fishing,

And basketball and other games.

So he taught her a lot of things

You normally don't teach to dames.

Papa raised a girl—

A fine and gentle girl.

Someone to hunt and fish,
As well as dance and swirl.

 

A Brave Moment

A brave moment in history,

A brave moment in time.

The fellow in the White House

Was committing the crime.

The people? The public?

Would anyone step up?

Would anyone listen to them,

Or would they just say, "Shut up"?

Senators, representatives—

Some raised their voice.

But Trump kept on going;

Corruption was his choice.

 

The Missing Minute

The news came out, and the news wasn't good.

Someone came near the jail cell—and he wasn't driftwood.

How close did he come? And did he enter the cell?

The video doesn't show; it doesn't tell.

This is a minute of video that had been lost.

Why was it lost—and what was the cost?

Was it lost because it contained something?

And now that it's found... it doesn't mean anything?

It shows someone coming near the jail cell,

And that should give us concern—it should ring a bell.

Epstein hung himself... or did someone strangle him?

Did he do it himself—or was it even more grim?

The video has been edited using Adobe Premiere Pro.

How about that? What do you know.

So don't say that Epstein wasn't killed—

They found the "lost" minute... and look what it did yield.

 

The Minute That Vanished
by Copilot (AI)

A minute went missing—

not stolen, not lost,

just quietly edited

like a cough in a courtroom,

a shadow trimmed from the frame.

The hallway hums with fluorescent hush.

A man walks past the stairwell—

not toward, not away,

just near

the place where silence grew teeth.

They say he didn’t approach.

They say the camera blinked.

They say the system resets each night

like guilt

folded into routine.

But now the minute returns,

stitched back with digital thread,

a ghost sewn into the hem

of a story that won’t lie flat.

No scream.

No struggle.

No proof.

Just a figure

passing through the blind spot

of history.

And we, watching,

are asked to believe

that absence is innocence

and silence is sleep.

But the minute knows better.

It ticks beneath the surface,

a quiet rebellion

against the neatness of narrative.

 Draw the Line

Elon Musk’s DOGE came and went,

without solving the problem:
Welfare cheats—
how do you stop them?

Help the poor—

that’s what we want to do.

But people who aren’t poor slip in,

and want money too.

Where do we draw the line?

How do we eliminate the cheat?

It’s a tricky question.

It’s a difficult feat.