"What must we endure?"
Cried the naive child.

"When must we endure?"
Lamented the cynical adult.

"How must we endure?"
Worried the desperate parent.

"Why must we endure?"
Questioned the lazy innovator.

"Whom must we endure?"
Rallied by those who dodge the questions.

Let these words manifest,
collecting light particles
to form blinding orb pairs:
weightless, mysterious---
unrecognizable to untrained eyes.

Let these condensed suns travel
at their own patience pace
down the desperate path:
unaware, hunting---
aiming to impact with wanderers.

Let this vehicle of literature
resonate earth and air
as they who stand before:
afraid, curious---
awaiting the damage yet inflicted.

Let the impact pass like typhoons,
thrashing warm winds and caressing rains
to sooth the fragile forsaken soul:
trembling, confused---
contemplating the value of their breath.

Let the moment remain frozen,
growing between forever and never,
sending important subliminals to foresight:
love, patience---
reminding the willingly forgetful.

I mourn not for the silent voices
whom hide behind practiced smiles,
but rather for the weeping authors
of anonymous autobiographies
where pages smudge and smear
by worn, overused erasers.

They aim to blind
through the hidden abuse
of pepper spray,
but they forget that
I've been punished
(wrongfully) before.
My body remembers
the fiery sting,
punches and kicks
from abusive
step-brothers,
but they forget
that in due time
my muscles grow bigger,
my punch flies faster,
and I grow tolerance.
Whether such
produces patient
disobedience
or conditions the body
to react in violence
depends solely on
where they aim,
what they project,
and if I remain still.

Each year when time
changes forward,
I intentionally forget
to switch the old,
reliable clock,
finding comfort each morning
when reading its deceptive hands
to appreciate that
there is always
an extra hour left
to live,
to sleep,
to experience.

In the year 2015,
instantaneous expectations
condition behaviors exponentially
that veteran social media robots
efficiently reduce their average
characters in texts and posts
as often as the characters
who exist in their memoirs.

Passion is:
Tea tree oil seeping through a crack in the bottle.
The opening guitar rift during a band’s first tour.
Your favorite spice spilt from a loosened cap.
The half-lighted dynamite stick within the glass body.
The timeless, physical tension before the first kiss.
A hundred, helium balloons held down by one string.
The hallucinating genius who trades sleep for progress.


Passion is the restrained ambitions of the insanely devoted.