There's a special kind of love
In the shared communion of common experience--
In the joy of knowing that this person, too
Gets it.

"It" being the unholy,
The divine,
The understanding of the fleeting moment.

There's a special kind of love
in sending that article you thought they'd find interesting,
or that song lyric you heard in the subway that reminded you of them.

There's love in the familiar
In the vestigial memories that haunt us
On the outskirts of our daily lives.

You were here, too.
You breathe this air, too.
You know me, too.

In Zulu, one greets another with
"Sawubona."
"I see you."

And the response--
"Ngikhona."
"I am here."

Recognition ignites existence.
I see you.
You are here.

I pledge a grievance
To the flag
Of the Divided States of America
And to the Republics
For which it stands
Two nations
Under (no) God
Divisible with restraints and injustices for all

My legs are cramped.
There is little room to stretch,
And my knees are pressed against the seat in front of me.

We are on a bus,
Hurling ourselves to the gleaming lights of New York City,
The same lights our great-grandfathers saw in their dreams.

They came with high hopes,
In search of opportunity,
In awe of the land called—
America.

Lady Liberty towered over them,
A shining beacon of freedom,
A clean leaf in the war-torn pages of their books.

We come in intrigue,
To point at screens and stores,
To shop, and buy experiences we’re told are worthwhile.

They came with tears in their eyes,
They came and sweat and worked and tired their bodies,
And not once did they complain.

The greatest generation built this country,
And now we consume it.

We buy everything,
Produce nothing.

We gobble up resources,
Turn up our noses at hard work,
All the while shouting “Progress!” at the top of our lungs.

We are:
Disillusioned,
Ungrateful.
Illogical.

We are the dis- and un- and il- ‘s of our great-grandfathers’ world.

And we despise ourselves for it.

We are the traveling generation.
We throw ourselves at other places,
Other cities,
Other countries.

We know our sin.
And try as we might,
We cannot escape it.

And here I sit,
Cramped.
On a bus to New York.

I.

The pen,
The mighty sword.
The ink,
The blood runs black.
The pen,
That which changes the world.

II.

Mein Kampf,
The Communist Manifesto.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which tears apart.

III.

The Bible,
The Torah.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which brings together.

IV.

Common Sense,
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which starts revolutions,
That which changes the world.

V.

But wherein does the music lie?
In the strings themselves,
Or in the hand that plucks them?

Wherein, indeed,
Do the words reside—
In the pen itself,
Or in the hand that wields it?

There we were,
Two lost teens,
Drowning in all we didn’t know
And all we felt.

It only makes sense we made the playlist we made,
Finding meaning in lyrics that told of experiences we’d had and not yet had.
Things we longed for and felt deeply about.

I was lost in my head, philosopher and hopeless romantic,
Seeking to learn how to be a
Simple Man.

And there was Skynyrd, words and guitar licks washing over me,
As I was told not to worry,
I’d find myself.

And there you were,
Sad and depressed,
Crying out for your
Hallelujah.

You knew love was no victory march,
Wainwright’s piano and voice giving clout to your every thought and feeling.

We each needed to Imagine,
Lennon assuring us that really,
It’s easy if you try.

So we sat,
Listening to the Sound of Silence,
Knowing we were the people talking without speaking.
Even as Simon and Garfunkel’s harmonies warned us,
Told us that the words of the prophets are written on the tenement walls.

And so we pressed on,
Hunting out that elusive American Pie,
Craving McLean’s country,
Lost a long long time ago.

We knew every vocal lilt and musical cue,
Singing the same old songs we knew.

And so we searched for happiness in the fields with the Wildflower,
Petty crooning and reminding us that we belong somewhere we feel free.

But inevitably, sadness would return, and we’d cry out— Wish You Were Here.

And though we were never a couple, Pink Floyd still made us feel like
Two lost souls,
Swimming in a fish bowl.

And we asked so many questions,
Questions whose answers we knew we’d never know,
Whose answers,
As always,
Were left Blowing in the Wind.

Dylan understood us.
We understood him,
As he spoke-sang and wept for humanity,
So too did we.

And desperately we tried,
Desperately—
To Turn the Page.

Seger’s sad, screaming sax sticking with us,
His cognitive dissonance striking a chord with us,
Here I go, playing star again,
There I go...

And you, knowing exactly what it’s like
Behind Blue Eyes,
Empathizing with Townshend and Daltrey,
Feeling like the bad man, the sad man.

And finally,
At long last we took comfort in the idea that someday
We’d climb that Stairway to Heaven,
Aching for the piper to lead us to reason,
For the new day to dawn,
For us,
Standing long.

And here we are now,
Years and miles having passed between us.
But still this playlist connects us,
Even as it did then.

I have watched wars waged and won,
Waged and lost.
I have died 100 deaths,
And lived 1000 lives.
I have loved and romanced,
I have fallen and cried.

Each life I live,
I live again,
And again.

Within the confines of these paperback worlds,
I have lived more truly,
More passionately.
Free of constraints and norms to censor my actions.

These hardcover entities have taught me--
Lessons more true and earnest than any parent could deliver.

I have ridden dragons, killed Voldemort, cast the evil ring into Mordor, been through Dante's Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, watched Milton's birth of the world, and seen Shakespeare deliver us thousands of new words.

O, what brave new worlds therein lie!

And all in a day's work.

All those things a man does in life,
And those a woman does, too;
I have done also.

I have done them ten thousand times over,
And done them with infinitely more passion.

I am he who lives most without leaving the house,
She for whom hours are spent, lives exhausted.

I am--
The reader.

Ah, how perilous!
How tenuous is the hair which holds the Sword of Damocles!

How terrible it must be to lie in the seat of power,
To be cradled in her ***** of lust, ambition, and greed--
To turn endlessly over one's shoulder,
To have one eye forwards, and one eye back,
Never at ease.

When the throne becomes a death knell
A holding cell
A hotbed of restlessness,

Look up! Look up!

See the mighty sword above your head,
How it sways to and fro,
And on the hair of a mare rests your soul, your sole lifeline's thread!

You find yourself in the pit
With the pendulum swaying to and fro,
To and fro,
Closer and closer,
Closer and closer.

How terribly loathsome your position has become--
What painful prostration must you now display in self-effacing humility,
An abomination to your pride and claim of invincibility.

Ah, but what respite!

To live no longer in the shadow of fear
With the threat of death removed from above thine head
Like the unshackled chain of a man excused from the gallows

You are free!
Liberated!

But do not forget,
For the torment of power is a great responsibility,
And you'd be wise to remember that the favor of your king can change at a moment's notice--
He is a paranoid man, after all.

Behold!

The Sword of Damocles!

This is not a poem, but...

At least 10 people were killed as a result of a school shooting in Texas this morning. It's a tragedy, but one of the sort that seems to diminish in scope with each passing month. Ten people lost their lives in a fury of unimaginable pain and anguish, yet we seem to grow more immune by the hour. it's a mournful event over which we should weep, but it seems our hearts grow frosty and we hardly bat an eye. Because here's the thing--it's hardly news anymore. We are hardly surprised, hardly hurt, hardly affected. And this is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

4 victims were killed in a Tennessee Waffle House--surely now that I mention it, you recall the headlines. That was less than a month ago. The Parkland, Florida school shooting that left 17 dead was less than 2.5 months ago. The Sutherland Springs church shooting that left 26 dead was 6.5 months ago. The Las Vegas Massacre, which saw 58 people killed and over 800 injured, happened not even 8 months ago. The Pulse nightclub shooting that left 49 dead is not even 2 years old. The Charleston Church shooting, killing 9 and perpetrated by white supremacist Dylann Roof, isn't even 3 years old. The Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting that killed 12 was almost 6 years ago, and the Sandy Hook shooting, leaving 27 dead--20 of whom were elementary schoolers--happened only months later.  The Virginia Tech shooting that killed 32 was 11 years ago. Columbine, where 15 people died, will be 19 years old this coming Sunday.

We remember all the headlines, but little of the aftermath. There's too much pain and trauma involved to fully recall the mournful scenes that follow each shooting. And so we are forced to attempt to move on with our lives, thereby washing our hands of the stain of these ****** massacres. We call for reforms, then forget when our politicians move on.

Indeed, our greatest and most fearsome coping mechanism, put simply, has been to forget. We forget the anguish, the empty, hollow, now-caustic thoughts and prayers, the toothless promises of reform. We forget, and move on. On to the street, on to the next, safe in the knowledge that we tried.

...

It seems to me that the greatest and most lamentable tragedy of this entire conversation may not be the crime itself, but rather our reaction to it.

And so it was, then, that when I read this morning's headline about the Texas shooting, I was hardly surprised. My greatest shock was that I was not shocked. And that I was not shocked, and that you weren't either, I'll wager, might be a crime greater than all the others.

After all, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, no?

Until next time, then...

Colors turn,
Leaves fall.
For everything there is a time.
Autumn is a time for change,
A time for being human,
A time to reflect
(On warm summer nights),
And a time to anticipate
(Fiery winter days).

We are human.
Ever-changing,
Ever-moving,
Endlessly.
We are autumnal beings.
Yellow with happiness,
Orange with warmth,
And red with anger.
Red with love.
Red with hatred.
We are as cool
As the crisp breeze,
And as warm
As the colors around us.

To everything there is a season,
For everything there is a time.
A time to lie complacent,
And a time for change.

Autumn is the time for change.

Hold close to your friends, your family, your loved ones.
If you've got nothing else,
You've got love,

If you've everything else, but not this,
Then you've got naught.

For love is sustenance for the soul--
And the soul needs nourishing more than the body, after all.

What is life, if not for love?

Thank you for your love.
I love you.

Is there anything more beautiful
Than the tree in fall--
With whom I am enamored, enthralled, even--
Clinging with ev'ry sap of fiber in her being
To iridescent color and majesty?

Like the ageless beauty at the party
In her ballroom gown
As all stare in awe and wonder
Before the night comes down
          And the leaves drop
          And then she, too, falls--

          Naked.

Subway lights fly by on the metal bar ahead of me,
Which demarcates this world from that.
The lights--
Sprightly specters of hope.

The bar is transient--
The sprites exist within it, but never outside of it.
I am enclosed in a tunnel--
The sprites dance about;
My only proof of a world
Outside this train car.

Perhaps.

So noisy
Yet quiet.
There is sound everywhere,
But we are all alone.

Some would rather stand
Than sit next to a stranger.

Most of us choose our phones over interaction.
Scary.
Like the tunnel.

Don't make eye contact.
Stare straight ahead.
If someone sits next to you,
Say nothing.
Make sure your coats don't overlap.
Such a large humanity gap.

Don't make eye contact,
If you do, look away.
If again,
A nod,
To show you're no ******.
Never allow a third time.

A mindless cacophony roars about me.
While I sit in silence.
Watching the lights of this godforsaken
Tunnel.

Silence.
Intimidation.
Fear.
Isolation.

The tunnel is all we know.

Black and White.
Dark and Light.
We are forever dividing ourselves.

I divide.
You divide.
He, she, we,
Divide.

Divide between privilege and underprivilege.
Divide between have and have-not.
Divide between
Black
White
Latino
Asian
Indian
And many other things beside.

We know that color is a spectrum of light,
But when it comes to race,
We don’t see it like a spectrum,
But rather as a hierarchy.
A hierarchy from black to white.
Lines clearly separating them and all the colors in between.

It is a hierarchical scale.
Each color weighs a certain amount,
And the lines are clearly drawn.

You are or you aren’t.
You are not both.
And white weighs more heavily on the scale.
More privilege.
More money.
More power.

And we weigh each other,
Never realizing that, aside from our different wrapping papers,
Beneath each skin lies the same gift.
Lies the same spectrum of emotion.

Different though we may be,
We are one species under God.

And yes,
We have different stories,
Different backgrounds,
Different cultures,
Different wrapping papers.

These are indeed differences to be acknowledged.
We are not identical.
But much like America,
Why do we not stand as United Races,
One people under God?

Why do we not respect our different cultures and stories,
And use them to learn and better each other?
As America plays the strengths of each state into one cohesive country?

Let us become equal,
Together,
United.

I guess I feel
Unsure.
Like I don't remember

how to write;

How      to    breathe.

Unsure of myself,
and what comes              next

?

Good does not discriminate.
Be careful who you choose to hate

I draw you closer,
The better to feel your warmth.
Radiating,
Emanating.
You lie against me,
Resting silently.
I look and notice--
I notice so many things.
The way your hair frames your face,
The way your scent lingers around you,
How you didn't take your makeup off,
Even though you remembered to take out your contacts.
I notice smaller things, too.
I notice all the distinct curves--
From your forehead,
Down past your eyebrows--
I notice the arch of your eyelids,
Contrasted with those dark lashes.
I notice your nose,
Slightly upturned,
And how your upper lip
Juts out further than your bottom one,
Giving you a slightly elfin look.
I notice everything,
For so rarely am I afforded this opportunity.
To notice,
And not be noticed.
I draw you nearer,
My arm draped around you.
For security,
For protection,
From the loneliness inside my heart.

It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.

I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.

I think in Solitude
I become more confused.

I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,

Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,

Reader.

This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.

Still I know I'll submit

To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.

This is my only wish.

Hands pawing,
Clawing.
Hearts beating,
Speeding,
Repeating.
Tongues groping,
Knees weak,
Legs sweating,
Hips thrusting,
Hearts lusting
For release!
Every sigh and moan and groan,
Every exhalation in ancient anticipation,
Of that spirited satisfaction,
That explosive reaction,
That ephemeral *******,
That unreal undulation
Of bodies eternally enamored.

(But this is not us.
This is not our day to day interaction,
It is not our one granted action.
It is not our love,
For that is greater by far
Than these simple vessels we call
Bodies.)

But it is a part of us.
That carnal desire,
That passionate fire
That burns our nerves
And leaves us raw,
Naked,
Exposed,
Vulnerable.
Because this, too,
Is love.

(But of what use is such thought,
As I lay here with you?)

****.
Mass shootings.
I sit here, and I am disappointed in America.

From birth,
We are raised like young bald eagles,
Screeching our greatness,
Shouting our name.

"One nation, under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all"

For 12 years we say it every day.

Liberty and justice for all.
Indivisible.

Where is the liberty of feeling safe in one's sexuality?
Where is the justice for Brock Turner's victim?

Indivisible?

We are indivisible?

Tell that to members of the Left and Right this election cycle.
"Indivisible--meaning without the ability to be divided."

We cannot be divided?

Tell that to Muslims, Christians everywhere.
Tell it to those who are gay and those who are homophobic.
Scream it from the mountain tops,

"INDIVISIBLE, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!"

Listen to the words--
Do they sound ironic yet?
Do they drip with subtle notes of subterfuge and deception?
Do you think it might all be a lie we are told from birth?
Meant to propagate nationalism and patriotism?

Are we still the greatest country?

I'm not so sure anymore.

If we are indivisible, why do we tear one another apart with such ease?
Why is there so much resentment, so much brokenness?
Is that what it means to be indivisible?

I like to believe it's not,
But I'm not so sure anymore.

America, the brave?
The beautiful?
What is so brave about ****** an unconscious woman behind a dumpster?
What is so beautiful about wounding or killing 103 people in a nightclub?

Justice for all?

Where is the justice in 6 months of prison for 3 felony counts of ****** assault?

Are we as great as we say we are?

Wake up, America.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
Where pine needles lie underfoot.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And seek the softer ground.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And tread lightly the worn path.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And listen to the earth.
Hear the branches snap,
The birds chirp,
And your own breath--
Loud.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And learn the secrets of the earth;
Hear her tell life's vibrant tales,
In vivid shades of life.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And quiet thine mind.
"Loud thoughts need not always be thought,"
Whisper the willows.
Listen well (my child).

Walk beneath the trees my child,
Below their lofty boughs.
Seek the shaded shelter deep and sound,
Find the peace within.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And become one with the earth.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And learn your inner worth.

As I walk,
Brown husks crunch beneath my busied mind.
I see subtle irony in the carnage that change leaves behind,
Even as I smile in awe at the vibrant treasure trove of colors before me.

A smattering of hues flatters my sight
I turn slowly--
Needing only to reach up
And pluck that upon which I choose to alight.

We admire the foliage as it turns,
Until its belly is fully exposed and we are left disgusted.

When I go, I too shall leave behind a withered,
Hollow skin.

Where is our humanity?
Where is our compassion?
For which homeless brother on the street do we sympathize?

Instead we avert our eyes.
Tilt our heads downward,
Shuffle our feet a little quicker.

Then we wrap ourselves in cocoons of sameness.
Facebook friends who think like us.
Who fear like us.
Who feel like us.

We fear the other,
Think ourselves better,
More refined,
More intelligent.
Right.

All the while forgetting we are cut of the same cloth,
Made by the same God.
Created perfect in His image.

We forget ourselves.
Our DNA--99.5 percent alike.
Genetically, we are a mere .5 percent different.

.005 difference.

But we could not be more apart.
Our worlds,
So immeasurably at odds,
And nary a bridge to mend the divide.

Us against them.

Where is our humanity?
When did we lose it?
Down which rabbit hole did it fall?

Why do we not cry for the downtrodden, the oppressed?

Why do we not cry for those who oppress?
For their loss?

Why do we not help them?

Why do we, instead--
Hate them
Disdain them
Disrespect them
Disregard them

?

Where is our humanity?

I suffer from a self-inflicted affliction,
Indeed, the guilt of my benefaction
By the decree of my skin tone at birth,
At the expense of the bodies and souls of my darker brothers and sisters,
Gnaws at the rough edges of my soul.

I feel shame when I consider
The ease with which I move through the circles of society,
While others pause at every edge,
Eye their surroundings,
Look for exit points,
Gauge their safety.

And I double down on my guilt,
Knowing that it is more coping mechanism
Than it is agent of change.
“As bad as things are,
At least I feel bad that they’re bad,”
I reason.

As if that makes things better.

As if that’s oxygen in the black man’s lungs.

As if it helps him breathe.

Still, I do what I can.

I confront racism where I see it,
Voice my opposition to the systemic injustices from which I benefit.

I have made enemies,
Perhaps even of myself,
A price I’d gladly pay
Ten thousand times over, for 400 years and more.

Because it’s not about me.

Not any more.

It’s not about me.

Why the senseless hurt?
The senseless pain?
Why the fear?
The hatred?
Why?

I reflect on my whole life--
Turbulent.
Skinned knees.
Broken hearts.
Pubescent adolescence.
Self-identity.

Turbulent.
I wonder if that's what those passengers felt?
Right before they flew into the World Trade Center?
Was it bumpy?
Like an emergency landing on a beach of scrap metal and office chairs?
Was it turbulent?

Nine-eleven.
Iraq.
Afghanistan.
Osama Bin Laden.
ISIS.

Turbulent.

Why God?
Why?

The Great World War.
Retroactively named World War One.
Because we needed a World War Two.
Pearl Harbor.
Korea.
Vietnam.
Cuba.
Gulf.
Kuwait.
Turbulent.

War.
War.­
War.

Why must we always endure these turbulent and troubling times?

Why must it be so?
Why do we do this to each other?
What motive is so great that we are driven to **** one another?
And in so doing,
**** ourselves?

Is not our humanity greater than this?
What of life?
What of love?

Why, God?
Why do you allow this?
Why must it always continue?

All I ask is that this turbulent world might know peace.
Might know love,
Redemption.
Wholeness.

Because why not?

I have wanted pain in reaction,
I have wanted thought-provoking words.
I have wanted to brand my words,
To wield them
As a knight wields a sword,
As an archer a bow and arrow.
I have wanted to speak,
And cut deep
Into the desolate heart.
I have wanted to write,
And reduce my enemies
To blabbering,
Blundering
Buffoons.
At last,
I have done this.
I have brandished
And bandied about
With witty words oft forgotten,
With thought inimitable,
With precision unduly.
And I have won.
Against the court jester,
The fool
And the sage,
I have won.
Beware my words,
They are wieldy
Beyond wonder.

I toss my coin into the wishing well,
Watch it while it flutters down, away
Out of sight but not mind.

I sit beside the wishing well,
Wishing well on those who could use it most--
Wishing well on those still lingering near to my heart.

I watch as my wish wanders high,
Even while the coin sinks low.

Where wish and coin will land is anyone's guess,
Which I suppose must be the point of a wish, yes?

The hope of promises which you seek but are not promised,
The dream of the coin and the wish alike
Landing softly on the ears of a friend,
Bringing you both, thus,
Home again.

"Wish well,"
Echoes then.

Which well, I wonder,
Is best suited for wishing well?
Here, there, or anywhere...

Well--

Anyway,
I suppose it matters not--
It's the thought of a wish that does the work.
        And does it well.

Sports:

Forever the common denominator
-----------------------------------------------
Of the American Spirit