Driving I see
a slow descending
road of concrete
settle into
an enclosed
docking thing.
Only a brief glance
but I capture it
in my memory.
A handful of human beings
with all of their things,
including bags for sleeping
scattered in the back.
I imagine that
they are ***** and homeless,
partially hopeless
but I do not know this
for certain.
Like all other people
I make too many assumptions.
If I had the gumption
and time
I would walk down and find
the truths they hold
in their unique minds.

You do not know me
the child who waited
patiently,
for you to see
our share humanity.

Little circumspect
floating speck
swirling in
the chaos.

I proffered
the words of prophets,
not a religious sect
but the heart set
in seeing
all the souls
who were pleading
for a better world.

You do not know me,
and as I slowly
recede
into infinity
you still will not
realize
my true divinity.

Not your ancient
or brand new
Muslim or Hindu,
gods,
not Christianity,
but the soul
in service
of humanity.

Can you feel the piercing pull
as the projectile runs you through
spitting splatter art
across the stone hearth?

Can you see the shattered hearts,
wounds wrapped in cloth
unable to stem
the tides of blood
that won't stay within?

Can you dream of the darkness
that others endured,
the struggles they pushed through
as they interred
the ones they love?

Can you look a stranger
right in the eyes
and without lies
tell him or her
that you care
and that they are heard?

Can you be kind
one time,
then another,
then another
till compassion
becomes
the path
that you run
around and around
in an almost infinite
circle of intent
till you are buried
in the ground?

Can you be
a decent
human being,
please?

It is not my blood
that wets the tattered rags,
soft skin
slowly paling,
mother loudly wailing
waking anyone near
to the agony
that other mothers
come to fear.

It is not my family
shattered,
blood splattered
buried under
tons of rubble,
and lost to
man-made devastation.

It is not my neighborhood,
my hood is real good,
safe and clean
no one hears a scream
cause there are no
military bombings
breaking down everything.

But these are my tears,
this is my fear
to hear clear
the horrible pain
of those that
my leaders claim
deserve to be hurt.

It is not my country,
but they are all my people
and if I am a decent human being
then I must share these things
bare these thoughts
bring these words
so, all can see the cost
of inhumanity.

i'm bad luck. struck sad and oblate
weary, dedicated to the swearing ground.
chivalric pulp, my pages
don't bind like they used to.

rhyme me sad. adder fluent, sistines
vaunt these heads of mine. but wise
enough to feel these molecules murmer
and mouth the corvid in the wellwater.

annihilated profiles in my coming wake.
i am bad luck and prose. slipped
my shadow, i walk a bare life.
not broken anymore. not here all the way.

don't canter.
never could.
haven't loved. will

of a ghost. hell, i see ancestors
trailing behind me
in a mass of quadruped brutes
black as the day i was born
and sounding a great horn
made of gold and unprophecy,
babblings of a river older than talk.

We live in comparison,

When I compare my self
to wealthy men,
I find my fortunes
sadly lacking.

But if I look back
at the shadows closing in
all that human suffering
all those souls living
without compassion,
the dark nights passing
every sad circumstance
every tragic dance
of death and gore
that came before;

If I am keeping score
of the ratio
of smiles to terrible tears,
of poor to prosperous years,
of those gone
and those family and friends
who are still here.

It is very clear
that I am doing **** fine.

Witness
the witless
swimming in
the driest
wetness.

sinking in
solid ground,
making the loudest
silent sound,

master of mundane
wearing hats
to make hate
great again,

artists who perform
the opposite of
the art form
attempting to reform
that which needs
no rebirth
just the freedom to grow
in whatever direction
the art has earned,

metaphors
of madness
thinning
to fatness,
as I slurp up
all the sick stuff
humanity
has been brewing.

I do not have cancer
or malignant tumors,
causing me to double over
in irregular
bouts of agony.

I have a job
and make enough
to buy healthy food
and some other stuff.

Never been
sent to prison,
and I got
a decent
education.
Plus, I get
two weeks’ vacation.

I do not have to
pick up and walk to
somewhere
hundreds of
miles away
just to be safe
from some
sick warlord
or hateful horde
of horrible soldiers
who want to ****** me
and my family.

I may not be
super wealthy
but compared to
most of the people
in other countries
I’m living pretty large.

I am the fortunate one.

Nice to get your dreams
see ambitions fulfilled
be thrilled
by what you achieved.

So, you're finally
respected and
recognized,
literary dreams
realized
because
you inspire
the masses.
They talk about you
in college classes,
and strangers
ask you to sign
the books you write.

So, success
could be defined
by wealth acquired
by the things you desired
finally becoming
stationary place holders
in your household.

So, your health
and physique
finally match
the muscle mass
and bodyfat
percent that
you wanted.

All the hours
you put in
to getting
the great win,
and as you
look around
you will see
friends and family
growing old
and becoming deceased.

Was it worth it?

I'm trying to tell us how I absorb the sun
On yellow days.
Walking to nowhere down the hill
Inspired by the shiny backs of leaves
Surprised how free the excepting is
Taken in like i belong
Here a glint like a young smile
A pattern i discern from the background is a face welcoming me
The bark dark green absolute
Full resolutely i come there
Calm. Almost gone is that blue.
Replaced by rays and limbs and twigs dead leaves the dead the life going on
Absolute peace.

I dont want to leave.

I belong here...