Stormy Countenances

This post-storm palette;

so outrageously orange,

salmon, scarlet, and sanguine…


Oddly, the same hues

that fly across his visage

when Hurricane Donald blows.

* I try not to finish the mondos I start with my poetic partner at but tonight I just could not help playing with the theme… sorry, mom!


Neither Poetry Nor Prosaic

In the course of my professional day, I spend many hours talking with, and more importantly, listening to people describe strongly held beliefs that are not rooted in any objective reality. Frequently, these people feel that they are superior to others, like myself, and therefore can not be understood by someone who is not equally superior. I hear people describe feelings of persecution that are not supported by observable facts. Sometimes they describe vast networks of conspirators who are struggling heroically to do them harm. I often find myself wracking my brain trying to follow a lengthy string of words looking for some thread of logic that holds together an incoherent collection of free flowing ideas; desperately looking for that one unifying idea that binds together an otherwise unrelated whirlwind of mental flotsam. I often feel profound sorrow when I reach the conclusion that no such thread or idea exists. Such is the nature of my day as a mental health clinician. Tonight I read the transcript of an interview what held many of these same characteristics.

To say that I am concerned would be an understatement of unimaginable proportions. May God have mercy on us all.