In fear of death
toxic products
sell themselves.

The landscape becomes
a graveyard of
rusted metal
and worn-out tires
surrounded by
green growth,
gray gravel roads,
and massive
towers with long
cylindrical tubes
that obscure the
heavenly scenery.

Boundaries are cornered by
fields of unfulfilled
corny potential
and metal fences
that gives the pretense
of security.

Twisted tangles of tiny blue flowers
are pursued by the perfect pollinator
as black birds perch precariously
on long stalks of wheat swaying in
the wind till the bird takes off again,

while a sassy sweat bee
keeps stalking me
cuz, I am super sweet.

I close the curtains,
let darkness consume
my small bedroom
till blue light blooms
from the small screen
that sits between me
and everything.

In my resistance
I live a safe distance
from a regular
human existence.

Digits tapping out
syllabic strokes of
love and doubt,
whilst constantly
struggling
and pursuing
truths others
weren’t using
or even viewing
to expand myself.

A universe within,
the garden I tend
as I parcel out
tiny packages
of unused wisdom.

Light becomes
darkness
and night
turns to day.

A day to live
and die again
awaking refresh
as a new version
of myself
gets up and repeats
similar patterns.

I begin to end the wind
that whines in my mind,
and unwind the vines of time,
cause I hope to uncurl
the twine and find
a spark of the divine
behind the flesh facade
you have put on
to service everyone,
whilst denying yourself,
the kindness you are trying
to give away every day.

I'm apprehensive
cause when
people mention
their own fears
it causes me tension.

But, I'm so glad
I brought my
small black
notepad,
so I can write notes
to pass the time,

cause I got 8 hours
of contemplating
devastating
and frustrating
lessons in waiting,
learning patience,
while debating
if now is the time
for innovating,
or for immolating
all of my
addicting devices,
and going back to
a more naturalistic
worldview.

This is what
I work out,
and it works to
ease me through
boring afternoons.

The lights did not go out
The walls did not shake and tumble
There were no clarion horns or cymbals
Streets were not awash with blood
But nevertheless blood did run cold.
Promises wrapped in glints of hope
Made screeching sounds as they were broken
And shattered bits of progress
Littered streets and pathways everywhere.
The rumble of the coming doom
Arrived on Humvees made in China
For the use of United Nations troops.
Everybody saw it coming
In vast Tsunamis of dread and fear
But there were simply not enough
Little Dutch Boys in blue hats
To poke their fingers in the dikes
That shuddered as they slid away
And buried ordinary people in the deluge
There was no way to win that war
The Russians tried, so did the French.
You can’t turn oranges into apples
But the women, oh the women
And their pretty little girls
Having had a taste of freedom
In forms that were once denied
They will now be forced by brutes
To give back everything they gained
And become in sad defeat
Merely property of men
swallowed up in flowing burkas
Black as the intentions of their rulers
             ljm

This will not stop
till we block cops
who get bought off
by the corporate crooks
who cook their books
spicing them up with
human suffering
and the law system
that keeps buffering
cruel politicians,
preventing the poor
from rising
while the filthy rich
gets more by demoralizing
and demonizing
the poverty stricken
along with all those
who are different.

So, wicked men keep working
wedge issues into
every TV appearance
to give the appearance
of righteousness
while stifling
true social movements
that try to move men
towards the world were
we can all strive for betterment,

but for now, we barely even get
cheap out of court settlements.

I'm a wannabe poet who's fit,
muscular and brilliant,
but drowning in ****
cuz I wasn't born to be aquatic,
caught this caustic illusion,
that perpetuated the delusion
that we live in a system
that is actually democratic,
and that I might matter just a little bit,

but I can no longer hold my breath,
sinking sullenly in a swollen sea
of one mind numbing atrocity
after another.

In understanding
that fate does not
arrange it,
and that I cannot
rearrange it.

I am finding myself
to be a redundancy
that no one needs
and the point me
existing is a ponderous
bit of reflecting
that has not revealed
the reasons why
I act or feel.

So, I'm settling in
watching human suffering
but no longer struggling
to change it.

I am empty,
negative spaces
that do not reflect
or absorb
any light
or other
things of
great import.

Earth conforms
to fit the form
of my warm
footprints.
Plants bend
when I touch them,
but no one sees
my being
or hears a
single thing
from me.

I am the master
of nothing,
apathy embodied,
too tired to be
hopeful,
or naughty.

Warm winds work
their way
around my body.
Water falls all
around me,
but what
can a void feel
when it is not
even real?

The closest thing to a one world government
we will ever get is a multinational capitalist
cabal of colonial consumer interests,
arms dealers, land stealers, and commodity makers
who use people as ingredients in a corporate stew
that allows the powerful to abuse their workers,
whilst propping up the politicians
who are stopping us from realizing
that we should be nationalizing
our resources and universalizing
compassion.

I'm a porch distance
from other witnesses
trying to commit this
human wisdom
to other men.

I'm a poet
always writing,
inviting others in
to a shared understanding
but it doesn't matter
if I master
the technical skills,
if I can't relate
to what other people feel.

Then I'm still
just a second-rate hack
wearing an off-gray hat,
a Mayberry man
with two hands
on my gun belt
as I shoot myself,
whilst dumbfoundedly
wondering “how am I
going to come back
from that?”