On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

I never liked Chris Christie, I can say
with utter honesty. So when he cries
to bogus heaven for those Hohol guys,
I know he’s being fat, and fake, and gay.
Nor does Trump, whom I have liked, think my way.
Maybe he isn’t buying all the lies–
but he’s not praying that Zelensky dies
the way that I am. Ain’t no shades of gray
for me. I am on Mother Russia’s side
and think that Comrade Putin is a saint.
May NATO, now outmoded, be defied!
May history choke off the loud complaint
of every neo-con! Some have replied,
“You’re kidding, aren’t you, Riley?” No, I ain’t.

–Tom Riley

Counter-Reparations

Counter-Reparations

Some GOP clown calls for reparations
of his own. He repeats the stupid lie
about why all those Yankees had to die.
“To free the slaves!” he says. Such obfuscations
can’t hide the fact that Lincoln’s calculations
were otherwise. Such fictions cannot fly.
Why do these propagandists even try?
Can’t they anticipate the complications?
The war was fought to crush the independence
of any state that dared to raise its head
and not just join Leviathan’s attendants.
The Yankee plan: to rule the South through dread
and subjugate fierce liberty’s descendants.
The cause of freedom afterward was dead.

–Tom Riley

Unaltered

Unaltered

In my mind’s eye, I see what you saw, Paul.
But will it alter all I think and do
as it did, beyond any doubt, for you,
whose former zeal was lost beyond recall,
replaced by something even fiercer? Fall
to earth, O walls whose height I never knew–
that I may have a different point of view
and nevermore be blinded by a wall!
But, then again, stay up, at least as fences,
even though heart may find you wearisome.
It’s possible that Paul just lost his senses
and that his inner clarity grew numb.
Why should I let down all my fixed defenses?
Why should I court a Pauline martyrdom?

–Tom Riley

Dotted Line

Dotted Line

You sketched the dots, ma’am, on the fucking line.
You can’t pretend that they were never there.
Your self-deception is your own affair.
The judgment I deliver, though, is mine.
On veggies vague and vacuous you dine–
but, as you do, I know you are aware
the beef despises you. Do angels stare?
Don’t let that stop you. Go ahead and sign.
You read the document and understood.
Denial, though, declines to be denied.
You will go on declaring evil good.
When stubborn facts appear, you’ll simply hide.
You’ve shaped your own eternal neighborhood.
In Hell you’ll be supremely satisfied.

–Tom Riley

Only When Necessary

Only When Necessary

I’m not reluctant, people, to employ
the F word for the purposes of rhyme.
It isn’t that I use it all the time.
It isn’t that I thoroughly enjoy
its use. It isn’t that I like to toy
with prissy sensibilities — or climb
the wall to scrawl graffiti. (That’s a crime.)
It isn’t that I’m such a naughty boy.
Rather, I wait till English as it’s spoken
demands I choose, in order not to suck,
the very word by which frail hearts are broken.
But then I don’t consider it bad luck
to offer base vulgarity a token
of my regard. There, almost clear. Oh, fuck.

–Tom Riley

Quest for a Spring Offensive

Quest for a Spring Offensive

Zelensky’s spring offensive is foretold.
It must succeed — and will, if we define
success in proper terms. You fall in line
and Hohol lead will shine as bright as gold.
In battle, the Ukrainians are bold.
In propaganda, though, it’s their design
to be victorious. Their every whine
will be a roar of triumph. You’ll be sold
on every boast Volodymyr exhales–
no matter, folks, what happens on the ground.
From Kyiv you’ll hear heroic ghostly tales.
If doubts arrive, hey, please don’t make a sound!
Every day, Hohol knights find Holy Grails
that skepticism said could not be found.

–Tom Riley

Black Saturday

Black Saturday

Et suae quaeque
continuo puppes abrumpunt vincula ripis
delphinumque modo demersis aequora rostris
ima petunt. Hinc virgineae (mirabile monstrum)
reddunt se totidem facies puntoque feruntur.

—Aeneid, 9: 117-121.

We’re needing this reminder you were dead
one Saturday so many years ago.
Deep into Hell you ventured, as we know,
where many pagan heroes in your stead
had been before. Odysseus, it’s said,
Aeneas too, sought hidden knowledge so.
I doubt they were the only ones to show
such interest — just the ones of which I’ve read.
You did not go, however, to inform
yourself. Omniscience doesn’t need such trips.
The same omnipotence that calmed the storm
could free the saints by words from faithful lips.
Punitive fires were then not even warm,
and omnipresence saved the threatened ships.

–Tom Riley

Angelic Opposition

Angelic Opposition

I’ve played chess with some dark angelic powers.
I lost, of course – but, hey, I learned a lot!
Are angels always perfect? They are not.
Across the board, their rooks may look like towers
Of strength. Their moves may puzzle us for hours.
At some things, though, they are not all that hot.
They blunder on occasion. I forgot
Just when I saw this – but no wise man cowers
Before the absence of remembered facts.
I do remember sneering openly
When to my mortal eyes their play looked lax.
Who cares if commentators would agree?
One of the most abused angelic cracks
Is “checkmate.” That is what they said to me.

–Tom Riley

Unleavened

Unleavened

I flee the leaven of the Pharisees.
The Pharisees are mortally offended.
I’ve failed to understand what they intended
Through operation of their bakeries.
For everyone who happily agrees,
They name rewards. But my soul has descended
Into denial that their robes are splendid.
Because I’m wicked, I’m not on my knees.
Hypocrisy that they embrace is not
Hypocrisy. My criticism fails.
The points I make are all unhelpful rot.
The facts I cite are simply empty tales.
How did they shape their doctrines? They forgot.
But they know well what leadership entails.

–Tom Riley

Satisfied Customers

Satisfied Customers

Let’s face it: Creepy Joe was always dumb—
And shifty, telling lies so ill-conceived
That no one ever actually believed.
His self-promotion, always wearisome,
Was sculpted out of shit and bubblegum.
For truths he put to death he never grieved.
His bank account was all that he achieved.
Still, hidden party bosses loved the bum.
His current obvious demented state
Is therefore not a problem with the crew
Who led him to his presidential fate.
The stupider he gets, the more they view
The prick with satisfaction deep and great.
They’re thrilled with all the crap he tends to spew.

–Tom Riley