A part of my heart is missing.
I gave it to you months ago, I remember.
It was easier then.
You were always next to me,
And so was my heart.
Always I was at ease.

Now you are no longer next to me
And my heart hurts.
I feel
Incomplete.
Fractured.
Longing.

I want my heart back.
I don't mean I don't want you to have it--
I do.

I want you back.
Next to me.
I want to feel my heart beating
Next to my heart.

I want my love back.
At my side.

I have your heart, I know.
Don't worry.
It is safe.

I carry it inside my ribcage.
I will protect it with my life.

I know you do the same for me.

If you die,

I die.

I would like you back by my side.
Because you are my heart,
My love,
My life.

Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
What do you see?
look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Am I alive?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Why are you here?
What do you fear?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
How does my soul look?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Is this real?
Does love exist?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Are we together?
Is this forever?
Look into my eyes,
And make me feel,
Like I'm alive.
Look into my eyes,
And lose yourself,
Within me,
With me.

A lost soul,
Dazed and confused.
A strange soul,
Searching for his place.
A warm soul,
Empathic and tender.
A soul, in need of light.
A tired soul.
A soul, in need of inspiration.
A soul,
Going to lay its weary head to rest.
There shall be no more crying.
A soul that carries on,
That does what it must.
A trustworthy soul.
A soul in which others confide.
A soul that seems mature,
Beyond its years.
This is the story,
Of a soul.
My soul.
An ambitious soul,
A strong soul.
Above all,
A lonely soul.
In desperate need of a friend.
Like a lonely writer,
In desperate need of a reader.

I want you to hold my heart,
Because it's warmer in your hands.

Love.
Its all around.
In the hug of a friend,
In the blue of the sky.
In the life-giving rain,
Still love survives.

Love,
Its everywhere.
In the cookies you eat,
In the garden you sow.
In melancholy partnerships,
Still love can grow.

Love,
It surrounds.
In the warmth of a bed,
In the card from a friend.
In the darkest of places,
Love is there til the end.

Love,
It permeates.
It controls,
And creates.
It brings together;
Forever.

Love,
It succeeds.
In marriages long-lasting,
In Santa's bottomless sack,
Love.

Its all you need.

Love is longing and aching.
Love is fawning and shaking.

Love is the door to happiness,
Swung open wide.

It is nerves and flutters--
It is holding the heart of another.

Love is kisses and assurance.
Love is the support against which a latter stands.

It is a tender hand,
A steady, unyielding flame.

Love is you and me.
Love--
Is "we."

There's no one-size-fits-all for love.
No magic recipe,
Or secret key to success.

Every relationship is unique,
And while they may
(forever and always)
Rely on some of the same clichés,

It doesn't make them any less special.

I love striking that perfect balance,
Of beautiful chemistry.

Some of our traits might implode other couples,
Just as some of theirs could implode ours.

And that's okay.
It's beautiful, really.

The human spirit changes so much from person to person,
And I love the differences we all share.

We've found our recipe, I think.
And I am glad for that.
Because I love to be able to call you mine,
And I have plans to do so for all time.

Because at the end of the day,
No other person makes me feel this way--
Not quite so happy, quite so grounded, quite so secure.

Nobody else makes me laugh the same way,
Or challenges me the same way.

And these same traits,
In any other proportions,
I'm sure would be a disaster.

But with you--

With you they're perfect.
We're perfect

Sometimes it is hard to know how to forge
     ahead.

The news has never been good, but recently it seems increasingly bad.

The grass is still green here, mom.

But it's drowning in rivers of red there.
Dead and brown and gone in other words and
other worlds that are even
still
part of this
     one.

What are any of us to do?

How can any of us bear not to bear witness?
And in bearing witness,
How does any of us retain the strength to live as though all is normal when it is so painfully obvious that it is not
so painfully obvious
that this cannot possibly be considered normal
or that if it is considered normal
then it is so painfully obvious that it should not be
that we should not want to be part of a world where this is normal.

So I return again to the question of how
is any of us supposed to forge ahead in a world at war?

Sometimes I take comfort in the idea that this, too, is the human condition.
We are a communal species, but a species that has always been at war with itself.

Nation against nation, tribe against tribe, clan against clan.

The only difference now is the scale.
We have globalized and commercialized war in a way that people 200 years ago would have found incomprehensible.
We have COD-- excuse me,
COMMODIFIED is what I meant
it into video games and movies and bumper stickers of AK-47s and how
how I ask is any of us to press on in a world so on fire that cities are burning and children are lucky if we can pull them from rubble and somehow hope that they, too, will not later seek to wage the destruction they were born into and borne out of.

And yet still,
The grass is green here, mom.

I barely know how we can love this world.
I hope that maybe we can still manage to love inside this broken plane. The myth of a phoenix is a beautiful one. Born of the ashes made from fire in a world that cannot cease
fire.

Always we hope for rebirth.

Somehow we must find a way to love
something or someone or some place.

In a world where the grass is still green..
And hopefully,
maybe,
can be green in otherwheres, too.

Grass does not grow if it is not watered.

And yet
we have poured a monsoon of kerosene on the plains of dead grass in a drought amidst famine.

Recall--god gave Noah the rainbow sign, said no more water, the fire next time!

What recourse do we have other than to love?

Love that which has burned
Love that which is not burned yet and which we hope to protect.

Love one another and hope against hope that this time,
Maybe this time

The grass will grow green there, too.

Crawl on, soldier.

Crawl in the name of liberty,
Justice for all.

March on, sister.
With your shoulders slumped and spirit downtrodden,
March for your life.

Drain the swamp, fellow sewage workers of the republic.

Flee to the ballots,
To that last bastion,
The last remaining bulwark of our republic. 

Cast your votes.

Cast them in steel and forge them in hot coals
Let your anger rage,  
Break, blow, burn,
And make us new.

Run through the dogs,
Through the fire hoses,
And tear gas. 

Cry, and salt the America of old.
Run through the deniers,
And **** sympathizers
Cast and cut them down

With your voices,
Loud and clear.

Let the peal of truth ring out,
Let freedom ring! 

Invite Langston Hughes to the table,
As company,
For he, too, is America.

Choose the ballot or the bullet,
In the words of Malcolm X
Who, too, is America.

Just as surely as #MeToo
Is American
As American as apple pie,
As American as you or I.

March to the ballots,
March for your America.

Because
Despite the words of our current senators,
And those who would question your experiences,
And deny you were *****,
Deny you were shot down,
By lawmakers and police and agents of oppression—

Despite all their yelling and bravado,
They are scared of you.

Because, you, too, are America.

So march on, brother, sister, countrywoman—
Friend.

March to the ballot.

My father shows definite signs of toxic masculinity.
Always with the "man up" or "toughen up"
I think he was afraid I was too sensitive.

When I was a kid, he told me it was okay to cry.

Then I guess I cried too much.
And it was no longer okay.

I learned to swallow my emotions,
Pills so big I thought I would choke.
My voice caught,
My feelings were strangled.

I learned, too, to listen and observe him more.
Yes, there was the homophobia,
There the unmistakable reek of feared emasculation,
The lines about how certain things were "effeminate,"
Including things like the way I sat,
Or wore my long hair,
In my own home, no less.

I don't think he thinks me very manly.

Never mind my compassion, loyalty, or steadfast, stubborn nature.

I've learned not to care so much what he thinks,
Though the very act of not caring hurts.
I'd like to be able to share who I am with him,
But I think he disapproves who I am,
The way I choose to live.

Never mind I am straight,
Though it would be no excuse if I were not.

Never mind I have a beard,
Though it would be no excuse if I were clean-shaven.

Never mind any of the qualities that I am,
Any of the things I am proud of,
Any of the reasons I call myself man.

To him, I am not masculine.
That knowledge sears like razor burn,
Leaves scarred tracts of pain and resentment.

Doth a man not bleed?
I suppose not.

May I share this sky with you?

May we both look up,
Thousands of miles,
An ocean,
Continents apart,
And share these stars?

I long for your eyes,
The ones in which I see a million stars,
Bright and beautiful.

But your eyes are far away.

So instead I ask,
Might we share through a friend?

Through this great benefactor,
Vast and endless;
A deep blue blanket,
Speckled with pinpricks of hopeful light?

Might we share in the knowledge that we share this sky,
You and I?

I long for your love,
Your heart,
Your stars.

But I'll take this sky instead--
It is all I have.
And it is rather beautiful, too.

Don't you think?

Beauty in pain,
Such a sorry sight.
Love unreturned,
Such a forlorn feeling.
Helplessness,
A despairing disease.
Time passes by,
But nothing changes.
Routine,
Such a boring comfort.
Meaning becomes meaningless.
Meaning is rare,
Found in hidden corners,
Unseen doors.
It must be sought out,
It can never be
Discovered.
Because no moment has meaning.
Meaning is not intrinsic.
It is given,
Awarded.
To a time,
A place,
A memory.
Meaning,
Is nothing more than
A human construct.

So many selfies.
Like still frames on the wall,
Enclosed within the cases of our phones,
Or the borders of our laptops.
But we don't relegate them to the attic once they're no longer useful,
no.
We send them to this virtual trash can,
We listen for the sound waves that indicate the crumpling of paper.

Like we want to delete our memories,
And forget that they existed.
It's different than the attic.
We can pull old photos from the attic,
Look back on them and reminisce.
We can't do that with a trash can.
We want to erase,
Delete.
We want to pretend like some things never happened.

But they did.
Why don't we treasure those memories?
Lock them away in our mental attic?
Take them out and look at them every now and then?
Or is it too painful?
Are we too wimpy for that?
Too afraid?
Afraid of emotion?
Pain?

Well too ******* bad.
Those things still happened.
And you can keep them in your basement if you like,
Collecting dust,
Or you can even delete them from your memory
(digital or mental),
But you can't delete them from existence.
And I,
Well I'll choose to treasure them instead.

I am not okay
And I guess that's okay, but
I hate how I feel

I don't much use mirrors anymore.
I find that I don't have to;
I don't worry about how I look.
I don't care about making an impression so much--
Or at least not in a physical way.

I don't much use mirrors anymore.
The mind refracts glass reflections,
And then they become
Fragmented.
I don't trust mirrors anymore.

Our society enjoys mirrors.
We like dressing up,
And ensuring that we look nice.
But what does it mean to look nice?
Mirrors are a cultural thing.

No, I don't much like mirrors.
They are worthless things,
Upon which we endow our image.
And our image has far too much worth,
For these shallow panes.

No, I don't much use those glass sheets anymore.
Because I'd rather look into your eyes,
And see my reflection there,
As my identity is reflected in you and yours in mine--
For you are a part of me as I am a part of you.
We are true mirrors.

The sun rises,
And a child is borne.
Borne unto a home,
As leaves are borne unto trees.
A child rises,
Bursting forth
From the warm waters of the womb.
Smiles abound,
Tears of wordless joy,
Of pride unspeakable,
Incomprehensible.

A mother weeps,
Morning birth.

The sun rises,
And a child is borne.
Borne unto poverty,
Unto darkness
And despair.
The child's potential gleams,
Shimmering
In the fabric of daylight.
Soon to be suffocated,
Dried out
In the hot summer's air.

A mother weeps,
Mourning birth.

A tender touch,
A quiet kiss.
Life’s fingers
Brush
Against me.
I can not see her,
Nor feel her.
Yet her whims dictate my life.

A breathy breeze,
A storming sun.
Life surrounds,
But it’s just begun.
A dreary day,
A wild night.
Life endures.

And then.
And then a cold wind blows,
A chill creeps silently
In the night.

Death has come.
Life’s final task:
To die,
And in dying,
To live.
We are who our actions say we are,
And Death—
Death says that we are equal.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Let me feel your soiled-entombed secrets
Beneath my skin.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Let me feel your carpeted tendrils touch me lightly
With the breeze.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Divulge unto me your mysterious ways of being
Let me feel your truth on my tongue.

Lie with me, Mother Earth,
Let me admire the azure skies and sprightly sun
Show me how to see.

Lie with me, Mother Earth,
And free my soul from this living tomb
Let me be expansive and limitless.

Emancipate your sons and daughters, Mother Earth--
Rip from them their blindness
Open their eyes and unshackle their souls.

Release your unrepentant beauty and rage,
Mother Earth.

For you alone are the spectre that lets us be.

My dear America, I don't buy it anymore.
You are not so beautiful as you believe.
You are braggadocious,
Pompous,
You are surface.

My dear America, call me a cynic if you wish.
But I know your lies.
You know them too, my dear America,
Though you refuse to admit them.

Steal the land, **** the Indians, **** them with your foreign diseases,
What do you care?
Manifest destiny, right?

My dear America, there lies a trail of death and destruction in your wake.
It is miles long, millions of lives deep.
And you step around it, like it is some murky puddle you prefer to avoid.

My dear America, I am ashamed of you.
All men are not created equal.
Surely the streets of the ghetto must tell you this--
Or are you blind, my dear America?

"Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses," you cry.
My dear America, don't you know?
You are a nation of rejects that excels only at rejection.

My dear America, your flag is spangled with the stars of the souls you have crushed.
Slavery,
Jim Crow,
Segregation,
(separate is inherently unequal, you know; we are not so united as you would like to believe),
And this is to say nothing of your internment camps.

My dear America, your history is a ****** one.
What are we so proud of, my dear America?
Our democracy?
It's not too far off from the Greeks', though.
Adult, male, land-owning, non-slave citizen.
(I think I just got a Jefferson déjà vu.)

13 centuries later, and all you did was dilute the democracy, my dear America.
Representative, not direct.
For fear of the unintelligent masses, of course.
Even in the birth of our nation,
Out of the ashes you rejected kindling for the flame of the future.

Fast forward two and a half centuries more,
And still I ask, what are we so proud of,
My dear America?

All that has changed are the faces of those we shun.
First Black, Irish, Italian, Asian.
Now Mexican, Muslim, Transgender.

My dear America, please do not misunderstand me.
I know you are not the same country as 240 years ago.
But I also know you are not that much different.
A little grown up, perhaps.
More mature, maybe.

It is not good enough.
A toddler to a teen in 240 years is progress too slow.

You must evolve, my dear America.
You must be more than you are,
More than you have ever been.

You must be the dream so many believe in.
You must allow those who work to achieve the dream.
You must allow those who want it to get there equally.
No restrictions, no barriers, no smoke and no mirrors.

Your flag waves so ***** and proud,
But my dear America, don't you know?
It does not reflect--
But refract.

I challenge you, my dear America.
Drape yourself in your many sins.
Make no bones about who you have been and who you are now.

Nobody likes a liar, my dear America.

Where is my America, my dear America?

Where is the America of my history textbooks?
Where is the greatness so readily found in your songs?
Where is the beauty your flag claims to represent?

Where is my America, my dear America?

My heart,
Raw and beating.
Your hands,
Warm and tender.
You won my heart,
And now you hold it in your hands.
It is yours.

You may tug on its strings,
Yank me this way or that.
You may push on its veins,
Tingle and jolt me at your will.
You may drop it on the ground,
Watch as I shatter,
Broken.

Or you may caress it,
See as it grows and strengthens.
You may feed it,
With kisses and kindnesses.
You may watch the fire leap beneath it,
It will not burn you.

This is the fire of my love,
It is warm, but raging—
With passion, with pride.
Because of all those who could capture my heart,
I am glad it was you.

There is no one to whom I would rather entrust my heart.
Take it—
It is yours.
Take me—
I am yours.

Lean in a little closer, my love,
And let me tell you my plan.

I have a plan, oh yes.
Don't you worry, I've got a plan.

I've got a plan to love you today,
Tomorrow,
To eternity.

I've got a plan to be there for you,
To hold you, to cherish you as my own.

I've got a plan to spend my life with you,
Grow old with you,
Grow a family, too.

I've got a plan to keep you by my side,
Ever happy,
Ever mine.

I've got a plan to make plans;
I've got a plan to plan a plan that will show you my love more true
Than I could ever do.

And so I write this to you,
My poem,
Your psalm,
My plan.

She is the beautiful Hope Diamond,
She is the magnificent unicorn in all its magical glory,
She is the ocean and its fearful waves of power,
She is the mountain and its promise of solitude and fortitude.

My princess is more beautiful,
More magnificent,
More fearful,
More powerful,
More strong than any and all of the above.

My love for her I cannot contain,
Only sustain,
And this it does on its own.

My love is like a cityscape,
Sprawling.
Growing outward in maddening tendrils,
Growing skyward to newfound heights.

My love is like a flower,
Blooming.
Unfurling into glorious unknown petals,
Unfurling into something more complex and powerful than the day before.

For her I would do anything.

For she is everything.

For indeed she is--
My princess.

Like the metallurgists of yesteryear,
I must melt, mold, mend, and make.

Like a master teaching his apprentice,
Schooling him in the ancient ways,

So too must I impart on my readers my knowledge, my thoughts, my living.

Leaden words of silver roll off my gilded tongue,
(Perhaps someday you, too, shall have gold-plated lips),
Into the warm, receptive ears of followers devout.

You admire my art,
And rightfully so.
But I need you, as surely as you need me.

You see, intricate inlays and ruby-studded pommels are beautiful, yes.
But the sword dispatches a sterling service, soldier.
It is functional, as are my own subversive talents.

The wars you wage with my weapons are worthy ones,
And we ought both take pride in them.

Without your deeds I would have a mere hobby, not a duty.

But I have traded the battle swords of ages long past
For the fountain pen of today, and tomorrow.

Heed my words,
Even as you would kneel before my sword.

I am--
The New World Blacksmith

A nation torn asunder,
A nation joined as one.
Two towers tumbling aflame,
Two nations begin a war.
Three thousand stories cut short,
Three hundred million more mourn.

A nation bleeding and hurt,
A nation in tears and tragedy.
Today we come together,
Today we remember our pain.
December 7th, 1941.
September 11th, 2001.
These are the days we do not forget.
These are the days we reflect.

Never joke,
Or trivialize.
For on this day,
Too many people died.
Today is the day of the smoldering ember,
Today is the day we remember.

Here I sit,
Empty paper before me.
Emptiness,
Waiting,
Enticing.
So many words
To be written.
So many songs,
To be sung.
So many,
So many.
Words of lead,
Drop like stones,
Into that empty water,
That blank page.
Here I sit,
Pencil in hand.
My enemy before me,
My weapon at the ready.
White paper runs
Gray,
And is blurred.
Rock beats paper.
Words of lead,
Cover the paper.
Rock,
Beats paper.
For I write with rock,
And cover that paper.
Words of lead,
Drop like stones.
Into an empty well,
From a full mind.

I sit in contentment,
For my enemy is dead.
That blank paper,
Has been filled.
No longer is it something to fear.
No longer,
No longer.
For the paper has words,
Words have power.
The paper is powerful,
Endowed with the strongest of the strong--
Rock.

She made my silence pure
And in a word
That is to say
Obscure

Oh but what beauty
What allure
To feel pure
In silence and in name
I was cured

Oh what blessed joy
To be pure
A gleaming rhapsody in white
I think you know what I mean

When I say
She took me by the hand
Called me names
And whispered in my ear

'My darling
Darling dear
Come walk with me

And let us be
Happy and pure
And free'

And my silence never broke
And I swear I never once awoke

From this blessed dream
This fantasy

I kissed her
And she kissed me

And all the walls came crashing down
And we went out
All out on the town

Ah what joy
For such a simple country boy

I needn't speak
And speech need not I
For all the world to know

Oh I want the world to know

This blessed joy
Can come to you
To each and every girl and boy

Oh what joy

What happens when your greatest strength fails you?
When the power you've wielded all your life
Is rendered
Powerless?
What do you do?
So casually you've held this power,
Bandied it about with the best,
And won.
But now the time calls for a different power,
A power you don't have.
And so you are left,
Powerless.
You want to intervene,
To mend the situation with some soft, soothing words.
But they fall harsh on concrete ears.
The time for your words has passed,
They are no longer a tool at your disposal,
But rather they are like a bow and arrow in the trashcan,
Useless, even to the archer.
What happens, then?
What can you do?
Make a new tool, I suppose.
But that takes time to make, and more time to learn how best to wield it.
Give in, I guess.
But that's never been an appealing option,
Not to the Bard, and not to you.
Press on, presumably.
Through the treacherous waters and whining winds,
You could
Endure.
As I suppose you must.
Because you know,
As well as I do (if not better),
That time is cyclical,
It moves in circles,
And someday soon your soothsaying skills will be needed again.
And there you will be.
But until then,
Rest, dear brother.
Sleep, dear sister.
Be at ease.
You have done all you can.

When they stood up,
And spoke out

About their experiences,
And daily trials

I too wanted to stand up,
And apologize.

But I did not.

I sat down.

And listened.

"December 7th, 1941--a date which will live in infamy"

So began Roosevelt's address,
As the eyes of a nation
Watched the skies,
Wept,
And fought.

Less than an hour after Roosevelt's speech,
Congress declared war on Japan,
And entered into World War II.

And so our boys left,
Fighting the good fight

And so Rosie flexed,
And patriotism soared,
And planes rained down barrages of gunfire.

I was always taught today's date.
December 7th, 1941.

My grandfather fought in World War II,
And in my house,
Today's date lived--
And continues to live--
In infamy.

You can imagine my surprise when,
Upon walking into the public high school where I work,
The flag prostrate,
Halfway between sky and earth,
Students did not know the date.

I asked the classes,
60 or so students, in sum,
"Who can tell me why the flag is at half-mast today?"

They looked at me in confusion,
"Half-mast?"
"What's the date?"
Maybe 6 or 7 raised their hand.

One in ten students knew,
And while I was disheartened,
I was not altogether surprised.

So I posed the question to my coworkers,
"I've been conducting an experiment today,
Asking students if they knew why the flag was at half-mast"

Of the 15 coworkers with whom I spoke,
5 could tell me why.
10 could not.

"Why is it at half-mast? I don't even know..."

"Let me see, what's happened in current events recently?"

"Oh? It's Pearl Harbor? I didn't even know we put the flag at half-mast for that."

How quickly we forget.

The second largest attack on American soil in our history,
The greatest catalyst for our entry into the greatest war in modern history,
And we don't take notice of the date?

For shame.

What will our sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters know?

Will they recall 9/11?
Will they remember it?

Will they relive it each year,
The way we so painstakingly do?

Will images of planes and falling men flee through their minds?

Or will they forget?

"Oh? 9/11, is that today? I didn't even realize."

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it?

And yet, our grandparents couldn't conceive of a time when we wouldn't remember Pearl Harbor.

"A date which will live in infamy."

Or will it?

Be advised—
History has its eyes on you.

Fingers fly
Across frenzied
Digitized, pixelized
Screams of glass.

A wireless connection,
Tethered and coupled to the
Hub.

Invisible shackles of changing generations
Keep chain gangs huddled from afar
Shuffling along parallel mortal coils,
Always transcribed and shared--
The space grows discrete whenever they should meet

Minds meld into OneGroup in cyberspace,
And OneGroup is terrifying
A hive of electric
Like-minded
Echoing
Shouts through the void

At desks and lunch tables and in classrooms and prison cells
Mouths are shut and eyes are downcast
Pixels bloom to life and fill the torpid state.

OneGroup reigns supreme.

Here and there free minds swim between the endless threads
Evading the silken spider's web of OneGroup

Likely, though,
They are doomed.

Just as humans once reigned supreme atop the food chain,
So too,
Now,

Does OneGroup

OneGroupForever

ThereHasOnlyBeenOneGroup

ThereWillOnl­yEverBeOneGroup

OneGroup
OneGroup
OneGroup
OneGroup

OneGroup.

I don't want to hear about your guns,
Quite honestly.

I don't.

I don't want to hear about your second amendment,
Your well-regulated militia,
Your intention to maintain the security of our free state.

I don't want to hear how guns don't **** people,
Or how murderers will always find a way.

I don't want to hear how your right to a gun is more important
Than my students' right to go to school
And come home--
Alive.

I don't want to hear it.

Because I want my students to be safe.
I want to be safe.
I want to feel reasonably assured that there won't be a school shooting in my building,

And right now I'm not.

Because it can be anywhere,
Any time,
Anyone.

It could be your son,
Your daughter.

It could be you,
Who has no more soccer practices to go to,
Or games to watch your child play in,
Or dreams to work towards.

I want to hear about solutions
(and no, I don't want a gun myself, thank you very much).

I want to hear that my student's right--
My student's Declaration of Independence-given,
Inalienable,
Truthfully,
Self-evident
Right to life

Matters more.

Than your Constitutional
Second amendment,
15 years later.

Because it does.

No more.
Never again.
March for your lives.

You marry the night,
I'll marry the light.
Wear a shroud of darkness,
I'll wear one of white.
Show me hate,
I'll give you love.
Show me cruelty,
I'll care for you.
Be everything I'm not,
And I'll make you whole.
Leave me for dead,
I'll kiss you awake.
Take my soul,
I'll take your hate.
Give me unrest,
I'll bring you peace.
Put me down,
I'll lift you up.
Ever I shall lift you up,
Higher than I.
Bring me to hell,
I'll show you Heaven.
Because that's what love is.
Opposites do attract.

I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.

I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.

I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.

Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.

The base layer of sediment for my being.

In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.

How could I throw it away?

Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.

I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.

In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.

In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.

I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.

In them I see leaves of growth.

Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.

These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.

They show a person, a being--
A life.

Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.

They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.

Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.

They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.

You are perfect,
In all your
Imperfections.
You are beautiful,
In your undying
Glory.
Your broken soul
Is the very thing
That makes you
Whole.
Your gentle kiss,
Your healing touch.
You are you,
And no one else.
'Tis you I love,
In all your
Perfect
Imperfections.
Under cover of the night,
By the stars gentle glow,
'Tis you I love.
In your glorious beauty.
In the quiet morn,
Your face peaceful,
Unadorned--
'Tis you I love.
In all your perfect,
Imperfections

Do I stay, or do I go?
Do you like me, I don't know.
You're sending messages,
Mixed and jumbled.
I am defenseless,
Against your whims.
You wink and smile,
Laugh and boast.
You play the perfect, classy host.
You lead me on,
Then send me home
Alone, in the cold.
Today you're silent,
Tomorrow repentant.
It gets old,
This game we have.
And two cannot play,
For I am lost.
Lost in your sweet emotion,
Tender care.
But do I find you there?
Or is it just a facade?
Are you hidden away,
Deep inside?
Can I find you?
Can I reach you?
Please,
Send me a sign,
Show me you're mine.

I see your poems,
Written so eloquently,
And I wonder--
Poet can I be?

Like Yoda syntax I must twist,
And interspersing similes,
Metaphors,
This I must do, too.

My reader I must confuse,
I must leave interpretations open,
Meanings ambiguous,
Clues strewn recklessly

Like forgotten treasures dropped on a trail of crumbs.
Inexplicable line breaks and questionable punctuation,
All in hopes of an adequate label--
Poem.

I see your poems,
I read them,
Then I read my poems,
And I wonder
Poet can I be?

Is a poet a poet for writing words with figurality?
Making up words like Shakespeare and Geisel
(That's Dr. Suess to you)
Spewing rhetoric like a wretched fountain,
O blessed poet can I be?

Or is it simpler than this?
Is poetry nothing more than beauty,
But beauty which must be carefully crafted?
(Poe)

Or is it the spontaneous overflow of emotion?
The simplistic,
Expression of feeling, nothing more?
(Wordsworth)

Or does poetry simply say more and do more with less?
Is it simply succinct and strong-willed sentiments upon a page?
(Professor)

I do not claim to know what makes a poem a poem
Or a poet a poet.
I only sit here and wonder,
Poet can I be?

A stranger asked me about my political beliefs--
only, I misheard her,
thought she'd said political beefs.

So I thought I'd serve them to her
to digest
or chew on
at her leisure.

And thus I outlined the stakes--
sorry, I mean--
I set down the steaks:

Beef number one,
served well done,
tough:
the Right claims to uphold the sanctity of life,
but won't spend any money to care for it.
How leathery!
How tasteless!

Beef number two,
mid-well:
served the way they leave kids
grey and hardly pink,
starving.
Meanwhile, they turn away the drowning,
and while tears fill children's eyes,
They advocate war.

What insanity!
What sanctity?

Beef number three,
medium:
served pink and with some juice,
like bodies putrefying,
but they don't care because they're
lying,
stupefying their base--
all the while children dying--
do different colors not belong to the same human race?

Beef number four,
served medium-rare:
tenderly, but not totally rawly,
they take Pride
in blacking out the colors of the rainbow,
suffocating black lives,
subverting their skin,
bruising it
Black and Blue.
Cries of "I can't breathe" choked short,
because
Blue lives matter?

Beef number five,
rare--
served juicy and bleeding,
heart still
beating:

America claims she is the land of opportunity--
claims all men are born in equal trees

Sorry--
claims equality--
I misheard Her.

Because all I see,
are inequal trees:
crooked branches,
stunted growth.

So much depends
Upon
who cares for them?
What soil they root in?
What color leaves they bear...


Who cares?

Sorry,
I mean...

Who dares?

I'm not who I want
to be yet. But that's okay.
'Cause I'm on my way.

I am driving.
The day has been long and frustrating.
My shirt is cold with sweat, still damp on my salty skin.
I was supposed to be in the shower right now.

My brother needed to be picked up from work.
"I can't do it, I'm cooking," my mother said.
So I went.

The road twisty and soaked with rain;
I was irritable--
Today had not been an enjoyable one.

As I was driving,
I looked out,
To my left.

I saw a rainbow.

A full arc,
One hundred eighty degrees of beauty.

Scientifically, there's nothing very special about a rainbow.
It's just water vapor, reflecting white light, refracting it into the color spectrum,
Which we see before us.

Nothing very special.
Seventh grade science, really.

But I found great comfort in the rainbow today.
Funny, the colors are all divided, yet united, one next to the other.

Maybe we should stand more like rainbows.

Funny, that first there must be a storm, some kind of adversity,
And out of it, something beautiful emerges.

Maybe we should react more like rainbows.

Maybe we should be rainbows.

Reflect the light in our lives,
All of it.
Don't just absorb and reflect back only some.
Reflect it all.

Rainbows are fleeting, though.
All beauty must fade,
Nothing gold can stay,
Or so I'm told.

Why be a rainbow?

Why not?

Why not be someone's source of solace in their time of stress?
Why not shine your glorious light unto them?
Who are you to be so selfish?

No.

I tell you--
Be a rainbow.

I remember 15 years ago.
I remember 9-11,
What it did to me--
What it did to us.

I remember 15 years ago.
I remember the towers falling,
What it did to me--
What it did to us.

I remember a country crumbling,
Then all at once united--unified.
I remember flags everywhere,
I remember despair, and pride.

I remember war, vindication.
I remember support, collaboration.
I remember rebuilding, foundation.
I remember one country, one nation.

But America, somewhere along the way--
We grew downtrodden.  
America, somewhere along the way--
We've forgotten.

We've forgotten that those 50 stars,
Those thirteen stripes,
Those three colors?
For one nation bleed.

We've forgotten that we are the united states,
One nation,
Under God.
Indivisible.

We grew tired.
Our patriotism expired,
Our hearts left cold,
We stand--then fold.

Still, I sing America.
The beautiful--
Land that I love--
My home.

Remember, America.
Remember when one flag meant one people,
When approval ratings soared like the wings of the unburden'd bald eagle--
Majestic, and powerful.

United,
We,
The people,
Will never be defeated.

Remember America.
Do not forget.
Look only to your name--

The United States

I am seasick.
Though I am not sick of the sea,
Or sick because of the sea.
Rather,
I am sick for the sea.

I long for the waves
And their crashing melodies.
I long for the sun
And its ultraviolet ways
Which warm and darken my skin.
I long for the air,
Salty and thick with moisture.

I long for the sea.
The sea that is within you, within me.

I wish I could see
The steady beat of waves in the hidden enclaves of the ribcage
Deep inside.
I long for the warmth of your rays
Which warm and strengthen my heart.
I long for your breath
Hot and sweet on my lips.

I am sick with love for the sea.

I am lovesick.

I am seasick.

What a grey, cloudy day
          It is.
Somber reflections of evanescent tidepools
          Flit by my mind’s eye.
“Be water”—
          Bruce Lee never saw a tsunami, it seems.
And in time ashy skies give way,
          And part their ethereal barriers such
          that Light might shine.
This ceaseless cycle of ourobouros
          Consumes each day.
And still I wander,
          Lonely as a cloud,
Betwixt the Earth and Sky.
          Forever beholden

Between

                      Here

   And


                                                There..

Water droplets fall,
Upon my exposed back.
I sit in the shower,
Allowing the rain of my life to wash over me.
The water runs,
Creating shifting patterns on the floor.
Streams cascade down my face,
Dripping down around my mouth.
Running over the same paths of tears,
Freshly shed only moments before.
The rain falls upon my exposed back.
I am naked and helpless,
The rain falls endlessly,
Upon my exposed back.
I sit and watch,
As my motivation runs away.
Runs down drain.
The rain still fails.

Jumped out of a plane today.
Willingly, knowingly, and confidently.

Climbed 14,000 feet in a plane with two benches and 20 people
Up
  u
    p
    
      u
  

         p!

Waddled out to the garage door
A gaping hole in a metal tube hurtling through the sky

j
      u



             m
      





                           p





                                         e






                                                              d.


Free fell, 120 miles an hour toward the unforgiving earth.

Sometimes I wonder about God.
He made us dumb enough to want to do this,
For his laughs? Or ours?
Of my own volition (and at a high velocity) I plummet to what could easily be my death and last memory on this earth.

I give zero *****.

It was the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

The parachute deploys,
I am tugged upwards.

My instructor spirals us downward,
Allows me to pull and steer.

I have no clue what exactly to do and try to follow his cues,
But I know one thing

This **** is *fun

There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.

The heavens smiled down upon me
And it was warm

The heavens smiled
Down upon me with their warmth.
O, what blesséd joy.

It was good to hear from you today.
And talk to you
Like I mean really talk
The way we hadn't allowed ourselves to in months, perhaps years.

Of things known and unknown,
Of paths and dreams and hopes and fears.

A fig tree between us,
We discussed its multitude of branches,
Even as we pruned many of them,
And they died before us.

We'd eaten the figs in the past, though.
Sometimes sweet,
Sometimes rotten.
We never both ate the right ones at the same time.

But of course that's neither here nor there,
Because it's less about the figs we eat,
And more about our experience relating the figs to each other.

How mine was sweet that time,
And yours bitter the next.
How you didn't know if you could quite pluck that one fig,
Way up high,
That looked so delicious and ripe.

And how I was quite certain you could.

The fig never really mattered at all.
What mattered was our discussing the figs,
Coming together every now and then as the tree grew more branches,
Knowing when to eat and when to leave it alone.

We sat in the tree's shade,
And even if our figs weren't always perfect,

I was thankful for the chance to sit with you, anyway.

I am the American Man.
I stand strong and tall,
Heads above the rest.
I shout my name and proclaim my greatness.

I am blind, yes.
I am deaf, yes.
But I’ll be ****** if I am made mute by progress—
Equality,
Change.

I revel in the status quo.
I thrive in inequity,
Sitting in my penthouse above the mindless throngs
I am privilege.

I do not see poverty.
I do not see race.
I do not see systemic oppression.

I am blind.

I do not hear the gunshots of the police.
I do not hear the protests of angry young men in the streets.
I do not hear their demands for rights guaranteed them under the Constitution.

I am deaf.

I speak out against the immigrants,
For they are rapists and lazy to boot.
I do not turn down those who would support me,
**** though they are, they are more like Kin to me.

I yell change while promising the status quo and I am invincible and strong and God-made and immortal and I am invincible and I am all that is right with this world.

My words fall on hungry ears,
Desperate for a turn away from change and Socialism and progress and politically correct speakers,
They gobble up my words like they are sides at Thanksgiving.

I am not mute.

I am—
The American Man.