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I miss some information while the news drones on today,
and lose a favorite TV chair, while commentators lie on air.
The coddled cats, now cozy in my spot, have no respect for playing fair. 
Their clawing paws pause in sync with reporters at play with words, 
then resume, like rhetorical retorts swatting truth away.

“The housing market's in a bubble,” they blurb on without a bobble,
or hint of irony. And with iron fisted tone demand attention to their
tomes, attacking what's left of right. A pin is needed to pop in, to bust 
their bubble with an outburst, an outrage against the dying of the light. 
But darkness already settles in as homeless huddle on the street.

Enjoy your yurt on a mountain top, camping with tin pot and tinder
from tenuous timber on a fire pit of stone, and thank fake news for 
declaring climate change a hoax. Sing with Mellencamp, “Come on baby,
make the yurt so good,” and dream melancholic dreams of better days.

In this post fact, post hoc fallacy filled world, where science must compete
with goat herder wisdom, the black belted Bible still punches out the Truth
in four inerrant yet irreconcilable Gospels, “The Good News.” But the news 
is not so good for slaves, or women, or LGBQT, or really any life 
on planet Earth from A to Z, as Heaven trumps our paradise,
despite the lack of evidence, and no planet B.

Oh the cacophony of cock-eyed calumnies! The columnist and internet
conspire, slipping the surly bonds of truth to touch the face of gob smacking
lies. Dismiss these purveyors of the putrid, who exchange fact for opinion
and peel back layers of untruth, until my eyes sting with tears.


July 23, 2021
Word Play Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Anderson

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