Poem: Fake News

Fake News

Barbara spreads a rumor that my parents are getting divorced.

She is fifty, and sad, and has a lot of skin tags.

She clucks to the women in church that

She hasn’t seen them sitting together, pressed in the pew,

with smiles on their faces like advertisements.

I get the feeling sometimes that everything that is true is false

and vice versa. And vice versa.

Where real? How truth?

My mother finally knocked on Barbara’s door one day,

and nobody came.

But there was a fire going and

a steaming cup of coffee on the table.

Where God! Does truth live in cups of coffee,

in the breath-evidence of fogged glass? Or in the folds of our hands?

Why do we look, and against whom do we trespass?

Creative Nonfiction

RIP Journalism

The immortal yet the dying. The truth yet the grossly and improbably fabricated. It dies and is posthumously replaced by its own dust; an ancient and pale art is held at the throat and dismantled within an inch of its life. Journalism, the media, the source of public information, which has henceforth survived McCarthyism, muckraking allegations, et al., now shakes down to its very foundation from the voice of the internet: online inflation of information, empty words inside of the shell of real journalism like a gutted crab. Opinion and fact have been crossbred beyond separation. It has never been the job of the public to sort through real and false information until now. It is modern day, and the people take one of three paths: they either eagerly ingest information exactly as it is presented to them because they agree with it; doubt or disregard every piece of news; or stop consuming news altogether.