I wandered through my personal “no man’s land” today,
I’ve been on a news boycott for the last few days and
Have not had any sense of what is happening in the world.
It’s been wonderful.
I could not avoid it today,
A man has got to eat and from the calm sunny deck where I sat
To the yummy concoction of meat, rice, and veggies in the kitchen
Was the blasting of the orange one on television.
So this is a problem with open concept living,
There are no rooms to get away from television.
Since I’m intermittent fasting tv in general and boycotting news,
Especially, FOX News, I was…well…it rhymes with ducked.
I literally caught a max of two-minutes of that propaganda drivel
And I was drooling like a cheetah waiting to pounce on an antelope.
Why does it have that effect on me?
I’m middle of the road. I don’t like either political party.
My plate went half filled, my focus became the trek back to the deck,
I made it with only one snide remark and a shaking of my head.
It’s only July, watch we get locked down again and forced to watch,
Watch what, this election, the ads, the debates, the ridiculousness.
Please, can’t we just vote now?
Everyone already has chosen sides, hunkered down,
We’ve suffered enough this year, the last three really,
So someone show some mercy on this country. We could use a break.
Took a break from the sand today,
The deck was just fine,
Sunny, breezy, not messy,
It was perfect.
Of course the world went on,
Bad weather, bad leaders finally wearing masks,
Bad people sporting guns,
Not so perfect.
Tomorrow, I’m back to the sand,
Waiting for the waves to crash around me,
Maybe even some intermittent fasting,
To let go of a little weight,
It’ll work, I know it will.
For I’m going to cut out some news,
All of the news, avoiding the manipulation,
Denying the negativity,
The heaviness of the bull shit that is conditioning us.
Don’t worry, I’ll have my mask, just no media.
Crayon fashion sense
News women dressed in blue
Reporting same sad stories
Drawing blood from my blank eyes
Photo Credit: unsplash.com via Pexels
Radioactive gasses grew in northern temperate zones,
Spewing dust over major towns.
Scientists said the data had not shown
A danger to people was falling down.
Still, worry could not be put to rest
With reporters spreading the story
Of how the Russians might be the best
At lobbing nukes for Communist glory.
As the tainted dust continued to fall,
Its effects were seen as a cost of being free,
One leaders and lemmings accepted without gaul.
Fear equates man with moral gruel,
Lacking anymore vision than a drunkard fool.
A voodoo murder in Cuba,
Sensationalism at its best
Giving way to its worst.
Evidently the mystical charms
Brought physical harm
To a young lad of six.
The details filled in by the report
Included a full palette of discussion
On the victim’s pale skin.
The details also focused
On the dark nature
Of the machete wielding blood seeker.
Reading the story
Stirred a bit of sickness
Where everything is broken to black and white.
The blood was red.
The fear this murderous ritual inspired was blinding.
The sadness for the whole affair was black or blue, whichever.
This story, salacious as it was,
Still gets written today
On media benefitting from race baiting.
Be it one culture downing others
Be it another clowning back,
I’m drowning in all this separation.
Ms. Palmer was motived,
By a pearl handled knife
That was found on her mantel
Long after the servants had been bound
By portiere cord
When crooks stole
Nearly one million dollars
In furs and jewels,
To get a husband.
She received a letter,
Written with an amorous proposition
By a war veteran
Who had enough money
For two people to live on
And described himself
As handsome and affectionate
While tested in battle,
Offering to marry her.
Ms. Palmer considered the proposal,
He sure looked good
Strong and stout
And had the experience
Of warding off enemies
Which would go well
For protecting her
Against criminals who might return,
“I accept,” she wrote back.
It’s getting to the point
Where watching or reading the news
Is an act of redundancy
Sure the names and places change,
But the stories are all the same,
Violence, scandal, pain, loss, economy…
Too bad the options for optimism
Are so limited,
Too bad positivity does not sell.
Reading the paper,
A mental minefield for sure.
Democrats and Republicans
Doing their “what’s best for you” dance,
Car companies doing Very Wrong
Things to the environment, and
Yogi Berra died.
The stories of his life being
The smile of the digital Times copy.
His life meaning more to me
Than Scott Walker or Hilary Clinton.
His way with words bringing a trust in him
That Volkswagen will ever have.
Good by politicos and auto making conglomerates.
Thank you, Yogi.