bad haiku for a mid-august day

melania trump,

that slovenian flower,

bloomed in the night like

a plastic rose.  in

the back of my garden, real

roses send out their

warm, genuine scents,

an olfactory backdrop

for the syllabi

i'm prepping for fall.

now that we know for sure that

the center never

holds, that truth never

does will out, that plastic lives

matter – uber and

alles --  what matters

more, the fine print on cheating

or how i cover

my ass when i catch

that plagiarist? god, i hate

the pedant i have

become, pedantic

creature writing metallic

scripture into these

syllabi, scripting

course legalities for mere

self-preservation,

serving up slices

of conduct code on platters

of base rectitude.

my eye twitches.  of

all the things i thought i would

someday teach, the cold

art of the deal was

never on my radar. in

this summer of lies

we have learned what lies

at the heart of discourse: one's

own beliefs.  it's tough

enough believing

in the need for evidence;

teaching that, now, seems

a lost cause.  and now

in my garden, i sit with

my laptop and write

what my students won't

read or heed or value, the

words my job requires

me to include, my

own voice muted to protect

my academic

assets.  my summer

is nearly spent, my spirit

barely renewed for

the unbearable

onslaught of ignorance dressed

in students' clothes, those

called "clients" in a

recent and chilling memo,

a lousy augur

on a mid-august

day. oh, man, i just want to

breathe, to savor the

summer's last breaths of

decency. everything's in

bloom: the bee balm and

tickseed, the black-eyed

susans and coneflower, some

daylilies, all the

herbs.  days like this, when

even the hummingbirds laze

in the record heat

(which in no way proves

climate change, because belief

trumps science and truth

is so elite), and

the squirrels straddle the arms

of the oaks, and the

dragonflies offer

distraction – skimming the bird

bath, rippling the

water, bathing in

the light, their wings creating

the perfect mantra

for summer's end – the

only thing i want to do

is be.  there is a

hole in the sky, a

rendering of things rendered.

the tangible is

mutable, the real

no longer concrete, and now

instead of the hope

of fall semester –

that anticipation that

has kept me going

for years – i keep a

watch on my retirement

account, grateful that

i can count myself

among those with such options

maybe … maybe … some

day.  some life.  classrooms

full of true believers, fact-

devoid and caring

not one bit.  the void

into which i pour myself

feels like a spiral.

the spiral arm of

the galaxy against the

blackness of space, the

perseids' flash, these

moments that science tells me

exist – real, by god,

or plagiarized by

fireflies? can evidence

save me, or will all

that unsavory

spinning sink the world, the scent

of the artifice

drowning the sweetness

of all that genuinely

blooms and seeding the

planet with plastic? 

Great Lakes Greta