for you for us for humanity for earth for falling stars for
unborn for small sprigs of grass and grand canyons for the last
beer the ashes of past cigarettes for the spry unruly young and the withering passages of time seen in old eyes in grey hair in wrinkled skin
in red sunsets and orange dawns in red white and blue patriotism
in fast cars beautiful speeches in small talks with a neighbor
equal rights no glass ceilings no pain no hurt no hunger no killing
no suffering in free will to love each other and still make an honest dollar
in doughnuts beer ice cream painting velvet clear skies
canvases of rainbows pages of peaceful words
long nights discovering something more powerful
than us, I wish to quit hearing in my memory
my mom and dad fighting
all harsh loud words washed away .
Oh, I wish for a whole lot.

or a car a tire a yard just grass
or a forest one tree, we have a proclivity
for that.
A low part is a valley , a peak a hill,
but us humans often call each other
parts of the body. Blood is just fluid.
A *****, can be woman or man.
We like ambiguity, at times.
A dude can be a ****. I know, I am most times.
The label lets us simplify, while at the same time
lower them and raise us.
Not even gonna go for the political things.
right winged left all are boxes we like to put people in,
you know all that,
but to call someone one thing aren't you forgetting
how you , if you say things like that, might be called,
a part of the body we sit upon?

because there are not enough poetry readers out there
a lot of poets checking on if their latest work
got any hits
not enough English teachers too!

the ****** to wrinkles
was light fast
from peach fuzz to long hair and bell bottoms
to disco slow  so painful from
Air Force discipline to self employed
along the way unemployed a lot
from the Beatles and Stones
hell I'll never outgrow them.

it is the night
lit by the moon  
    best if it’s full
that gives strange shadows to familiar things
when poets are supposedly inspired
to write about their pain   their love  
     often the same
important thoughts of life and death
their joys of the quotidian   and
that you catch the day
and live it like it were your last

    you never know
    just a split second
    and your life has turned into your past

benignly, though, the moonlight introduces softer thoughts
of passion and of the beloved
    distant in space but always close in mind
romantic moments lingering in afterthoughts

some times  I think  that if it were not for the distance
that always separates those who have pined
for their reunion
the world’s treasure of poetry might just be half
of what it is today

the same may well be true for all the lines
penned under tears about that unrequited love
addressed to those unwilling subjects of desire
who often  in the course of writing
turn into objects of the writers’ ire

the moonlight’s pristine shine
    in fact a mere reflection of the sun
for a few hours of the night
changes our vision
opens up doors to different worlds
    full of desire, hope, and desperation
allows us glimpses of ourselves
that daylight never shows

we feel we can speak words
under the pale light of the moon
or the dark corners of the night
that would not make much sense
under the brilliance of the sun

the quiet splendor of the moonlight’s grace
lets us experience that other space
we tend to close and keep apart
in our hasty tour of every day

that’s why
in our few calm moments
we all should listen to what they
    our poets
have to say about the night
the moon’s  strange light
and how it keeps their thoughts in flight

he was radicalized in
the marshes of Vietnam
when they told him to fire
his loaded gun at a
group of school children

a dissident who
marched on Washington
with a Reverend and a King
and read Žižek Zinn and
Chomsky's reflections on direct
action and anarchistic philosophy

a staunch opponent of
police brutality in his
fifties he protested the
****** of Rodney King

he did not go quietly
into the black abyss but
raged against a putrescent
apparatus obsessed with control

he died waiting for the Revolution

Tommorow I will wake up and you will be lying against me. Our scents mingled on the pillow. All the books will be written and I will drink black coffee and look at their spines aligned neatly on our bookshelf. I can watch barefoot the sun rise without the need to move for a more perfect view. My mind will be the ancient cathedral and me its  solitary monk. Peace. Sunlight pouring through the stained glass. Tommorow I will wake up next to you clothed only in sun