I could have been happy if,
I didn’t have to live with
the secret expectations
of someone who believed
in the ascension
of humanity.

I could have smiled more,
if the world that I adored
was filled with fellow hearts
that held compassion’s
glowing spark.

I could have been a better friend
if I hadn’t been condemned
to feelings and deeper thoughts
passions of a darker cost,
but as the rose wilted
all hope was lost,
all my childhood dreams got
caught, cut up, or co-opted.

I could have came home last night
and told you all it would be alright,
but I am too tired to lie,
and I am too tired to try.
So, I say goodnight to this deceiving dream
of believing in
the good hearts of my fellow humans.

It’s a dark recollection
and all that I see
is a crumbling city
getting ready to
to collapse
on the scraps
of human vagrancy.
  
My car grumbles through
as my stomach growls,
a little less louder than
the late-night owl’s
party howls.

Got enough gas
to make it pass
the homeless guy
scrounging in the trash,

and beyond
the ***** blonde
drunk lady
looking through ash
to get as few
smokable butts.

I am doing all right
chasing nine to fives
to get by
and picking up
two extra
late night
shifts.

But the breaking point is
the mind I got
doesn’t fit,
seeing suffering misfits
brings me back down
to the heart of my history
when the hungry one
was me
and I would sleep
on a city bench
next to a slow street.

While cruising Corona on the net,
I saw pangolins not eaten yet.
Many, you see, believe its scales,
Are cure-alls to cure whatever ails.
And its meat festoons the rich Asian table.

Who ate the pangolin from head to toe.

China lauds its laws to say they save
The endangered pangolins,
At home, in Asia;
Yet in Wuhan, locked live in cages,
In wet markets like our Dark Ages,
The scaly pangolin is sold.

But Revenge,
We know,
Is a dish best served cold.

Coffees zombies swarm,
coming in for their bitter friend
that awakens them
with the warm caffeine stream.

Red eyed dead guys
drive by as they supersize
specialized styrofoam cups of
the black muck that they love.

The cream swirls in a spiraling
sort of sick dependency,
to feed their urgent need
to compensate for a
severe lack of sleep.

It’s a horde of horrible things
moving without ever connecting,
a herd of cattle off for the
slow slaughter they call work,
and it really, really hurts.

It’s a war of attrition,
a sorrowful chorus,
that lacks the eloquence
of any previous composition.

A collective set in last place,
poor paces of a human race
as they squander the resources that really matter.

Something is amiss
in this dark dismal abyss.

Something is off,
out of sync
with the way I think
we all should be.

Something isn’t right
about this human plight.

Perhaps it is the fact
that the will I have to act
has been disintegrated.

Maybe it is because
the species that I love,
this herd of humans
has led me to believe
there is no better future
left to see.

Humanity has taken
that last shreds of faith I have.
Our species has shaken
the very core
of my once hopeful mind.

Now, I find I have no purpose
because of this worthless
existence.
A lack of meaning
and human decency
has stole from me
the drive to be
anything more than
a twig floating in
our shared timestream.

The White House is an inverse reflection
Of the matter/anti-matter chamber:
It's Not, The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
No. It's, The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
What matters matters.

The world has lifted it's eyes,
Pressed it's hands together
In prayer and supplication
To the hosts on high,
In self-isolation.

This isn't the first time
Heaven has abandoned us
At the most inappropriate, crucial moments in history.
The Crusades, The Plague,
The World Wars,
The Final Solution,
Other pandemics.
It's like the Heavenly White House.

Who champions the weak
giving a voice to those
who cannot speak?

Who lights the corners
where shadows reign
and people strain
to catch a breath
that flees from pain?

Who flips the switch
bringing in rays that
clear the dark,
allowing artists
to open up the park
so kind people can plant the seeds
that grow what humanity needs
to open strangers’ hearts
and clear out slick city sharks
that scowl and prowl
in a predatory style
whilst slowly devouring human decency?

In a world where villains
almost always win,
who is the everyday champion?

The world spins,
blowing up
from within
amidst this
human destruction.

Forest and fields burn.
Still time turns
an orb in space.

Fur falls to cinders
a painful reminder
as those who cannot
step up
find they have
very few defenders.

In a hundred years
when they are
no longer thriving here
who will remember
the wonder of the wild.

The world is going to hell,
seems to be a ball of fire
set to expire in a vacuum,
set to become a bare black tomb,
and we are either on
the edge of no return
are already falling off the precipice
into eternity’s dark abyss.

We know them best by their first names,
Names ingrained on our brains;
Mouthed by millions being slain,
By the viral ego of the politically inane.

Adolph, Idi, Kim and Pol,
Francisco, Mao and Nicol.
Other names have come and gone,
None rise so high, as Despot Don.

Tens of thousands die prematurely,
The man's bereft of human morality.
Preoccupied with re-election,
He risks a healthy population:
The aged, sick and compromised,
Won't cast a vote when they die.
The word is out throughout New York:
He ain't famly, de foykin joyk.

You were born
untethered from
the greed of men

who would
usurp all the good in
the land for their
great fortune

Let that agenda wane
into the wind
that you may be
human again

Evolve into
the quiet dance
for you are in
the company
of trees

return to your
birthright and love
what is good
and unhurried