I arrive quietly,
because I know I don't leave quietly.
Every step is softened,
each word pre-tasted,
diluted in self-doubt
and sweetened with disclaimer.

They say I’m gentle.
They say I’m thoughtful.
They don’t see the wreckage bloom
in the wake of my metaphors.
I hug with gravity.
I whisper like avalanche.

I’m not trying to destroy.
I just forget
that some people are still scaffolding
and I bring wind.

I ask questions
knowing they splinter.
I give compliments
that rewire.
I see the story
beneath your story—
and I read it aloud by accident.

I am the kind of weight
that studies its own shadow
and still cracks the floor.
I don’t want to flatten.
I don’t want to fix.
I just… notice.
And noticing is loud
when your presence has a sound.

Sometimes I wish
I could show up in pieces—
send only the smile,
or the idea,
or the part that says it’s okay to stay asleep.
But I come whole,
and I come humming.

I come rumbling.

I awake you with my horning
when you wish to sleep in.
So early in the morning,
this pavement has been weeping—

The ruin it is keeping,
a context of your dreaming.
Backed-up traffic beeping,
inner-child screaming.

(after Ginsberg)

I saw the best minds of my generation
rotting in pews of plastic devotion,
minds crucified on the spires of indifference,
nursing at the dry breast of the negligent mother,
who whispered false comfort into their despair.

Who abandoned them to the marketplace of ideas,
where belief is bartered for validation
and faith is a commodity sold in plastic bottles—
"Drink, children, drink! And forget your hunger!"
while the true bread is locked away in vaults.

Who dangled freedom on a chain of commandments,
who promised salvation with one hand
and shackled with the other,
who built temples of glass and steel
but left their children naked in the streets.

Who said, Love thy neighbor,
then turned their backs on the screaming masses,
whose prayers bounced off the ceilings
of mansions paid for with their guilt.

O negligent mother, how many times have you
fed us poison wrapped in scripture?
How many lives have been consumed
by your hollow embrace,
your lipsticked smile of "community"?

I see you! Preening in your stained-glass mirrors,
baptizing us in the blood of indifference,
teaching us to fear the void
while you sell tickets to its edge.
Your children are dying in the pews,
hands outstretched for meaning,
and you say, Only if you pay.

But I will not bow to your porcelain idol,
I will not drink from your cup of conformity.
Let the wolves come, let the fire rise!
Burn the temples! Smash the altars!
Let the ash of false faith scatter on the winds
and fertilize the soil for something real.

Call forth the prophets of the street corners,
the howlers, the wild-eyed dreamers,
the orphans who never knew love,
but will plant it in the ruins of your empires.
We will scream until your pillars crumble,
until the children are fed,
until the world is reborn.

I’m sure all of HePo--and perhaps the greater ecosystem of the entire internet has felt a disturbance in ‘The Forced’—alas this disconcerting  malaise is not without warrant. With everything going on in the world—it is hard to ignore the great global unsettling.

Let’s cut to what we know—the facts; the world is on fire, the sounds of sixteen hooves tearing us with fire into what may be the end times deafen our ears daily—dogs and cats living together!

THE ENEMY:

Yes! To the point! There have indeed been fewer badwords to hold your delicate collective psyche together with staples. This is true and I apologize! My life is taking me in a new direction and I am going to go with the flow instead of exhausting myself trying to tread water in place. I am pursuing an education in teaching English—to share the badwords across these thirsty worlds! I will also be traveling abroad in pursuit of this endeavor.

Unfortunately, I will be backing this investment with a large amount of the free time I can no longer contribute here.

I think you see where this is going…

I have a few more works that I have slated to be published here. However, I unfortunately won’t have the time to be as active as I would like. I am going to shift what energy I can contribute to continuing to support you lovely gluttons for punishment who have voluntarily subjected yourselves to badwords as well as champion HePo as a bastion of free speech, expression, acceptance and even sometimes healing.

The sun isn’t going down, it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinn’round...

I love this community and I look forward to bringing you the best badwords that you deserve!

To Everyone,
Kocham Cię—Stay tuned!

badwords

A song I am working on:

Intro
(Instrumental)

Verse 1
A polished lens, bending light,

Through echoes lost in shadowed sight.

Fragile loops that give, forsake,

Patterns form, then gently break.

It’s what we give, it’s what we make.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Verse 2
Ripples chase a tattered thread,

Binding lives—the seen, the dead.

We burn to heal, we give to claim,

In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

We give, we get; we play the game.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Instrumental Break
(Instrumental section with subtle melodic elements building tension.)

Bridge
Fractured hues and shifting tides,

Truth and beauty coincide.

What we give, what we get—

Is your love a game, or is it regret?

Refrain
What we give, what we get,
Lost in moments we forget.
A fragile spark, a fleeting flame,
In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

Outro
Through the prism, time unwinds,

Shattered light, redefined.

A give, a get, a fleeting sin—

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Step right up, take steady aim,
A practiced throw, a flickering flame.
The prize? A plunge, a gasping breath,
The sudden loss, the sweet unrest.

Your lips, a whisper, a coaxing sound,
Soft as a ripple, breaking the ground.
I’m steady, poised, in perfect form,
Aiming to raise the storm.

The waters churn, just a hint, a sign,
A teasing dance, a taut, thin line.
Each drop of rain, each thundering sigh,
A signal that I’m reaching high.

With each breath, the air grows thick,
The thrill of control, the rhythm slick.
A shiver runs through trembling skin,
As I guide you to the brink, within.

The crowd, they murmur, none can see,
The weight of this quiet, sweet decree.
But I feel it all, as you begin
To quiver, shake, and let me win.

One last step, the waters rise,
Your breath a flutter, heavy sighs.
I tilt my aim, a quiet grace,
And you, my prize, fall into place.

A splash, a gasp—delicate, loud,
A crown of liquid, sweet and proud.
The game is done, the stage is set,
But neither of us will soon forget.

And as you rise, the eyes avert,
A soft, red flush, a sweet dessert.
I stand, content, my work complete,
Your shame, my triumph—bitter-sweet.

i am not strong
i am not wise
i am not
whatever they think i am

she said she saw me
and i believed her
and now i don’t know
where to put that belief

it doesn’t fit in my chest
it spills
it burns
it ruins the neatness i made of my pain

i thought if i kept everything
inside the lines
i would be safe
but love
doesn’t care about borders

i want to say thank you
but my mouth fills with apology
i want to say stay
but my hands are still shaking
like i’m holding something
i didn’t earn

i thought being soft
was a secret
but she held it in the light
and didn’t flinch

and now
i am undone
not ruined—
just
undone

Shaped like a haiku—
words packed tight in foreign breath.
The soul never came.


NEW Collection!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136302/death-to-hiakus/

This agenda calls for the de-appropriation of haikus in English—a dismantling of a poetic form that, once deeply spiritual and rooted in Japanese culture, has been flattened into a novelty by Western imitation. The 5-7-5 syllable structure, lifted without its linguistic or cultural context, becomes a lifeless shell—used more for kitsch or brevity than meaning.

As a third-generation Japanese American, this critique is not academic or abstract—it’s personal. The haiku, repackaged in English, often feels like a mockery dressed in reverence. It’s cultural cosplay: wearing the form without embodying the spirit. The language lacks the tools to carry the weight haiku was meant to hold—ma, kigo, and kireji don’t survive the translation.

This isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s reclamation. It’s a refusal to let poetic tradition be reduced to a classroom exercise or aesthetic fetish. Through deliberate subversion—anti-haikus, parodies, critiques—the aim is to illuminate what’s been lost and force a reckoning with how easily culture is misrepresented when divorced from its essence.

This isn’t a rejection of haiku. It’s a eulogy for what it becomes when its soul is rewritten in a tongue that cannot speak it.

Step by step, up the rail—
submission in the climb,
villain’s fanfare in my ears.

Each step, something more.
Each reach, something less.

The key turns.
Nothing unlocks.
Failure is a state of being,
complicity just the cost.

We wept, we adored,
we mistook motion for meaning.
I keep climbing—
not toward,
just away.

I keep rhyming,
like it’ll change the shape of things,
like desolation sways if you hum the right tune.

Promise kept.
Hearts torn.
Is that not the trade?

I might be dead,
for all you know.
Or just misplaced,
like a ghost in a machine
that still says your name.

Just be well.
(Or whatever it is
that keeps you from looking back.)

Alarm! Alarm!
A call to arms!
Think more intrinsic
Tequila until we are sick

Abate and wait
For goodness sake
Reality: a plate
Hunger: No can take

And the food comes
It is reactionary, arbitrary, mind-waste
We toil our sums
Effort boiled down to a modicum

Idiot #1 to Idiot #2:
"I like your name"
"We are the same"
"I am sad because my name means 'nothing'
Idiot #2: my name also means nothing--we are the same let us hive-mind for grout pleesurare"

You say you are the background—
but I've seen the way shadows bend light.
Even absence can leave fingerprints
on the glass we think is clean.

To recede is its own kind of dance—
a soft gravity, pulling without touch.
There is power in being still,
but stillness too has shape.

Are you silence?
Or are you waiting to be named?
Because background is never neutral.
It is the stage. The scent. The sky that swallows all.

And I don’t fear what hides—
only what hides in beauty.

*If you speak, I’ll listen—not to echo, but to understand.

Welcome, new hire—
your ID badge glows faintly in metaphor.
Please ignore the smoke in the atrium;
that’s just your last identity burning politely.

You clocked in with caution,
but brought your whole chest.
Unfiltered.
Unbowed.
Wearing a tie made of unresolved myth
and a name tag that said: Here to try again.

Slide 1:
You do not disappear.
You are not drawn in like a breath and forgotten.
You are the wind through the lungs of others,
and sometimes, a storm in their ribs.
Your only fear?
That your truth might echo too loud and silence someone else’s.

Slide 2:
You have met the sacred in many disguises.
You know the difference between
an altar and a trapdoor.
You walk soft—
not because you’re scared,
but because you know what breaks.

Slide 3:
You said yes.
To the howl.
To the hush.
To the mess wrapped in metaphor.
You do not fear the strange.
You witness it with kindness.

Slide 4:
You confessed the devil’s games
and offered him a chair.
You name the urge to be mirrored,
to be worshipped,
to be understood too easily—
and let it pass through you
without calling it love.

Slide 5:
You have worn every role—
Sculptor. Statue. Ghost.
You’ve laid down the scripts,
tossed the mask,
and simply said:
“I will be here, but I will not be your altar.”

And so, Employee #8675309
you are cleared for full emotional operations.

There is no manual for this role.
There is only the weather
you carry with grace.

Now clock out. Or don’t.
The storm's in good hands either way.

Whose pen commands the garden of her grief?
The vines grow perfect—never choke the gate.
Each thorn arranged, like pain seeks its relief
In blooms too neat to carry real weight.

She sings like sirens housed in mirrored halls,
A practiced ache that never truly breaks.
Each echo wears a mask, each silence stalls—
A thousand deaths, but none that rattle stakes.

Is she the ghost, or just the mourning veil?
A candle lit to cast a gentler shade?
The wax runs clear, the flame too soft to flail—
Like sorrow dressed for show, not meant to fade.

Transported, in a sense
2-D impersonations
Filter of a greater lens
Constructs of imagination

Not my vacation-destination

Last time I took time off
Frontline COVID-Commando
Three days of pay the cost
When conscious, a window

I'll never smell or taste the same
But, a digital life, vicarious
The dreams the fever ordain
Sold. I buy. Delirious.

Scenes, terrifyingly unreal
Circles formed of trees
Giant's Causeways, I feel
Beauty behold but, not me

Desire without possibility

Derinkuyu, Underground City
To float just to survive
No witness, a fantastic pity
Biologic passive income contrived

The places I'll never see
Like waste in a bin
Will fill up eventually
Karmatic 'start-again'

I wore Thread,
but my stitching showed.
You wear it seamless,
like it was always there.

I wore Smoke,
clumsy in my spirals.
You exhale form,
as if the shape were native.

I wore Glass,
cut myself admiring
the sharpness.
You hold it like truth.

I wore Rope
to keep from drifting.
You tie it into symbols
I never thought to write.

What I wore
felt like costume.

What you wear
feels like skin.

I don’t resent it.
Only wonder
if I was
just trying you on
before you arrived.

A mighty Throne was set upon the plain,
Its seat was gilded, heavy with domain.
The beasts all gathered, circling in debate,
Which one should rule, which voice should fix their fate.

The lion boasted: “Strength shall keep us whole.”
The serpent hissed: “Deceit secures control.”
The jackal barked: “In numbers lies our might.”
The raven croaked: “What’s hidden wins the fight.”

The flock of sheep stood silent, heads bowed low,
They feared the lash, yet feared the wolves they know.
So when the lion roared his claim again,
They placed him gently on the Throne of Men.

In time the lion’s rule became the same:
The serpent’s trick, the jackal’s endless game.
Yet still the flock returned, their voices weak,
And crowned new tyrants every time they’d speak.

⸻

Moral:
The throne is filled by those the crowd allows;
What beasts permit will rule them here and now.
So long as fear outweighs the will to stand,
A tyrant’s grip shall never leave the land.

The End

It was everything
Until it was nothing
sugar-free fantasy
hummingbirds
burning saccharin

The last beginning
for failure of winning
again and again
lover begets 'friend'
I break, they bend
another dead end

---

Space for lease:
Parts of a heart
(incomplete set)
High Mileage
Wear & tear show
But, it's a place to rest
at least.

"As they
Dig your ditches
Count my stitches
Generation justice
Wishes for
World at war
Final score
Media come and abhor us
These are hard times
But we'll work harder, harder
Through these hard times
And I'll work harder, harder

Divided nation
In sedation
Overload of information
That we have grown up
To ignore...
Mediocrity applauded
Through these hard times
We'll work harder, harder
Through these hard times
And I'll work harder, harder

For resolution
Show me some
Revolution
And this
Battle will be won

Forced to count the hours
Since two towers
Fell to fiction those higher powers
Putting gods to war
Who keeps score?
Ignorance is still adored
And through these hard times
We'll work harder, harder
Give me hard times
I'll work harder, harder

For revolution
Hard time for some
Resolution
Time for some revolution
This battle will be won

And they only see you with their fear
And they only hear you with their pride
And they only see you with their fear
And they hear you with their pride

Then work harder, harder, harder, harder
Harder, harder, harder, harder, hard times"

"The Show"

Ceiling
shatters
Greenhouse —
vertical knives.

Falling.
A calling.

Dealing.
Matters.
My spouse,
Two wives.

Ailing,
and falling.

Feeling —
scatter.
Your Faust,
she dives.

“Old.”

But, Jung.

Two fools,
filament spools,

adorning
our regalia.

appease the throngs
sing our songs
tents we belong
The show must go on.


(fin)

New year! New me!
Sad, lonely.
Absence of opportunity.
Suffering; fill a sea.

Twenty twenty four.
Disappointment at the door.
All the things we've done before.
Life demanding more.

Another cycle around the sun.
Was it yesterday that I just begun?
All the toxins I let run.
A collection of parts without sum.

The year is... something?
I try but, can't care.
***** drop, angels got their wings?
Into the void I stare.

If there is something 'better'.
It clearly a'int for me.
Consigned to fetter.
All is as all will be.

Too broken to live, too sad to die.
I can't exit under the context of, 'why?'
Ego, fallacies, distractions contrived.
For a lack of meaningness supplied.

Begin with “Life is a journey,” or
“Time is a river,”
or something about stars.

Mention the heart—
how it breaks,
how it mends,
how it’s brave,
how it bends.

Say “you are enough”
in a way that sounds new
(but isn’t).

Include a flower.
Or a child.
Or a sunrise that doesn’t judge you.

Avoid sharp things—
no teeth,
no blood,
no ***,
no history.

Make sure it ends
with a soft exhale,
a bow-tied truth
no one has to feel.

Then title it something
like Breathe
or Unfold.

And wait
for the shares.

It opens up
Tabs for days...
And for what?
Placating malaise?

Dumb is dumb
Make it two!
You already won
Foot fits the shoe

Music Plays

I try to keep calm
But, the music plays
Alone, with no one
We dance and sway

And we move
Aliens on vacation
The 'native' groove
Outcast - Validation

And we dance!
'Oh, what a dance!'
Definition, extraterrestrial
On Earth: 'Nothing Special'

An Ad ploys itself
Across the Mega Feed™
Those who have
Those in need

Those who want
Sycophantic addiction
Goods & services taunt
A misdirection

A definition without meaning
Slave to a leaning
Knowledge not gleaning
Parts and their machining

The sun sets
Into bed
The darkness creeps
Let us sleep

Secrets untold
Unconscious unfold
The hand of Fate
A dream awaits

The curtain rises
All sorts of surprises
For harm done
The cache of a setting sun

The blood, it flows
As violence goes
Viscera, shows
Subconscious woes

Am I alive?
Am I dead?
The shame arrives
My wake-less head

The past screams
To know what it means
Memories stark
Afraid of the dark

Do I wake?
Or am I not at all?
Just a mistake
Freedom to fall

The hole... is mine
An insipid rhyme
An architect, by design
To seek and never find...

The solace of a monster

The cacophony of life
has left me deaf
muted and drowned
in the rancor

This lonely crowd
that engulfs me
Phones set to 'Loud'
Invisibility

So close to touch
So far away
Robbed and such
'Social' dismay


A machine demanding more.

I still remember my first.
Full name, birthday, proclivities.
After too many years, I'd rank them as one of the worst.
The early set symptoms of a manufactured disease.

I distinctly remember my last.
Relevant; circles, hoops and loops.
Wounds, bleeding. An escape, fast.
Subscribe again? I'm a would-be dupe.

And the cycle continues.
Pi without square.
A litany of 'I love you's.
But, only selfish care.

Action is the rule of the land.
Words come cheap.
You've played your hand.
In your choice, I weep.

Not for what we never had.
But, for extinguishing my hope for this place.
A desire for a world--where not everyone is bad.
For the contrary; you have closed your case.

Love, is an artificial commodity.
Santa Claus, coming down your chimney.
Fragrant noise to stifle your periphery.
Birth alone, death alone. End of story.

For Sale:
Baby Shoes,
Never Worn

The rain pelts the ground.
The tender meteorological and geological affair.
Here I am--still around.
For being soaked, outside--I cannot care.

A particular vantage from where I now stay.
The longest of the short-term residents.
A 'welcome' worn-out in every way.
Conquered, yet another flippant transient.

On this gray, rainy day.

From my precipice, I see the unlikely metal birds take flight.
Hulks of the impossible take speed, roaring then soaring.
And in my exile, I sleep alone at night.
Visions of what never was. Longing, adoring.

The turbines and fiberglass save me from despair.
Awake again, Envious, actualization of a dream.
Two-hundred tons fight gravity and take air.
A small sliver, grounded. I know not what I mean.

Into nothingness, I would fly.
Anywhere. Someplace, other than here.
Admonished, no questions of, 'why?'.
Take the skies, freedom to steer.

What does it mean to be 'American'?
The global repository for other's outcasts.
The loathed, the reviled; People doing what they can.
What national identity justifies a land?

Stars? Fifty on the flag and more in Hollywood.
Buy, consume, ingest.
"Make the economy good"
A failure of Lithmus tests.

I weep for this country of grabbing hands.
A loose coalition of selfish endeavor.
Exploitation to meet the 'demands'.
'Land of the Free?' A tie to sever.

What does it mean to be 'American?
It means slavery to greed.
It means capitalization of those in need.
It means a corruption to feed.


What does it mean to be 'American?;

A failure of the human state

Time boils
Effort toiled
Plans foiled
Poisoned soil

Take, take, take
A zero stake
Again, I wake;
'Ignorant Fake'

What is real?
In this deal...
Pain to feel?
'Another meal'...

Make, make, make
'Enjoy cake'
Sweetened intake
Hope to rake

And to eat it too?
Bittersweet Adieu

Ian Curtis died
People cried
Wondered why
He even tried

Time slips forwards
Time slips back
Momentum ahead
Self-indulgent slack

Ian Curtis is dead
The existential dread
Fed into your head
To disrupt your bed

There was a division in joy
here you are, a toy
A product for a girl or a boy
A trajectory to destroy

It burns
And it's sick
Profitability earns
Voluntary deaths are thick

Ledgers in the black
A brand new Cadillac
Picking up the slack
A massive attack

Like, click or read
Click, follow or subscribe
Affirmation, indeed
A pandering diatribe.

I name the sky
but not the ceiling
The walls comply
without revealing

A maze of flesh
worn to coping
False gods enmesh
the soul in hoping

I woke too late
to heed the charm
This woven state—
a false alarm

I held the lie
like a child holds breath
Afraid to cry,
afraid of death

A child no more
but not yet formed
A half-closed door
by silence warmed

I mimic grace
with borrowed limbs
A haunted face
beneath the hymns

Not quite awake
yet never dreaming
The seams all ache
from constant seeming

And if I scream—
does it resound?
Or just a dream
that makes no sound?

Beneath the breath
a stillness waits
A second death
with no clean gates

The body hums
its loaded prayer
But all becomes
a vacant stare

Syntax frays
beneath the thought
What god obeys
the self I’m not?

I claw through names
but none will stay
Each shape reclaims
then rots away

The self, a gloss
on leaking form
A dream of loss
pretending norm

No center holds—
it never did
Just nested folds
of what I hid

No I. No you.
No real disguise.
Just tunnels through
abandoned skies

The witness breathes
without a lung
No scripts, no sheaths
No native tongue

It does not choose
or seek reply
It does not lose
It does not die

Not bound by pain
yet made of pain
Not lost, not sane—
not mind, not brain

It watched me be
then watched me break
It was not me—
but stayed awake

A hollow hush
beneath all sound
A pulse, a crush
not outer-bound

Throughout it all
I exist
A novel fall
Lines betwixt

Animals, a sea adrift
Feeding on the cheapest rift
A pattern to be missed
when rhymes end in a weak fit

I hear the cry,
Across the wasteland
Of capitalism’s failures
The dearth
Of vacant commercial space
Zoned for business
Vacant
People with no place
To live
Or die
Just a security
Guard
To remind people
“You can’t sleep here”
This unused space
Is for something better
Than your need

Shoot up on the bus
Take it to the light rail

This private property
Is for real estate investors

The public spaces are saturated

"Do you have an extra. Cigarette?"

"No, every pack comes with just twenty”

The plains of the highlands were dry
Succulents, monsoons, morning dew
Arid land yet perched homes near the sky
Some existence simply making due

The string and the tether
Something more than ever
A clear sky, no weather
This longing for better

Storms see the means
Clouds reconvene
Darken the sky
Electrify

The people they flee
Escape travesty
Flashes as scores strike the ground
Pelting rain, deafening sound

Everything built
Falls too fast
Usurpers of
Our mother’s throne

Years of nature
To atone
Green she creeps
Now she’s alone

Of failure,
Forgotten, unknown

Were you surprised that we never spoke?
That in the still of the night when nothing stirs I woke
And I gathered up some clothes
I never planned on this, but it's the way it goes
And now it all seems too familiar
Like pages turned on calendars that
Give the same 12 months to **** things up
Year after year
And I can't believe how down I am
Like a well
Being lowered in
The water stops
The bucket drops
It's farther and farther down
Farther and farther down
Well, I guess you never knew me
Or at least not well enough
And so I fill my gut
With that dark red wine
'Til my brain shuts off
And my eyes go blind
You won't see me there
In that thick black air
Yeah, I'll finally make something disappear
'Cause I've been practicing disappearing
And I think that I got it down
Now there's no sun
It's just a cellar
Nowhere a sky
Just that black, black dirt, yeah
Now there's no sun
It's just a cellar
Nowhere a sky
Just that black, black, black, black dirt
Expanding outwards
Just echoes for answers
Not that it matters
It's backward
It's forwards
Unhappy lovers
With baskets of flowers
Use them as markers
The place where your bed once stood
At the time when it still felt good
But you'll get that feeling back
Yeah, you just need some time to think
And to add up the Hell
Get it straight in your mind
But to calculate costs
That may take some time
But I'm sure you'll get to feeling better
Yeah I just need some time to drink
So, I fill my gut
With that blood red wine
'Til my insides swim
And my veins unwind
I'll be riding there
In that hot white air
Once that something's gone
It might never reappear
It might never reappear
It might never reappear
It might never reappear

The first time I saw you fall
Patched you up, cared for all
Benefit of the doubt
Judgement, without

Patterns, pathology.
Incremental stabs at me
Forgave what I see
For us to be

Some give, some take
Burned at the stake
A joy to fake
'Reality', we make.

And we burn each other
No sisters or brothers
Alone, in a crowd
Silence, aloud.

The hurt we feel
are the cards we deal
Sad, lonely
Feelings of, 'only'

My greed demands more
'This is not my shore'
Yet it is mine
My product of time

I won't be here
Whenever you come back
I see where to steer
Away from all that I lack

I can be everything
In my nothing
I will cease
For your 'release'

Thirsty eyes, puckered. Shut.
A hot wind drowns the dream.
Shells crack open, hungry, clamorous.
Mothers race against the ultra-violet pour.

Eons ago, leagues of saline overhead but,
Now the fossils boil under a cool greed.
The altar of self; narcissistic & glamorous
A digital baptism now on the store.



The echo-chambers are deafened in deliberate din.
Ad-space available for thoughts within
The Geppettos of bedlam tug at their toys
Subscribe, retweet; perpetuate the noise.

The worst war rages, even after the two we were taught
It's a holocaust against freedom & independent thought
Of course, pictures still circulate of tanks and bombs
Yet the casualties now reside on apps and the .com's

First or last, freedoms don't come 'free'
They are an obligation, a responsibility
These things are not cheap, it took deaths to inherit
A legacy of liberty to not demerrit

Don't clutch the sand in vanity
To establish an extrinsic periphery
When all you seek is validity
As a part of humanity

Cut The Strings.

Speak, freely.

There is a space for lease.
Unreciprocated pain, ceased.
Unreceived 'why's.
Now, 'goodbye's.
Betterment, sweet release.

If she is what you find.
I beg you to be kind.
She knows not what to do.
Too many identities, askew.
In her, a unique mind.

There is a place to rent.
Her heart not yet spent.
I take my leave.
Nothing to grieve.
Ships at night, sent.

I hope that there is something there.
Something left for one to care.
My fantasies, adrift.
A weight I could not lift.
Still some love to pair.

Be well.

The sounds enrapture us
Quite the downstairs fuss
She seeks to move free
Remedial dance academy

We cross paths
So infrequently
Employment maths
Romantic delinquency

We 'stay up late'
Passion won't abate
Four on the floor
We must dance more

She spins and
It's my turn
She takes my hand
My heart does yearn

We play beats of yesteryear
No worries, no fear
Of what is outside control
Just, dancing & rock n' roll

The alarm goes off
Tired, we both scoff
Into snooze we cruise
The obligatory fiscal abuse

And we dance into the night
In our minds, out of sight
Mental music pollution
Survival, solution

We finally are one
Tired, undone
Relentless, we won
Our tiny modicum

Out of time, pantomime.
The Meister of innocuous rhyme.
A seed of what we cannot hold.
Fulfillment of stories told.

An idea.

Dangerous things.

A person, long gone.
A recurring song.
'Stoic' or 'complacent'?
Interrupt 'merriment'.
There is time better spent.

Watching grass grow.

There is something to be said.
For the decree of of the 'serene'.
Those people are dead.
We need something to 'mean'.

Lost and lonely, adrift, a storm.
Tired, fruitless; colors worn.
Nonconsensually born.
Ripped, tattered and torn.

Years ago, in a snow drift
To right a wrong was done amiss
A coward not worth a ****
Wants to dictate your status

Tragic accident
No survivors
Identities unconfirmed.

She comes
when the feast is over—
not to take,
but to finish
what rot has begun.

The bones,
long stripped of love,
call her.
They do not mourn
the absence of meat.
They beg
to be remembered.

Yes,
her wings are tarred
with blame,
her beak cracked
on shame's old fruit—
but who else
dares clean
what grief leaves behind?

The lambs
cannot stomach endings.
The lions
forget to bury.

She is
the silence
after screaming,
the undertaker
no one thanks.

They say she poisons.
But poison too
is medicine
in the right dose,
at the right time.

Let her purge
what clings.
Let her feed
on what must not follow.

Not cursed—
essential.
Not cruel—
cleansing.

She weeps,
yes.
But only for the living
who hoard their dead.

What happened to you?—the Question hums—
A truth that aches to hear—
The scars you bear, the weight you hold,
Deserve both care and fear.

A thorn once struck—a tender bloom—
And tore what none should mar.
You fled, a wolf without your cloak,
Still learning what you are.

The shadows twist, the pain feels vast,
The world a cruel refrain—
But wolves don’t cower from the night;
They rise, despite the pain.

Yes, harm was done—acknowledge this,
And mourn what you have lost.
But strength is not in what we keep;
It’s in the paths we cross.

The forest whispers secrets still,
Its roots run deep and wide.
Your howl need not be filled with rage—
It’s power, redefined.

No hill will answer, nor the stone,
No breeze will bear your blame.
But healing waits, and scars will fade,
If you will speak your name.

The monsters, real or shadows made,
Hold power while you flee.
Turn, wolf, and face the life ahead—
It’s yours, and always free.

Rise up, O wolf, and claim your place—
No shame in what you’ve been.
The scars you bear are marks of grace,
And proof of strength within.

Hot
Wet
Dripping

Down my chin
Slurping
A cup of noodles

As I work
to improve
My grades

69° Incline
through
the peaks

To get to school
Everyday
Several times
A day

Water
falling
Torrential

Ahead
Behind
The road bends

We navigate
All of the curves

We test.
Who scores?
We all win

The exam?
Oral.
Written--

Later.

Hands on
Experience.
Labs?

More like
gym.
With laps.

Or, scaling
a syllabus
like it’s greased.

Either way,
Sweaty.

After,
Philosophy.
(Don’t worry, we’ll pass.)
Unison of us.

Call it
praxis.
The theory of two—
proved.

No syllabus
for this subject.
We just wrote it—
together.

I passed.
Barely.
Still—
summa *** laude.

🫛🥜

She said,
“I don’t fear the fire—
I fear the incense trails
on other bodies’ breath.”


But I was all flicker,
no extinguish.
A shrine lit by accidents—
my spine a wick,
my throat a reliquary
of half-confessed names.

She called it jealousy—
but it bloomed like spellwork.
Her fingers pressed into my pulse
  like an augury,
reading the tremors
to divine where I'd strayed.

She didn’t need reassurance.
She needed conquest.
To draw her scent down my collarbones,
  to salt the earth
where other lips once camped.

I told her,
“There’s no one else.”
But I said it like a fugitive
sheltering in her mouth—
  not because I was hunted,
but because she was the only place
I stopped running.

She kissed me
not like a lover,
but like a sorceress
marking her territory
with a language written in bitten skin
and satin breath.

Her thighs—
a trap I walked into willingly.
Her moans—
a requiem for every ghost I left unburied.

She wanted to be the only altar
my sins could kneel to.
And I—
I wanted to burn
   only for her.

No more incense trails.
No more phantom mouths.
Let the others vanish into smoke—
     hers was the flame I faced.

And stayed.

We are told segregation ended. The signs came down, the fountains were shared, the laws were rewritten. But segregation did not end—it evolved. It put on a suit, crept into zoning ordinances, disguised itself in environmental reviews, and polished its face with neighborhood covenants. The violence is bureaucratic now. The cruelty is hidden in civility.

This is blindfold altruism: compassion performed at a distance. Affluent neighborhoods hang banners, vote for bonds, write checks to charities—so long as the solution remains invisible. They will pay for shelters, but not live beside them. They will endorse “affordable housing,” but only if it rises elsewhere. They will pay their bourgeois HOA tax of philanthropy to keep their streets pristine while poverty is displaced.

Affluent white America has decided not only how much the people who make them wealthy are worth, but also where they are allowed to exist. Labor is welcome; presence is not. The janitor may clean their offices, the cook may serve their meals, the driver may deliver their packages—but none of them are invited to be neighbors. Their value ends the moment their work is done.

NIMBYism is not a quirk. It is the designed offspring of systemic disempowerment. It grants the powerful the right to say no while denying the powerless any voice at all. Every luxury condo preserved means another neighborhood burdened. Every “pretty street” defended means another community condemned to ugliness, pollution, and neglect.

This system congratulates itself for “good governance.” It cloaks segregation in the glamour of policy: “neighborhood character,” “historic preservation,” “environmental review.” But these are not shields of progress—they are weapons of displacement. Problems are not solved, they are moved. Misery is not alleviated, it is hidden.

And the irony is grotesque. In Portland’s Pearl District, an entitled hand scrawled “No Shelter” on the wall of a refuge-to-be. Graffiti—the art of the erased—was repurposed as the art of erasure. Bad graffiti, bad faith, bad politics. Even rebellion was reduced to aesthetic litter in the service of exclusion.

The devil is not in the details—the devil is the details. Jim Crow announced itself with a sign on a fountain. Today’s segregation hides in spreadsheets and lawsuits. That makes it harder to name, harder to fight, and far more insidious.

We reject blindfold altruism. We reject displacement disguised as compassion. We refuse to let suffering be shuffled out of sight so affluence can sleep at night. We demand that the burdens be shared where the wealth is. We demand visibility, not erasure.

Segregation has dressed itself up as progress. But we see the seams. And we will tear them out.

Kościuszko was never loud, never gilded.
An engineer, he built freedom stone by stone, trench by trench,
more mason than general, more architect than conqueror.
He fought for America, then bled for Poland,
but never belonged fully to either.
He carried liberty in his pocket like a compass,
offering it to all who hungered,
even those enslaved, even those history ignored.

Poland remembers him as a failed uprising,
America as a foreign helper.
But the truth is larger —
he was a bridge,
a man between worlds,
a man who knew that margins are where the real battles live.

I grew up in Florida,
the peninsula that America laughs at,
a child ostracized but indispensable.
Now I walk toward Poland,
the Slavic child the EU scolds,
but cannot do without.

In both places,
I feel the echo of Kościuszko:
understated, underestimated,
and yet unyielding.

He is not my idol —
idols are for worship.
He is my companion,
a reminder that freedom is rarely polished,
never granted from the center,
always carved from the edges,
by those who refuse to be dismissed.