As I walk,
Brown husks crunch beneath my busied mind.
I see subtle irony in the carnage that change leaves behind,
Even as I smile in awe at the vibrant treasure trove of colors before me.

A smattering of hues flatters my sight
I turn slowly--
Needing only to reach up
And pluck that upon which I choose to alight.

We admire the foliage as it turns,
Until its belly is fully exposed and we are left disgusted.

When I go, I too shall leave behind a withered,
Hollow skin.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Let me feel your soiled-entombed secrets
Beneath my skin.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Let me feel your carpeted tendrils touch me lightly
With the breeze.

Lie with me, Mother Earth.
Divulge unto me your mysterious ways of being
Let me feel your truth on my tongue.

Lie with me, Mother Earth,
Let me admire the azure skies and sprightly sun
Show me how to see.

Lie with me, Mother Earth,
And free my soul from this living tomb
Let me be expansive and limitless.

Emancipate your sons and daughters, Mother Earth--
Rip from them their blindness
Open their eyes and unshackle their souls.

Release your unrepentant beauty and rage,
Mother Earth.

For you alone are the spectre that lets us be.

My friend, I beg of you.
Go and grieve.

Go to a funeral, a wake, a memorial service.
Let it be a man you do not know.

Sit among his friends, his family, his lovers.
Hear their stories.

Share in their laughter, their tears.
Feel with them, my friend.

Go, and remember sadness.
Remember beauty.

In death, there is both.

There is the sadness of absence,
And the beauty of love.

My friend,
Go, and be surrounded by all the range of human emotion.
Go, and experience all the range of human emotion.
Go, and laugh with this stranger's friends.
Go, and cry with this stranger's friends.

Go, and be a friend to strangers as a stranger among friends.

Go, and do not take this life for granted.

I remember 15 years ago.
I remember 9-11,
What it did to me--
What it did to us.

I remember 15 years ago.
I remember the towers falling,
What it did to me--
What it did to us.

I remember a country crumbling,
Then all at once united--unified.
I remember flags everywhere,
I remember despair, and pride.

I remember war, vindication.
I remember support, collaboration.
I remember rebuilding, foundation.
I remember one country, one nation.

But America, somewhere along the way--
We grew downtrodden.  
America, somewhere along the way--
We've forgotten.

We've forgotten that those 50 stars,
Those thirteen stripes,
Those three colors?
For one nation bleed.

We've forgotten that we are the united states,
One nation,
Under God.
Indivisible.

We grew tired.
Our patriotism expired,
Our hearts left cold,
We stand--then fold.

Still, I sing America.
The beautiful--
Land that I love--
My home.

Remember, America.
Remember when one flag meant one people,
When approval ratings soared like the wings of the unburden'd bald eagle--
Majestic, and powerful.

United,
We,
The people,
Will never be defeated.

Remember America.
Do not forget.
Look only to your name--

The United States

You are impermanent.
Or had you forgotten,
O ambitious pedestrian?

Your footsteps will not be long remembered on this earth.
Surely the watery waves of time must tell you this--
Each step, washed away only moments later.

Dry land is no better--
The shifting sands of the seasons do not allow you to make an impression.

I commend you, though,
O foolhardy serf.
Your earnestness does not go unnoticed,
Unappreciated though it may be.

You try to leave your indelible mark,
But you are nothing in an expansive sea of transient existence.
You are worthless.
Oblivion will eventually consume us all,
And there will not exist anything even remotely capable of immortalizing us in their memories.

Why, then, do you try,
O striving sapling?
Is the thought that you are meaningless too great to bear?
Do you press on in denial?

Or do you persist in spite of the obvious facts against you?
There would be something oddly commendable in this, I grant you.

Still, I must ask--
Four generations from now, will your family remember your name?
Will your great-great-grandkids know anything about you?
What legacy will you leave that endures?

Or is a temporal legacy just as meaningful as an enduring one?
History would say otherwise.
(We recall the Lincolns and the Mandelas of the world, not the John Smiths, after all).

But who am I to judge any one legacy any more or less great than another?
Who are you to listen to me?
Who are we to care?

Better not to, I suppose.
Better to do as much as we can with what precious little we are given.
Better to press on than to give in.

I commend you,
O inspirational being.

You do matter.

If you did not,
Why would you be here?

Don't you know?
Capitalism does not want for you to need things--
Rather,
It needs for you to want them.

My dear America, I don't buy it anymore.
You are not so beautiful as you believe.
You are braggadocious,
Pompous,
You are surface.

My dear America, call me a cynic if you wish.
But I know your lies.
You know them too, my dear America,
Though you refuse to admit them.

Steal the land, **** the Indians, **** them with your foreign diseases,
What do you care?
Manifest destiny, right?

My dear America, there lies a trail of death and destruction in your wake.
It is miles long, millions of lives deep.
And you step around it, like it is some murky puddle you prefer to avoid.

My dear America, I am ashamed of you.
All men are not created equal.
Surely the streets of the ghetto must tell you this--
Or are you blind, my dear America?

"Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses," you cry.
My dear America, don't you know?
You are a nation of rejects that excels only at rejection.

My dear America, your flag is spangled with the stars of the souls you have crushed.
Slavery,
Jim Crow,
Segregation,
(separate is inherently unequal, you know; we are not so united as you would like to believe),
And this is to say nothing of your internment camps.

My dear America, your history is a ****** one.
What are we so proud of, my dear America?
Our democracy?
It's not too far off from the Greeks', though.
Adult, male, land-owning, non-slave citizen.
(I think I just got a Jefferson déjà vu.)

13 centuries later, and all you did was dilute the democracy, my dear America.
Representative, not direct.
For fear of the unintelligent masses, of course.
Even in the birth of our nation,
Out of the ashes you rejected kindling for the flame of the future.

Fast forward two and a half centuries more,
And still I ask, what are we so proud of,
My dear America?

All that has changed are the faces of those we shun.
First Black, Irish, Italian, Asian.
Now Mexican, Muslim, Transgender.

My dear America, please do not misunderstand me.
I know you are not the same country as 240 years ago.
But I also know you are not that much different.
A little grown up, perhaps.
More mature, maybe.

It is not good enough.
A toddler to a teen in 240 years is progress too slow.

You must evolve, my dear America.
You must be more than you are,
More than you have ever been.

You must be the dream so many believe in.
You must allow those who work to achieve the dream.
You must allow those who want it to get there equally.
No restrictions, no barriers, no smoke and no mirrors.

Your flag waves so ***** and proud,
But my dear America, don't you know?
It does not reflect--
But refract.

I challenge you, my dear America.
Drape yourself in your many sins.
Make no bones about who you have been and who you are now.

Nobody likes a liar, my dear America.

Where is my America, my dear America?

Where is the America of my history textbooks?
Where is the greatness so readily found in your songs?
Where is the beauty your flag claims to represent?

Where is my America, my dear America?

O, what unfettered joy!
To see nature's ultimate majesty,
In all her sublime beauty,
What rapture!
What beautiful, wholesome bliss!

I wend my way down the winding river,
Lost amidst the allure of the water and the wild.
Three bald eagles fly in front of me,
What magic!

I pause, study one as it perches on a tree branch.
What marvelous, incredible regality!
It stares at me,
Bold and unafraid.
I stare back, in absolute awe of its perfect stateliness,
Its valiant bearing.

Less than a mile away, a highway hurries by--
Unaware and unappreciative,
Busy bees bustle from one commute to the next,
Ever they are slaves to the dollar,
The most grotesque of all the shades of green.

Trade your dollars for trees, I beg you.
Trade your asphalt strips for quiet waterways,
Your automobiles for kayaks, canoes.

Trade your hardened heart for the heart of the woods,
Your closed corporate soul for the expanse of the ocean--
Be alive, but be more than alive--
Be lively and vivacious and simply...
Live.

Trade your hustling life for quiet moments,
For solitude and appreciation,
For the quietude and sublimity that can only be found in one place--
Nature.

I am driving.
The day has been long and frustrating.
My shirt is cold with sweat, still damp on my salty skin.
I was supposed to be in the shower right now.

My brother needed to be picked up from work.
"I can't do it, I'm cooking," my mother said.
So I went.

The road twisty and soaked with rain;
I was irritable--
Today had not been an enjoyable one.

As I was driving,
I looked out,
To my left.

I saw a rainbow.

A full arc,
One hundred eighty degrees of beauty.

Scientifically, there's nothing very special about a rainbow.
It's just water vapor, reflecting white light, refracting it into the color spectrum,
Which we see before us.

Nothing very special.
Seventh grade science, really.

But I found great comfort in the rainbow today.
Funny, the colors are all divided, yet united, one next to the other.

Maybe we should stand more like rainbows.

Funny, that first there must be a storm, some kind of adversity,
And out of it, something beautiful emerges.

Maybe we should react more like rainbows.

Maybe we should be rainbows.

Reflect the light in our lives,
All of it.
Don't just absorb and reflect back only some.
Reflect it all.

Rainbows are fleeting, though.
All beauty must fade,
Nothing gold can stay,
Or so I'm told.

Why be a rainbow?

Why not?

Why not be someone's source of solace in their time of stress?
Why not shine your glorious light unto them?
Who are you to be so selfish?

No.

I tell you--
Be a rainbow.

I see the clouds,
silhouetted by the sun.

I'm told always to look for the silver lining.

It looks more gold to me.

The sun shines brilliantly behind it,
Illuminating the clouds' angelic edges.

Like some kind of optical illusion,
I search the edges.
Old hag, or young woman?
It depends on how one looks at it.

Beauty is in the edges, I think.
The rough,
not-quite-refined aspects of our humanity.

They've yet to be tainted by societal demands.

Humanity is a beautiful thing.
Raw,
Powerful,
Deadly,
Provocative.

Its rawness is its most inspirational aspect, though.
We love rawness.
Polished is dull.
If we know one thing,
It is that no human is ever completely polished.

We all have our blemishes,
Our idiosyncrasies, (as Robin Williams might say in some movie,)
Those are what make us so beautiful,
So lovable.

Our edges,
Illuminated by the undying flame of humanity,
Not in silver,
But in gold.

I'm not who I want
to be yet. But that's okay.
'Cause I'm on my way.

****.
Mass shootings.
I sit here, and I am disappointed in America.

From birth,
We are raised like young bald eagles,
Screeching our greatness,
Shouting our name.

"One nation, under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all"

For 12 years we say it every day.

Liberty and justice for all.
Indivisible.

Where is the liberty of feeling safe in one's sexuality?
Where is the justice for Brock Turner's victim?

Indivisible?

We are indivisible?

Tell that to members of the Left and Right this election cycle.
"Indivisible--meaning without the ability to be divided."

We cannot be divided?

Tell that to Muslims, Christians everywhere.
Tell it to those who are gay and those who are homophobic.
Scream it from the mountain tops,

"INDIVISIBLE, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!"

Listen to the words--
Do they sound ironic yet?
Do they drip with subtle notes of subterfuge and deception?
Do you think it might all be a lie we are told from birth?
Meant to propagate nationalism and patriotism?

Are we still the greatest country?

I'm not so sure anymore.

If we are indivisible, why do we tear one another apart with such ease?
Why is there so much resentment, so much brokenness?
Is that what it means to be indivisible?

I like to believe it's not,
But I'm not so sure anymore.

America, the brave?
The beautiful?
What is so brave about ****** an unconscious woman behind a dumpster?
What is so beautiful about wounding or killing 103 people in a nightclub?

Justice for all?

Where is the justice in 6 months of prison for 3 felony counts of ****** assault?

Are we as great as we say we are?

Wake up, America.

I wish to be a
Scribe, a King of the Language.
My Leaves--transcendent.

"I love you."
We cling to it like a life raft,
Lost as we are
In a digital sea of FaceTime calls,
Stuck in the 8 corners of our bedroom walls.

"I love you."
It's not so much that we need to hear it
As much as it is that we need to say it.

"I love you."
They're the words that say it all,
When we can't find the other ones.

"I love you."
Words more of assurance than devotion,
Words of safeguarding, words of longing.

"I love you."
Because I can't see you and talk about the things we'd usually talk about.
I can only miss you.
And having already said that,
Only "I love you" remains.

I know you love me too.
But I just need you to know,
For my own peace of mind,
That I do--

I love you.

I have watched wars waged and won,
Waged and lost.
I have died 100 deaths,
And lived 1000 lives.
I have loved and romanced,
I have fallen and cried.

Each life I live,
I live again,
And again.

Within the confines of these paperback worlds,
I have lived more truly,
More passionately.
Free of constraints and norms to censor my actions.

These hardcover entities have taught me--
Lessons more true and earnest than any parent could deliver.

I have ridden dragons, killed Voldemort, cast the evil ring into Mordor, been through Dante's Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, watched Milton's birth of the world, and seen Shakespeare deliver us thousands of new words.

O, what brave new worlds therein lie!

And all in a day's work.

All those things a man does in life,
And those a woman does, too;
I have done also.

I have done them ten thousand times over,
And done them with infinitely more passion.

I am he who lives most without leaving the house,
She for whom hours are spent, lives exhausted.

I am--
The reader.

Everyone knows that cold is numbing.
"Put some ice on it"
Why?

So that it goes away.
The pain recedes.
You don't feel.

Yet..somewhere on that scale from cold to numb,
Just a tick below, mind you--
Just a degree or two warmer,

There is alive

Today, not for the first time,
I walked into the shower;
Upset, confused, frustrated, despairing.

Today, not for the first time,
I let the water rain down over me as I sat;
I allowed it to wash over my pain.

Today, for the first time,
I turned the water not warmer,
But colder.

Then colder, and colder still.
I did not want to numb.
I discovered something.

As the water washed over me,
(the way I might imagine a rainstorm in Alaska to feel),
I felt alive.

Today, for the first time,
I lifted my head to meet the glorious cascade.
I felt

The water poured over me,
My thick, curly, sodden mass of hair veiled me,
Protecting my eyes from the icy deluge of daggers.

I was alive--
Free, refreshed, rejuvenated.
The water washed away my pain.

Today, not for the first time,
I was interrupted.
A knock at the door beckoned my response.

"Be out in a couple minutes!"
Regretfully, I rose,
Turned the water warmer, and sighed.

Within this 5'X3' tub I had found the only freedom a man is truly free to know.
The freedom of feeling.

Now, leaving my self-imposed confines,
I wondered if I would regain this freedom.
Ironic, isn't it?

That only upon leaving our free, enclosed spaces,
Are we forced to confront the constraints and limits against our emotion?

Every teardrop a dagger
As each one slid down her fair face--
Rolled off her cheeks,
And punctured my chest.

Every sob a stab,
Each choked breath of hers
Taken from a strangled lung of mine.
We are dying.

She is my world
My Mother Earth.

Now I watch,
As oceans overflow in her eyes,
As forests turn to deserts in her chest.
As she is ravaged.

We, I know, are linked still.

With every tear she cries I cry out in pain and fury at my helplessness
I am lost and alone and afraid and I don't want to lose her but it feels like I am losing her I know I'm not but I need to stop the daggers falling from her face as they lacerate my blood and squeeze my lungs like a medieval  execution by crushing.

Her pain is my pain.

We are one
And the same.

A part of my heart is missing.
I gave it to you months ago, I remember.
It was easier then.
You were always next to me,
And so was my heart.
Always I was at ease.

Now you are no longer next to me
And my heart hurts.
I feel
Incomplete.
Fractured.
Longing.

I want my heart back.
I don't mean I don't want you to have it--
I do.

I want you back.
Next to me.
I want to feel my heart beating
Next to my heart.

I want my love back.
At my side.

I have your heart, I know.
Don't worry.
It is safe.

I carry it inside my ribcage.
I will protect it with my life.

I know you do the same for me.

If you die,

I die.

I would like you back by my side.
Because you are my heart,
My love,
My life.

How strange
That odd word is--
Change.

It rings harsh in the ears of the oppressed.
They desire it so,
Crave it.

But they are wary.
Too often have they been lied to,
Nothing new,
Not a change.
Weary.

When desired,
It responds slowly--
A dumb dragon,
Mute and deaf to your demands.

Like a glacier it moves,
Slowly.
Slowly.

It begs patience.
"Stab wounds can't be healed with a band-aid,"
It says.

It takes time,
And incremental steps.
100 pennies stitched together a dollar do make.

But if we don't want change
Well then it comes rushing raging forth.
Bursting through the dam of our status quo'd walls.

Like a dragon it flies
Furious and fire-breathing
Foul-odored stench and a repugnant force of being.

Angrily we cry and wave our arms,
Flailing about
In the face of this fantastic fiend.

To no avail.

Change will slow for no man.

And all the while,
A poor, crippled beggar walks the street--

"Can you spare some change?"

How strange.

The heavens smiled
Down upon me with their warmth.
O, what blesséd joy.

The heavens smiled down upon me
And it was warm

Why the senseless hurt?
The senseless pain?
Why the fear?
The hatred?
Why?

I reflect on my whole life--
Turbulent.
Skinned knees.
Broken hearts.
Pubescent adolescence.
Self-identity.

Turbulent.
I wonder if that's what those passengers felt?
Right before they flew into the World Trade Center?
Was it bumpy?
Like an emergency landing on a beach of scrap metal and office chairs?
Was it turbulent?

Nine-eleven.
Iraq.
Afghanistan.
Osama Bin Laden.
ISIS.

Turbulent.

Why God?
Why?

The Great World War.
Retroactively named World War One.
Because we needed a World War Two.
Pearl Harbor.
Korea.
Vietnam.
Cuba.
Gulf.
Kuwait.
Turbulent.

War.
War.­
War.

Why must we always endure these turbulent and troubling times?

Why must it be so?
Why do we do this to each other?
What motive is so great that we are driven to **** one another?
And in so doing,
**** ourselves?

Is not our humanity greater than this?
What of life?
What of love?

Why, God?
Why do you allow this?
Why must it always continue?

All I ask is that this turbulent world might know peace.
Might know love,
Redemption.
Wholeness.

Because why not?

I am seasick.
Though I am not sick of the sea,
Or sick because of the sea.
Rather,
I am sick for the sea.

I long for the waves
And their crashing melodies.
I long for the sun
And its ultraviolet ways
Which warm and darken my skin.
I long for the air,
Salty and thick with moisture.

I long for the sea.
The sea that is within you, within me.

I wish I could see
The steady beat of waves in the hidden enclaves of the ribcage
Deep inside.
I long for the warmth of your rays
Which warm and strengthen my heart.
I long for your breath
Hot and sweet on my lips.

I am sick with love for the sea.

I am lovesick.

I am seasick.

She is the beautiful Hope Diamond,
She is the magnificent unicorn in all its magical glory,
She is the ocean and its fearful waves of power,
She is the mountain and its promise of solitude and fortitude.

My princess is more beautiful,
More magnificent,
More fearful,
More powerful,
More strong than any and all of the above.

My love for her I cannot contain,
Only sustain,
And this it does on its own.

My love is like a cityscape,
Sprawling.
Growing outward in maddening tendrils,
Growing skyward to newfound heights.

My love is like a flower,
Blooming.
Unfurling into glorious unknown petals,
Unfurling into something more complex and powerful than the day before.

For her I would do anything.

For she is everything.

For indeed she is--
My princess.

y  o  u  r   f  i  n g  e  r  s
i  n  t   e  r  t  w i  n  e  d

Within mine.
We know so much hope

I am the American Man.
I stand strong and tall,
Heads above the rest.
I shout my name and proclaim my greatness.

I am blind, yes.
I am deaf, yes.
But I’ll be ****** if I am made mute by progress—
Equality,
Change.

I revel in the status quo.
I thrive in inequity,
Sitting in my penthouse above the mindless throngs
I am privilege.

I do not see poverty.
I do not see race.
I do not see systemic oppression.

I am blind.

I do not hear the gunshots of the police.
I do not hear the protests of angry young men in the streets.
I do not hear their demands for rights guaranteed them under the Constitution.

I am deaf.

I speak out against the immigrants,
For they are rapists and lazy to boot.
I do not turn down those who would support me,
**** though they are, they are more like Kin to me.

I yell change while promising the status quo and I am invincible and strong and God-made and immortal and I am invincible and I am all that is right with this world.

My words fall on hungry ears,
Desperate for a turn away from change and Socialism and progress and politically correct speakers,
They gobble up my words like they are sides at Thanksgiving.

I am not mute.

I am—
The American Man.

Black and White.
Dark and Light.
We are forever dividing ourselves.

I divide.
You divide.
He, she, we,
Divide.

Divide between privilege and underprivilege.
Divide between have and have-not.
Divide between
Black
White
Latino
Asian
Indian
And many other things beside.

We know that color is a spectrum of light,
But when it comes to race,
We don’t see it like a spectrum,
But rather as a hierarchy.
A hierarchy from black to white.
Lines clearly separating them and all the colors in between.

It is a hierarchical scale.
Each color weighs a certain amount,
And the lines are clearly drawn.

You are or you aren’t.
You are not both.
And white weighs more heavily on the scale.
More privilege.
More money.
More power.

And we weigh each other,
Never realizing that, aside from our different wrapping papers,
Beneath each skin lies the same gift.
Lies the same spectrum of emotion.

Different though we may be,
We are one species under God.

And yes,
We have different stories,
Different backgrounds,
Different cultures,
Different wrapping papers.

These are indeed differences to be acknowledged.
We are not identical.
But much like America,
Why do we not stand as United Races,
One people under God?

Why do we not respect our different cultures and stories,
And use them to learn and better each other?
As America plays the strengths of each state into one cohesive country?

Let us become equal,
Together,
United.

My legs are cramped.
There is little room to stretch,
And my knees are pressed against the seat in front of me.

We are on a bus,
Hurling ourselves to the gleaming lights of New York City,
The same lights our great-grandfathers saw in their dreams.

They came with high hopes,
In search of opportunity,
In awe of the land called—
America.

Lady Liberty towered over them,
A shining beacon of freedom,
A clean leaf in the war-torn pages of their books.

We come in intrigue,
To point at screens and stores,
To shop, and buy experiences we’re told are worthwhile.

They came with tears in their eyes,
They came and sweat and worked and tired their bodies,
And not once did they complain.

The greatest generation built this country,
And now we consume it.

We buy everything,
Produce nothing.

We gobble up resources,
Turn up our noses at hard work,
All the while shouting “Progress!” at the top of our lungs.

We are:
Disillusioned,
Ungrateful.
Illogical.

We are the dis- and un- and il- ‘s of our great-grandfathers’ world.

And we despise ourselves for it.

We are the traveling generation.
We throw ourselves at other places,
Other cities,
Other countries.

We know our sin.
And try as we might,
We cannot escape it.

And here I sit,
Cramped.
On a bus to New York.

Reading is power.
Writers wield power.
It is a deeply personal, purposeful power.
It is the power of emotion.
Writers contort,
Elicit,
Inform,
Demand—
Emotion.

And we readers comply.

Like the obedient child asked to fetch his mother a glass of water,
We comply without question,
Almost without even realizing the request.

So skillfully do these writers solicit our service
That we obey without thought,
Forever victim to the whims of the writers whom we read.

Anger on one page
Confusion on the next.
Fury in this chapter
Overwhelming glee twenty pages later.

Only in reading do we find ourselves so conflicted,
So torn between acceptance and rejection,
Love and hate.

We wring our hands over the warring words on the page,
We cry in one section,
And laugh in the next.

Above all, writers demand our compassion,
Our understanding.

Only they have the power to make even the vilest villain a sympathetic figure.

It is in reading, before all else, that we learn the strength—and the necessity—
Of the most useful emotion,
The most compassionate tool of humanity—
Empathy.

Subway lights fly by on the metal bar ahead of me,
Which demarcates this world from that.
The lights--
Sprightly specters of hope.

The bar is transient--
The sprites exist within it, but never outside of it.
I am enclosed in a tunnel--
The sprites dance about;
My only proof of a world
Outside this train car.

Perhaps.

So noisy
Yet quiet.
There is sound everywhere,
But we are all alone.

Some would rather stand
Than sit next to a stranger.

Most of us choose our phones over interaction.
Scary.
Like the tunnel.

Don't make eye contact.
Stare straight ahead.
If someone sits next to you,
Say nothing.
Make sure your coats don't overlap.
Such a large humanity gap.

Don't make eye contact,
If you do, look away.
If again,
A nod,
To show you're no ******.
Never allow a third time.

A mindless cacophony roars about me.
While I sit in silence.
Watching the lights of this godforsaken
Tunnel.

Silence.
Intimidation.
Fear.
Isolation.

The tunnel is all we know.

I slide beneath the blankets,
The warmth envelops me.
It is a cocoon, and I the caterpillar.
And when the morning comes,
I must emerge into the harsh world--
A butterfly.

Do you even love me?
You say you do.
Point to your work,
Your sacrifice,
Your humility,
Fortitude.

I guess I believe you,
Empirically.
Objectively.
But it doesn't feel that way.
I feel...

Dismissed.

No, that's not the right word.
Resented?
Yes, I feel resented.
You resent the pain I cause you,
The hurt,
The torment.
I don't know where it comes from,
How I cause it.

But I do.
It comes from my stubbornness,
Inherited.
It comes from my belief that I am right,
Learned.
From you.

I wonder,
Do you feel you would be happier without me?
Without us,
Your family?
Would you not be so tied down?
Able to live your life for yourself,
As you claim you're so unable to do,
Always?

It feels like you resent me.
Us.
But mostly I think you resent yourself,
The choices you've made.

You say you don't.

I don't know.
Maybe you do,
Maybe you don't.

I am not you.
I cannot know.

But I am very much like you.
We are both stubborn.
Resolute.
Strong-willed.

Good qualities in small doses,
Poisonous in large ones.

We take them in horse pills.
Too large.

You say you love me.
Love us.
It doesn't feel that way.
But I know you do.

You're too strong willed not to.
You wouldn't care this much if you didn't.

I guess you do.
I only wish it felt that way.

Why ten words?
Seems an arbitrary number.
I don't understand.

I see your poems,
Written so eloquently,
And I wonder--
Poet can I be?

Like Yoda syntax I must twist,
And interspersing similes,
Metaphors,
This I must do, too.

My reader I must confuse,
I must leave interpretations open,
Meanings ambiguous,
Clues strewn recklessly

Like forgotten treasures dropped on a trail of crumbs.
Inexplicable line breaks and questionable punctuation,
All in hopes of an adequate label--
Poem.

I see your poems,
I read them,
Then I read my poems,
And I wonder
Poet can I be?

Is a poet a poet for writing words with figurality?
Making up words like Shakespeare and Geisel
(That's Dr. Suess to you)
Spewing rhetoric like a wretched fountain,
O blessed poet can I be?

Or is it simpler than this?
Is poetry nothing more than beauty,
But beauty which must be carefully crafted?
(Poe)

Or is it the spontaneous overflow of emotion?
The simplistic,
Expression of feeling, nothing more?
(Wordsworth)

Or does poetry simply say more and do more with less?
Is it simply succinct and strong-willed sentiments upon a page?
(Professor)

I do not claim to know what makes a poem a poem
Or a poet a poet.
I only sit here and wonder,
Poet can I be?

Hands pawing,
Clawing.
Hearts beating,
Speeding,
Repeating.
Tongues groping,
Knees weak,
Legs sweating,
Hips thrusting,
Hearts lusting
For release!
Every sigh and moan and groan,
Every exhalation in ancient anticipation,
Of that spirited satisfaction,
That explosive reaction,
That ephemeral *******,
That unreal undulation
Of bodies eternally enamored.

(But this is not us.
This is not our day to day interaction,
It is not our one granted action.
It is not our love,
For that is greater by far
Than these simple vessels we call
Bodies.)

But it is a part of us.
That carnal desire,
That passionate fire
That burns our nerves
And leaves us raw,
Naked,
Exposed,
Vulnerable.
Because this, too,
Is love.

(But of what use is such thought,
As I lay here with you?)

My heart,
Raw and beating.
Your hands,
Warm and tender.
You won my heart,
And now you hold it in your hands.
It is yours.

You may tug on its strings,
Yank me this way or that.
You may push on its veins,
Tingle and jolt me at your will.
You may drop it on the ground,
Watch as I shatter,
Broken.

Or you may caress it,
See as it grows and strengthens.
You may feed it,
With kisses and kindnesses.
You may watch the fire leap beneath it,
It will not burn you.

This is the fire of my love,
It is warm, but raging—
With passion, with pride.
Because of all those who could capture my heart,
I am glad it was you.

There is no one to whom I would rather entrust my heart.
Take it—
It is yours.
Take me—
I am yours.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
Where pine needles lie underfoot.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And seek the softer ground.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And tread lightly the worn path.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And listen to the earth.
Hear the branches snap,
The birds chirp,
And your own breath--
Loud.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And learn the secrets of the earth;
Hear her tell life's vibrant tales,
In vivid shades of life.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And quiet thine mind.
"Loud thoughts need not always be thought,"
Whisper the willows.
Listen well (my child).

Walk beneath the trees my child,
Below their lofty boughs.
Seek the shaded shelter deep and sound,
Find the peace within.

Walk beneath the trees my child,
And become one with the earth.
Walk beneath the trees my child,
And learn your inner worth.

A nation torn asunder,
A nation joined as one.
Two towers tumbling aflame,
Two nations begin a war.
Three thousand stories cut short,
Three hundred million more mourn.

A nation bleeding and hurt,
A nation in tears and tragedy.
Today we come together,
Today we remember our pain.
December 7th, 1941.
September 11th, 2001.
These are the days we do not forget.
These are the days we reflect.

Never joke,
Or trivialize.
For on this day,
Too many people died.
Today is the day of the smoldering ember,
Today is the day we remember.

I don't much use mirrors anymore.
I find that I don't have to;
I don't worry about how I look.
I don't care about making an impression so much--
Or at least not in a physical way.

I don't much use mirrors anymore.
The mind refracts glass reflections,
And then they become
Fragmented.
I don't trust mirrors anymore.

Our society enjoys mirrors.
We like dressing up,
And ensuring that we look nice.
But what does it mean to look nice?
Mirrors are a cultural thing.

No, I don't much like mirrors.
They are worthless things,
Upon which we endow our image.
And our image has far too much worth,
For these shallow panes.

No, I don't much use those glass sheets anymore.
Because I'd rather look into your eyes,
And see my reflection there,
As my identity is reflected in you and yours in mine--
For you are a part of me as I am a part of you.
We are true mirrors.

I want to hold on to this feeling,
Cherish it.
Grasp it,
Firmly clenched within my fist.
But alas I cannot.
This feeling is like helium,
It raises me up,
Lifts me off the ground.
I glide on wings
Of comfort,
And security.

Her lips do not taste of any food,
Nor smell of any *****.
They taste like friendship,
And I am comforted.

I am buffeted,
By these fleeting feelings.
I am elated.
No, overjoyed.

I am in love with the sun and the moon and the stars,
And the earth and the sky and all above.
And it’s all because of her--
Us.

I am not your equal.
We are not peers.
This is what you tell me.
You are my father,
I am your son.

You say you are proud of me,
That you love me,
That I am a good person.

But if a stranger were to walk in,
And see the way you talk when you're upset,
They would not think that.
And you are upset too often.

They would think I stole the car,
And went to Maine.
That I did drugs,
That I was a thief,
Or even a murderer.
They would not think you were proud of me.

It's hard,
Knowing how to walk around you.
You are the King,
And I am but a peasant.
I am not your equal.

Oftentimes, you treat me well.
We discuss sports,
Current events,
Even politics.
But I am not your equal.

Other times,
It seems I am the wayward son.
The peasant who did not meet his quota.
I am not your equal.

Most of the times you are a benevolent King,
Peaceful and kind.
But sometimes,
You are a harsh King.
And I must be wary.
Because I am not your equal.

You are a good King to me,
You treat me with love and respect.
But still I must remember,
You are King,
And I am a peasant.
I am not your equal.

All I've ever wanted was to make you proud,
And yet I don't know why.
And though sometimes you say you are proud of me,
(And I believe you,)
Other times your actions say different,
And actions,
As every peasant knows,
Are louder than words.

It is clear,
I am not your equal.
For you are King,
And I am peasant.
I am not your equal.
We are not peers.

Isn't it strange--
Admitting weakness is an act of unparalleled strength.
There is nothing we can do that takes more strength,
Than to admit our brokenness.
Even the tallest of buildings will crumble,
If it does not admit the cracks in its paint,
The stress in its joints.
Even the strongest building has a breaking point.
And sometimes, the building needs to be healed.
It is made stronger by being broken,
Like steel is made stronger by first being weakened.
We humans are no different.
We are made stronger in our brokenness.
Admitting flaws is no weakness,
It's strength.

Holding it in,
Allowing it to build
Up.
Until finally
Explosion.
This is no strength.
Resolve, perhaps.
But not strength.

The strongest things are,
At one point or another,
Weak.

I want you to hold my heart,
Because it's warmer in your hands.

The seconds tick away,
Yet the clock stands still.
At the end of the day,
Where did the hours go?
And the world spins 'round,
Yet we're rooted to the ground.
Life goes by,
And we're blown away
By the hours wasted,
In a precious day.
See how the world spins (!)
And the people run around,
Living busy little lives,
Running into the ground.
All for nothing,
All is lost (!)
For the people know the minutes,
But lose sight of time.
At the end of the day,
What will you leave behind?

Imagine a world
With no greenery.
With no lightning bugs,
Or fire flies.
Where children didn't catch them in jars,
To use as a night light later.
And put grass in the jars,
To nourish and feed them.

Imagine a world,
Where the trees didn't sparkle and glitter
For a few weeks in June.
Like Christmas,
Come early.

Imagine a world,
Without curiosity,
Without childhood.
Where games of House and Tag were replaced--
With screens and simulators.
Where personal connection developed through a middleman,
An electronic screen.

Imagine a world,
Where all your food was made,
Not grown,
Or raised.
Where machine made meals,
Not man and not mother nature.

Imagine a world,
Where the Sahara
Took over central park.
Where we built skyscrapers,
On what used to be farms.

Imagine a world,
Where all light was artificial,
Flourescent.
Where the sun was rarely seen,
Or appreciated.

Imagine a world,
Where birds never chirped,
And bees never buzzed,
And flowers never bloomed.

Imagine a world without lightning bugs.
Imagine a world without light.
Is that the world you want to live in?

What happens when your greatest strength fails you?
When the power you've wielded all your life
Is rendered
Powerless?
What do you do?
So casually you've held this power,
Bandied it about with the best,
And won.
But now the time calls for a different power,
A power you don't have.
And so you are left,
Powerless.
You want to intervene,
To mend the situation with some soft, soothing words.
But they fall harsh on concrete ears.
The time for your words has passed,
They are no longer a tool at your disposal,
But rather they are like a bow and arrow in the trashcan,
Useless, even to the archer.
What happens, then?
What can you do?
Make a new tool, I suppose.
But that takes time to make, and more time to learn how best to wield it.
Give in, I guess.
But that's never been an appealing option,
Not to the Bard, and not to you.
Press on, presumably.
Through the treacherous waters and whining winds,
You could
Endure.
As I suppose you must.
Because you know,
As well as I do (if not better),
That time is cyclical,
It moves in circles,
And someday soon your soothsaying skills will be needed again.
And there you will be.
But until then,
Rest, dear brother.
Sleep, dear sister.
Be at ease.
You have done all you can.

So many selfies.
Like still frames on the wall,
Enclosed within the cases of our phones,
Or the borders of our laptops.
But we don't relegate them to the attic once they're no longer useful,
no.
We send them to this virtual trash can,
We listen for the sound waves that indicate the crumpling of paper.

Like we want to delete our memories,
And forget that they existed.
It's different than the attic.
We can pull old photos from the attic,
Look back on them and reminisce.
We can't do that with a trash can.
We want to erase,
Delete.
We want to pretend like some things never happened.

But they did.
Why don't we treasure those memories?
Lock them away in our mental attic?
Take them out and look at them every now and then?
Or is it too painful?
Are we too wimpy for that?
Too afraid?
Afraid of emotion?
Pain?

Well too ******* bad.
Those things still happened.
And you can keep them in your basement if you like,
Collecting dust,
Or you can even delete them from your memory
(digital or mental),
But you can't delete them from existence.
And I,
Well I'll choose to treasure them instead.

I guess I feel
Unsure.
Like I don't remember

how to write;

How      to    breathe.

Unsure of myself,
and what comes              next

?

I sit on a shore and await my lover.
He of the golden hair,
He of the ocean's eyes.
A clear and lucid blue.

I walked on the shore towards my lover.
She with the laughter of bells,
She of an angel's face.
A soft and smiling face.

I turned towards my lover,
And kissed him sweetly.
I took him by the hand,
And led him along the beach.

I walked with my lover,
'Til at last we could walk no more.
And then we sat,
Sat upon the shore's soft sand.

Upon the soft sand I whispered secrets into my lover's ear,
I told him secrets,
Gave him pledges.
How little I did know.

I listened to my lover,
And believed her every word.
I vowed to follow her,
Through hell and beyond.

I led my lover astray,
Planted doubts and evils within his mind.
I watched his soul decay,
Until I could watch no more.

My lover ruined me,
Until I could stand life no longer.
The one I had entrusted with everything,
Had betrayed me.

I watched my lover die.
And for him shed not a tear.
But for the memories,
For these I cried.

I awaited my lover in heaven,
Waited as long as I could bear.
And then upon her,
My back I did turn.

I missed my lover,
Unduly so.
I had encountered,
A shocking chasm within me.

I felt something shift in the cosmos,
I felt a change of heart,
A heart I knew so well.
I turned my head over my shoulder.

I walked toward my lover that day.
Many a year later.
I begged his forgiveness,
For him had I wronged.

I watched my lover walk towards me,
Watched as she outpoured her soul.
I experienced a moment of fleeting doubt,
This I quickly suppressed.

I told my lover of life on earth without him,
Expressed my feelings of sorrow.
I told him I regretted my actions,
And prayed for understanding.

I listened to my lover's words,
And knew she spoke the truth.
So I said the words that had always been true,
"Now and forever, I love you."

We are born sinners.
We will die sinners.
But our sins do not define us.
Nor do we define our sins,
Only God can do that.
We are not our sins,
But rather,
We are everything else.
We are our good deeds,
Our kind words,
Our human,
Yet ephemeral
Souls.
We are indefinable,
Inexplainable,
But glorious in our demise.
Yet first we rise,
And then do we fall.
And only our souls remain.
And still we cannot be confined,
To insufficient explanations.
The truth sets us free.
And the truth remains,
That we are more,
Than the sum of our parts.