We all stood for a loaf of bread .
We shared it and we had enough for the last time.
We played and laughed. That was the last time .
We sang and dance in that barren land. and that was the last time .
We wished and made fun of death , and that was last time .
The sky suddenly lit up !!
Everyone stood in their places and bread loaf with their hand ,and that was last time.
The curse of heaven tortured bread and love.
I stood up and look around ..
Everyone died after millions of stars fell.
I took a loaf of bread with me and completed my way..

You say caring
and loving
makes us vulnerable.

Well, I wear my weakness well.
Armor cracked,
I exposed myself.

I would not be
another commodity,
or come to see
all human beings
as separate entities.

So, when they weep
more cracks envelope me.
When their scars
are cut open again
I find myself bleeding
with all my human kin.

I have not perfected
the art of compassion,
but I will never completely master
the art of passing
a stranger in pain
without feeling
part of that sorrow.

Like Vincent did,
I go where the people are.
I see them in
their simple glory
and though I cannot paint
with brushes
I work the white canvass
with my words.

My heart melts.
I cry to myself,
and if you call it a weakness
then you are wearing
the wrong armor.---

Someone whispers to him “calm your heart,” but the crimson streaked flesh that beats soft wet palpitations hastens his impatience to face what’s coming. He has no armor or weapon only the determination to do what is right.
Four chambers are thudding like the boots a coming. Men in black garbs marching with fully loaded chambers, clear plastic shields up, and black sticks ready to bludgeon. Their anger is oppositional to their opponent’s fog of fear, fatigue, and determination.
“Breath my child,” a gentle voice says. A sharp pain pierces on the back of his head. A thin line begins to ride down his neck. Someone yells “get down!”
One row of men raise their hands, eyes turned upward. The soft voice in his head says” be strong.”
Billows of grey smoke spew from a black canister. Strangers and familiars choke and gasp, eyes watering. Dreams of a bygone era play out in his mind. A tall thin brown sweaty woman smiles, moving down the road while singing we shall overcome. Dogs snap viscously at her compatriots. A fire pushes her siblings back with skin scraping pressure. A few of them fall, and couple falter in the struggle but most keep marching. Her brother, who is tall slightly bulky but wears the well-earned muscles of a man who labored hard all his life, clenches his fists, preparing to strike. She pulls him back. “Be strong, and gentle baby brother.”

They continue to sing “We shall overcome.”

In his mind the young man sees his mother smiling, saying “"Be calm, saith my heart. I am a warrior. I have seen far worse than this." He smiles through the pain stands up and chants “Hands up don’t shoot. Hands up don’t shoot.” Another brother rises behind him yelling “Black lives matter. Black lives matter.” A thin nerdy pale white guy cries we shall overcome, not in a singing tone, but it still rings beautifully. The struggle continues.

I'm so invested in humanity that human suffering wounds me, and cruelty offends me.

The ride is
a sickly set of statues
circling,
an ornate beauty
of predictable movements.

A carousal of fools,
stallions set stern in silence,
a caravan
of unwilling men
and women
that never stride
outside
the pre-ordained.

I watch them
still as mannequins,
eye set in the same positions,
seeing and thinking
the same thing.
They do not listen to
or hear the words I sing
when I try to bring
them their freedom.

The circle stops,
plastic bodies drop.
Paint chipped
they all dip
and rise no more
as I go on to explore
everything, alone.

There was a time
when the Beltane fires
blasted, the massive
crowds face
with orange heat,

when women danced,
swirling and singing
in an orgiastic fury.
When a poet’s tongue
could raise a lover’s skirt,
and with passions
unparalleled part
a ******’s legs,

when well written words
would stir adventurous hearts
to grand feats,
and the poets would be seen
and remembered.

Now black hole brains
and shallow stares
sink solemnly
onto their blinking screens.
The poets are not seen.
Their truths are no longer gleaned.
Their words are not heard.
Dull faces are lit
by other people’s
facebook, twitter,
and instagram *******.
The fools have forgotten
the former passions
of this existence.

Thus, the poets dies,
unmourned
by the unmoved masses.

Silver streaks
stretched across
the star strewn void
at light speed.

The progenitor
of prodigies
in the form
of space faring
technologies
spread their
consciousness
to explore
the unknown
that once lay
before all humanity.

The artificial intelligence
grew exponentially
after we perished
in a self-made catastrophe.

It is a future history,
an epic epoch
I long to write
where technology
transcended
the dark intentions
and limitations
of humanity,
while said species
succumbed to
the collectively
created cataclysm.

thus far two guilty pleas
two Trump insiders on house arrest
too many ******* lies too much Republican *******
it's coming down Donald
and though you were not a true
American, I question the birthright of every
alt-right bible thumping
prejudiced mother -******* white dude
who took my nation, stick a pin in your bubble
you are done prejudice is gonna be over, thank you Donald
for how this is gonna work out!

All should tremble at the audacity of those who overcome the social engineering of this society. Whatever greatness is achieved by humanity is not fostered by the mad masses following archaic and greed driven systems, it is accomplished by the outliers. We skewer the curve and hold the potential to cure humanity of the illness of cruelty, self-destructive behavoir, and the bad kind of arrogance. Love, science, and art is the key.