How diligently do you
deepen discourses
on philosophical,
social, and political
truths?

What is debatable,
palatable,
until it is unsayable,
cuz the unstable
will make horrible things
capable of happening.

A carnival of
constant rotations
declines and elevations,
disturbing mental visitations
paired with terrible hesitation.

The fetishization,
and circulation
of cultural appropriation,
hastened by caucasians
lack of emotional relations
to different groups
and their enforced stations
in our society.

How do we address
the inequality
when so many resist
the notion that it even exists?

So, the systems persists,
as I bang my head
against collectively created
mental bricks.

This poem is a study of sturdy storytelling.
Conflicts don't have to be complicated.
We don't need any super or normal villains.

I may not have the ability to be commercially
as successful as those other persons I see
who are spitting sick **** provocatively.

I may not be technically terrific.
Each line may not be perfectly specific,
but I can take new experiences and refashion them,
take enemies passion’s and make them friends again.

Till we all give in to the compassionate whims
that do what we need artistry to achieve,
cause we need other artists to believe
we can be better than what we currently see.

How inappropriate,
she’s my ******,
cute and flexible
barely detectable,
definitely delectable.

She’s a wonderful,
super comfortable,
good dancer,
a little dangerous,
perfectly fit,
and slightly psychotic.

I’m a caterpillar
and she is
a caterpillar killer.

She is fascinating,
and good at debating.

What a dream
a tragedy
that she is
imaginary,
make believe
at least for me.

In reality she
is dating
the kind of guy
I have spent
my lifetime hating,
confident bad boy
without the brains to
back up that smack talk.

Chalk it up to
a society that
doesn’t value
the truth
but prefers
*******.

I am already one among many,
a stranded stranger in this city,
but despite my plight they still
try to steal my identity,
try to change my name,
leaving me out to dry as I
am barely hanging from the windowsill.

There is no place for a poet who
rebels against those that want to
make him into another reflection
of this destructive urban infection.

I would run with the wolves
but the only wildlife we got here
are the wall street predators
and the other beasts who drink
up the destruction and misery
of the lost souls creeping on
cold hard and hungry city streets.

The roads are slick, and I could easily
find myself slipping, and falling,
succumbing to the dark and beastly
urges that want to consume me,
as my empathy is drained and changed
into a deranged competitive side.

It would be better to become
the moon that loves the sun,
or the ever-changing stream
that runs through my dreams.

The forest calls with all of her
grand green beauty and wonder.
The stillness and quietest
place that supplies this
momentary escape and inspiration.

White petals floating in the wind,
dirt brown paths that go down
to the lake and then
back around to a field of corn.

but I seldom return to that safe place,
just muddle through a sick polluted storm,
brain dead instead of wearing a smiling face,
I start to blend into the crowd that is moving.

Tightly packed automatons,
memory fails and now the poet is gone.

The city devours the last brilliant hours,
and the poems no longer finds a pen,
and the phoenix no longer rises again.
The sleeper no longer dreams.
He just keeps walking and walking.

A stranded stranger still talking,
but not saying anything.

I am not a perfectionist
but I want to
write such works
that make words strike
like bullets that hurt
when they are finally heard.

By which only the bad
and severely mad
could avoid being affected,
and for years later on
my art would be dissected
by other artists and historians,

and the wisdom that I’m bringing
would reach out and touch
millions and millions
of open-hearted civilians,
would enlighten the frightened
women, men, and children;

Inspiring the tired fighters
to stop the riots and
indict violence inciters.

I want to put people
on the edge of their
consciousness.
Till, they are forced to face
the plain reign of pain
that stains people’s brains.

I do not expect my experiment
will be successfully permanent,
or start any sort of social movement,
but in my wildest most hopeful dreams,
in my grandest poetic schemes,
I am moved to move other human beings,
and make them feel what I have felt
and see the things that I have seen.

I am but a passing poetic fool,
who hopes that you’llcont.
humor him.

So, I can sit and write again
and again, calling on
my current, past, and future
treasured friends
to appreciate what lays
underneath different tints
and shades of skin.

That by taking these verses
and polishing them,
you might finally listen
and act with more compassion
and less greed and ignorance.

I can hear them shout,
but I keep thinking about
every day I wake
with an inkling of doubt.

Always questioning,
constantly questing,
I seek answers
to questions
not many people
are asking.

What about kindness?
What about empathy?
What about the brilliance
that I see staring back at me
in the form of
universal diversity?

What about daydreams
and all the hopes they bring?
Have I dreamed enough
or are there so many more
left for me to explore?

What about reality,
neuroscience,
and biology?
What about the glory of
all the natural things I see?
What about hope,
Is there any out there left for me?

What about the finality
of death,
or the endlessness
of infinity paired with eternity?

I got a sick suspicion
sinking and settling in
my stomach like iron *****.

A fear that we have been
walking in a maze of sewers
with tons of manure,
that people won’t bother
trying to be any better because
they have gotten used to
the sick disgusting stuff,
and being corrupt
is just how it will be.

I don’t want to fight a war
for more kindness,
or spread it like a virus
hoping as an illness
it binds us.

I don’t want a metaphor,
that helps us explore
the depths of gentleness
I have been searching for.

I want direct action,
the satisfaction
of seeing once stalled hearts
moved to go through the few
who seek to divide us from
our deep beautiful truths.

Diversity is not to be feared.
It is the wind that clears
the clutter of the old dull ideologies
that subdue or slow
our progress towards
a better brighter society.

***** flowery language,
I’ve written to many
soft verses that didn’t have
any seeming impact.

Trash all that garbage cruelty,
sexism, violence, and racism,
throw out your doubt about
if xenophobia is bad,
spoiler ****’s and proud boys
are the villain here.

Lets spring clean the mean scene,
and bring back the best qualities
of being a decent human being,
starting with empathy.

If you say
you are suffering
I would not
say you are lying,
so why do you
decry the truth
when other
mothers are crying.

How does authority
automatically
equal honesty
when we see
historically,
they are the
perpetrators
of brutality?

The finality
of financial
inequality
is the devastation
of our entire nation,
so why do you
look at the others who
are struggling
like you do
and think
that they
are the enemy,
when it is
the big businesses
that corrupts
our democracy?

They’ve got the bombs,
tanks, and police.
They run the streets
from walls to all the cities.
They cut the checks,
and makes the rules,
so you let them
play you for fools,
as they demonize
other colored guys
with all their
greedy lies.

But a rainbow
of variation
is beautiful thing
to strive for.
It would help us
adapt, survive
and thrive more.

Isn’t that something
worth living
or dying for?

I wasn’t expecting the perfecting of empathy,
just hoping that we could learn how to be
generally, a little gentler with our humanity;

But what I am watching is beyond crossing
the borders of insanity, the lines in the sand we see
are so far behind us it isn’t even a memory,
more like some mystical fairytale,
a lie that we tell to ourselves
to believe we were once decent people.

None of this is appropriate or adequate,
but if you take a generation and add a bit
you might start a bad of habit of thinking up
a way to remix this acid trip in which we exist,
cause this hallucinogenic fix has had the opposite effect,
instead of expanding it has caused a loss of intellect.

So, the warrior goes on, while the poet is gone,
the killer is strong, but the dreamer is wrong.
Up is down, back is forward marching on toward
a black bitter beastly legend we named lord,
history imbued with the blood of love
on the tip of a poorly formed sword,
as the slant of the blade reflects and distorts
the value of life lived, given, and sacrificed
to all of those ridiculously profitable lies.

Say goodnight
to that psychopathic
narcistic guy.

You all used to say
you were about to make
America great.

So, say goodbye
to that uncouth
wanna cause
a violent coup
dipstick dude
who many of you
were following
through to
treason.

Must be a
hard pill to swallow
cause you haven’t taken
the medicine
of getting rid of him
and accepting
the election.

Such a bad *******
for the fool who
won’t move on
fast enough.
Instead, he is
getting everyone
riled up
and stealing money.

It’s not even funny,
how he hurt so many.
It’s a cold chilly January
as he tries to dismember
that capitol with his fans.
Then throws them
under the bus.

This is how he uses
and abuses his stooges,
just ask Mike Pence.

So, forth hence
say farewell
to the ne’er-do-well.
He might not be
going to hell,
but if we are lucky,
he will be going to jail.