"Family Politics," "Domesticated," and "My Dog's Name Is Not America"
Family Politics
When my Dad
tells me my Uncle
is skipping the family reunion
so he can travel
to a Trump Rally in Pennsylvania
I think about my Mom
uploading official records
into an internet database
to prove we descended from John Adams
and it feels like we have been avoiding
our family obligations.
Not like we should have gone
to more summer BBQ’s
but like we left
work unfinished
somewhere along the line.
Now that our courts
give more protection
to praying on field
after high school
football games
than they give
to choice
in women’s
health decisions
and Congress cares more about
getting likes from Q-Anon conspiracy theorists
than they care about
protecting school children
from mass shooters
the signanficance of July 4th
coming and going
while we watch
The January 6th Hearings
pulls through my intestines
like I’m crammed shoulder to shoulder
in the back of a Ford Escape
with John Adams and every other
man I’ve been related to
on a roadtrip to nowhere
poorly attempting
to hold in a fart
laced with the odor
of personal responsibility.
I’m reminded of when Trump
told the Proud Boys
to stand back and stand by
and the role the choices
my ancestors made
played in getting us
here in the first place
then I try to picture
what it would be like
to live in a world
where doves
and wolves
bathe each other
in truth.
When my wife
ran for City Council
the question she was asked most was
who is going to watch the kids?!
Domesticated
Putting Domestic
before Terrorist
makes them sound like
The Budweiser
of Mass Shooters
like even if they’re wrong
at least they’re trying.
I wish the newspapers
meant domestic
like clean under the fridge
at least that would be
useful.
Why not say
domesticated
like take the Proud Boys
to the dog park
like we taught them how?
Or does
domesticated
sound
too much like
radicalized
too much like
pledging
allegiance?
My Dog’s Name Is Not America
My dog’s name
is not
America
but he did
climb on a table
he couldn’t get
down from.
Now he knows
everything smells the same
since the engine started
spreading the scraps in a way
it looks like he’ll come away clean
till a good wind hits
and suddenly I’m wearing
a shiny green suit at a funeral
I don’t think I’m dead
but this isn’t living.
Jeff Taylor lives with his wife and kids in Massachusetts where he is a union worker when he isn’t writing poems. Jeff has performed at universities, theaters, festivals, bars, coffee houses, and sidewalks across the east coast and is a member of the 2023 Lizard Lounge Slam Team. You can find his work in recent issues of The Bloodshed Review, BOMBFIRE, Oddball Magazine, Cajun Mutt, The Alien Buddha Get’s A Real Job vol.2, American Graveyard (Read or Green Books), and The New Generation Beats 2023 Anthology (National Beat Poetry Foundation). Jeff recommends donating to PEN America.
