thinker, writer, editor, wry.

the solipsist & the sestina

In honour(?) of POTUS’ unscripted interview….

My Side

Here is the thing: there are facts you don’t know

you don’t know. I know. I’ll say what fake news

won’t: this event just happened, the way fire

—on a torch, on a cross—just happens.

Blood happens. Bullets happen. A body lies

too long on asphalt, on soil, maybe is left

behind when a car turns right, left

—look. That’s what you call sides. I know

people, good people, on both, and sick media lies

can’t bring down the moral plane the news

would have you think veers left. It just so happens

smoke rises only where there’s been a fire

and what I know is I would, I would personally fire

any so-called ‘reporter’ who somehow left

out the clubs clutched in thug hands. Look what happens

when these reporters—unlike me—don’t know

how to see the facts for what they are. News

flash: fantastic young women die, and truth lies

in Twitter—I think it was Twitter—look, truth lies

in the mother who through tears blameless as fire

messaged me to say that what I said was beautiful. The news

won’t tell you what’s positive: that she, the mother, left

me a message, she was so grateful. See? Now you know.

Questions? What? McCain? Fuck him. He changed his mind. It happens

in the old, sometimes. Anyway, Walmart’s on my side. What happens

when I bring in business is I fix the inner cities because I create jobs left

and right and races relate best when all of them know

their place: to let white men with permits chant slurs, set fire

to lives they know don’t matter. Don’t they? Whatever. Liberal lies

smear good people and that’s why there’s no news

coverage of the good I do, no mention on the evening news

that men gathered to protect a statue, to show what happens

when political correctness tries to tear truth down. What’s left

if we let them—wait. Lee lost the war? Sick. Sad. His lies

have no place in our great nation. Excuse me. Maybe I’ll fire

some nukes at North Korea, clear my head. You know

what happens in golf? Bad lies,

and winners grab what’s left. Tell the news

that I brought it. I brought it. I am on fire.

 

Jude Ellison is a poet, a nonbinary queer and an immigrant whose writing explores collisions: the urban and the wild, the monolith and the marginal, the self and the story. Past publishing credits include Hayden’s Ferry Review, Tarpaulin Sky and MAYDAY. Jude lives in Melbourne with two partners, one son and three cats.