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Above party
Above caste
Above station
Above place
Above state
Above nation
Above riches
Above race

And the reasons
And excuses
And the grief
And the shame
And the guilt
And the sanctions
And the blood
And the stain

Beyond language
Beyond history
Beyond reason
Beyond fate
Beyond now
Beyond later
Beyond love
—beyond hate

(The New Room: June, 2023)
What would it be
If society
Suddenly
Stopped tolerating needless conflict
With a collective
MEH
To all those little
***** fuckas
Let the school bell be rang
On pinky punks
And their yang
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
It’s what I don’t focus on
I got my dark thoughts too
Evil, twisted
Childhood traumas
I somehow fetishize
When I focus on that side
But my brain gives me a choice
I get to hear the other voice
All the joys stay with me too
I get the yellow with the blue
Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s skill
The ability not to dwell
I am the smallest thing you’ve ever seen,
a fingernail, a pencil tip, a hardened uncooked bean,
the grime upon a bar, a hobo’s pocket lint,
the crumble of a cork, the peelings of a stick,
the dust left in a tea can after you have quenched your thirst,
a bubble in a maelstrom, just waiting to be burst,
a blank answer on a test, not even half a guess,
it shames me to admit that I am all these things and less,
but then you hold my hand, a gentle reprimand,
and I know it isn’t true,
I begin to grow (anew)
You must have loved me
As good as you were
Capable
And the heartbreak
Ensued
Was ******* you, too
How can I write a poem about
How perfect my home is?  
Nothing rhymes with Massachusetts
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