How to hold this rage,
To keep belly-fire
Burning

In righteous anger

As manifold wrongs
Surround.

How to keep this rage
When love balm
Overflows
To calm the furnace

Scattered thoughts
Escape the pen
Of reason.

All along a
Sinuous trail
Is laid,
Snail slimed,

Easily followed
Yet utterly devoid
Of meaning.

One day
Focus
Shall gimlet point

To the core
Of snail shell,
Fractal,

Shall return
Wildcats to the
Source-

To the reason
For thinking-

For...

So I can’t trust the Times, Fox News, or the Post.
Too left or too right, just parasites hungry for hosts.
From you, fellow tax-paying citizen, I take note.
I listen to you — that angry defense of your vote.
Are you going to tell me what I am able to trust?
Before this land of the free is left to ruins and rust?
Silence speaks volumes,
like the encyclopedia I loved, circa ‘94—
devoured for hours on my living floor.
(Sidenote: That encyclopedia included several pages on
the Holocaust. But then, I suppose,
the Encyclopedia Britannica shouldn’t be trusted either?)
So what must I trust if I can’t share the news
without being challenged because of my views?
You say I can’t trust the posted or printed, so instead,
I'll trust something much louder in my heart and my head.  
I'll trust that empowered white supremacy in a place
where "all men are created equal," is something I refuse to embrace.
I'll trust that our freedom of speech is not our freedom to hate.
Black, brown, yellow, white— that’s not up for debate.
I'll trust that hope will swallow such hate in the blink of an eye—
choke the breath from its lungs and drop a beat to its cry.

And then I'll trust that history will one day forget
that we've failed to keep its pages from repeating just yet.

if i die,
I want to be content,
Solemn
and atleast happy
not
lonely

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.

These memories
are but little lingerings
as brief
as the warm breath
felt from a whisper into the ear
like a burnt tongue
or a splintered fingertip
whos pain is only recognized
with even the slightest of touch.

Give thanks if someone
Smiles to see you!

Give thanks if your parents
Scoff at your mischievousness!

Give thanks if your friend
Takes you to a mosque!

Give thanks if an elderly
Holds you in esteem!

Give thanks to those
Who consider your goodness

In a time of self centered life
And none is trusted to be yours!

Give thanks for it's our heritage
And thank God for its existence

As Giving thanks is a sharing of love
That is need of mankind!

Forget the girl that loved you/
Forget your beloved that left you/
There is a mind in each heart/
Sometimes the latter is an audience.

America, when will you step outside of yourself?
When will you realize that one-size does not fit all?
I’d say we’ve outgrown our government,
but freedom of speech is not freedom of consequence.
America, the air is too thin up in your tall towers.
Is it time to dismantle?
I’d be happy living in rubble if everyone felt valued.
America, what do I tell your children
when they ask why we’re going to war?
They will ask, as will the fear in their eyes.
America, I have another question,
have you ever been grabbed by the *****?
America, do you think the world
will be able to see past your new orange glow?
Will they see your citizens pining for progress?
Will they laugh or will they cower
at the sight of us tearing each other apart?
America, you are no longer a melting ***.
You are a child holding a sectioned dinner plate,
and the thought of trying something new
fills you with abhorrence.
America, the world is naturally colorful.
The world might see this, but you do not.
America, a locked door and a loaded gun won’t keep
a nuclear missile from stopping by to visit.
You must know that.
America, how will you end?
Will I be there to watch?

America, are you listening?

chlej (verb): to drink excessively
or chlaj: you do it,
  or even chlać (noun): to do so.

it's an aesthetic variation the acute
scalpel incision on the c: piquant -
the Ukrainians call the Poles: Lachy -
which is not the sound of witchy itchiness -
it's not the sound of cheap:
but something akin to a hark -
potency of how the French literally don't
trill or cartwheel their Ar (argon?)
           and thus say the literally Greek
rho (ρ) - thus the story of: chleje (i am drinking
to excess, but i'm not going to repent
for these antics, **** it: every single
psychopath in us to his gamble).

thus said: some say that diacritical marks
are also punctuation marks
that somehow became dislodged from
the linear function and entered the trigonometric
expression of tangens -
            offshoots into infinity -
or how the western niqab is a pair of sunglasses -
or how every autistic darty eyed celeb
dons them to hide those creepy eyes -
while psychiatrists only ask *two questions:
a. are they biting their nails      and
b. what about eye-contact?

another funny word: ryło -
czerwone (red) and czerń (black)
           czerwone ryło: etymological
ambiguity: it's either gob or cheek
after being pinched by a set of knuckles with
a punch - no Victor Frost wasn't here with
a -40°C Siberian pecker of a smooch -

kot srający na pustyni: variation of a selfie pout
(a cat ******* on a desert) -
funny thing, Darwinism, that sound encoding
didn't evolve to utilise diacritical marks
      as duly (not dully) expressed in Joyce's
end of Ulysses where all punctuation is lost
and left to the dynamo of babel...

there are, truly, more fun moments in poetry
than rhyme - not to mention the anorexic variation
of prose with cutting short the paragraph:
yes, that famous mishandling of paragraph that
poetry truly is... due-lee and dolly -
then the peeps said: oh yeah, that clone sheep -
dolly in science-land, and hence the wonder.

but i do feel sick having watched aeroplanes
and birds, trees, the wind, and cats and all that
dynamic harmonica and never use that
reverse of a freemason handshake (could it be
plural possessive, i.e. ownership?)

****, i'm drinking and then comes the functioning
alcoholic doing the Apache thunder dance
with alchemic cooking up a pumpkin risotto -

o to historia z kantem, co podwujne ma dno,
gdyby napisał ją dante,
to nie tak by szło...

       and here lies power...

        ą (ogonek) my evolutionary step forward into
a tango - tailed-a - or me says me monkey
why Anglo without tailed-a?

    sz = sh = š        cz = ch = č
                    rz = ż = ž                       :
look at them, those humanists, they just as horrible
as scientists, they're doing their *******
electron travels like they might cite Gulliver's -
and they never tell you what's going on,
until someone places a skunk in a room full of them
and once attempting mutiny on the Mayflower,
are soon the horde of Mongolian rats
escalating into a fury of a furry tsunami as an attempt
to conquer the seas in the numbers...

but in all honesty, i feel ill if i spend a day not
using these phonetic encryptions -
i see too much colour, too many shapes,
too many shapes not governed by man's
     geometry - and only in this medium can i
rest my drunken head while "as if talking in my head".

now, i can accept the serious criticism of
philosophy against poetry -
            but when journalists are at it...
those gob-smacker-chatterers are in for a plum hue
under one of their eyes - that ambivalence of
my tongue actually waggling away into concern
  is the point where i use my hands more to
craft the dough of some who might be
victims of a Westminster ******* ring of
   aristocrats (italics sometimes implies sarcasm).