a poet sits in a corner
mind adrift floating some eons away
nether here nor there
but somewhere in between
yesterday and tomorrow and today

a reflection escaped from a mirror
a voice without a mouth
an ocean trapped in a tear
a story told over and over again
in a forest where every tree growing
makes its own sound

death is a mystery woven
into the fabric of life
grief is the thread
to which we use to mend our hearts
tragedy is the sacrificial lamb
to the alter where we will find
our laughter again

and love...

love is a sweater in the lost and found
waiting to be worn by anyone
in need of warmth
knitted from the softest yarn
from the generosity of kindness

love is row of crooked deciduous teeth
in a fresh bright smile
not yet ready to be traded
for quarters and trinkets
all giggles and sugar
in the innocence of youth
the magic of children

love is adrift
a vibration
connecting every heart
from this corner to that drugstore
from the gas station
to the solemn park bench
both here and there
anywhere and everywhere
looped through yesterday
  and tomorrow and today

I remember the last time
my chest felt heavy and empty
and everything I knew about love
was shattered and lost
in all of that hollow
all of that heavy

I remember the words that broke me
though I won’t repeat them here

maybe it’s unfortunate
or maybe it’s just life
but you probably have a memory now
or will one day
of similar
or completely different words
reminding you of a night or day
when hope and love and dreams
slip through your fingers
and leave your palms bleeding

leaving you holding nothing

nothing

but all of that hollow
all of that heavy

I almost died that night
I almost willing paid the price
for the luxury of suicide

the sweet and bitter cold nothing
the nothing that felt like
it was the only thing
that could relieve the pain
of everything hurting

everything inside of my body
and everything outside of my body
pushing and crushing
and constricting around me

it was a perfect night for dying
with all the cliches needed for a poetic obituary
the sky was painted with loud black clouds
and the rain poured down in waves of waterfalls
the air beat with the thunder of a funeral song
and the flashes of lightning captured
the contorted shape of my face
a bad caricature with an ugly cry

a sniveling and snot filled
******* gurgle
everything but the pain
pouring out of my face

I was sitting in my car writing my last note
with a ballpoint pen in a sketch pad

it probably didn’t make any sense
I’m sure I still have it...
somewhere....

I can see the driveway
I can see my car parked there
I can still feel the bottle of poison
   in my trembling hands
I can see the lightning illuminating the rain
  I can see the rain
    and the gravel it was falling on
     the dirt it was dancing on
       the puddles it was forming
         and then swimming in

and there in that darkness
there in that heavy beat of thunder
there in that hard falling rain

in all of that hollow
in all of that heavy

I saw the miracle of frogs
fresh tadpoles that just lost their tales
brave and beautiful as only children can be
leaping here and there
playing in the rain

no fear of living
no thoughts of dying
with nothing of nothing
in their tiny hearts

having the time of their lives
in all of that hollow
in all of that heavy

I saw the miracle of frogs

and I cried again
a little heavier
a little harder than I had been

all that pain inside
and all that pain outside
somehow in someway
chased out
all of that hollow
all of that heavy

my hands were still shaking
my whole body was still crying
as I got out of my car
and walked through the driveway
walked through the yard
I left everything of nothing
in the darkness and the rain
as I walked through
and with the miracle of frogs

sometimes I spell my name wrong on purpose
hoping to accidentally discover who I really am
who I use to imagine I was suppose to be
or maybe just who I use to be
back when believing in love and magic
was as easy as breathing

back when breathing was easy

back before I needed
to keep a feather in my copy of Peter Pan
to book mark chapter 13
to remind me that love and magic
can only be as real as I believe them to be

because lately its been hard to believe in anything
I want to believe
there is more good than bad in the world
more light than darkness
more beauty in the truth
than just its ugly reality

more kindness than cruelty
more generosity than greed
more miracles in daily living
and not just the tragedy
of meaningless death
after meaningless death

but I have lost count
of the slogans piling up behind the hashtags
and I struggle to remember the names
of all the victims of all the senseless violence
spilling out from all the blind hatred
beating wildly in this world
that seems to be losing its way

and I wonder if I am even human
because if anything human
can be so blind to all the pain
and all the poverty
and all the hunger in this world

if anything human
can have nothing but apathy
to the needless suffering inflicted
by the social inequality
that plaques any minority
by the masses of *****
that make up the majority

then why
tell me why
would anyone with a heart
anyone who can still believe
in love and magic
want to be human

if being human doesn’t mean
to be filled with love and compassion
to have the kindness and generosity of our hearts
flow freely to and out of our hands
to any and everyone that needs help

to anyone who needs shelter
from the cold and unforgiving gaze
of hate filled eyes
to anyone that needs something more
than just food to **** the doubts and ache
stirring in their bellies
to anyone who just needs a moment
a brief moment
to know they are not alone
that their fight to survive
isn’t a battle they have to fight alone

if being human isn’t meant
to help one another
then what is it?
are we all just out here misspelling our names
hoping to become anything
but what we really are

a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...

I want to give you the alphabet
and every syllable and punctuation and exclamation mark
I want to build you a stage out of the bones
dying to get out from under my skin
and watch you make the world a better place
a softer and safer place
I’ve seen you do it before
and I know I will watch you do it again

there is nothing more beautifully alive
than when you are up there on the stage
a slight tremor in your voice
as your hand trembles
holding that piece of paper in your hand
and with all the fury of nature you exhale

your heart comes flying out
and fills the room with such a gentle warmth
that it feels like a Christmas snow is falling outside
and the fire place is crackling and popping
and snapping inside all of us
and the hot cocoa is just about cooled off enough to drink
and we drink it all in

every painful truth you paint from your inside
every broken bone of your past
all the heartache in the ghost of the tears that haunt your cheeks
the madness in your sanity of pushing
and shaping your dreams into a better future
where everyone is loved for who they are
no matter who they are
and everyone can love who they love
no matter who they love
and kindness is the only rule anyone follows
and for every one person that has a hungry mouth
their are two people not just willing but eager
to cook a meal for the belly at the bottom of that mouth
and no one is homeless
because everyones heart has opened up
into something much bigger than a fist
and there is no stranger too strange
that we cannot invite them into our homes
and help them find their feet
and give them a pillow and place to lay their head
and all the cogs in the machines of war and industry
have been melted down
and minted into pennies for the wishing well
and everyone gets a turn to wish
and every wish comes true

now everyone
everyone do me a favor
put your hand over your chest
do you feel that?
That electricity
that booming thunder
that thing keeping you alive

that heart

that heart is you
and in that heart is the universe
with the power of every star shining at night  
and the heat of every burning sun throughout the day
and the song of every named and unnamed moon
do you feel it
do you feel how we are all connected
how we all need each other

how that heart
how that universe is part of us all

how we all belong
we all belong to the here and now

How do we decapitate a headless monster
how do we **** something that does not have a heart
a cold mist of illusion and deceit
a bodiless creature made out of the poison of fear and lies

a lesson handed down from generation to generation
  written inside their blood
and scribbled blindly on the walls
  that keep their minds caged
    inside an ignorant state of being

a ghost of terrible influence and horrible power
a being that maybe near as old as time
infesting the body of believes of an unknowing youth
a mountain of evil worn like a suit of armor
  over their misguided pride
     their arrogant smirks

a finger over the trigger of a gun...

a fast and repeating explosion...

a room filling with smoke and blood...

lungs giving their last breath
hearts taking their last beat
screams echoing deep into the future

and quietly the monster slips away
untouched with no remorse
thinking itself a hero

this monster without a head
  this thing that has no heart
    this misguided pride
     this mountain of evil

how...
tell me how...
how do we defeat

this thing called hate