You are perfect,
In all your
Imperfections.
You are beautiful,
In your undying
Glory.
Your broken soul
Is the very thing
That makes you
Whole.
Your gentle kiss,
Your healing touch.
You are you,
And no one else.
'Tis you I love,
In all your
Perfect
Imperfections.
Under cover of the night,
By the stars gentle glow,
'Tis you I love.
In your glorious beauty.
In the quiet morn,
Your face peaceful,
Unadorned--
'Tis you I love.
In all your perfect,
Imperfections

You marry the night,
I'll marry the light.
Wear a shroud of darkness,
I'll wear one of white.
Show me hate,
I'll give you love.
Show me cruelty,
I'll care for you.
Be everything I'm not,
And I'll make you whole.
Leave me for dead,
I'll kiss you awake.
Take my soul,
I'll take your hate.
Give me unrest,
I'll bring you peace.
Put me down,
I'll lift you up.
Ever I shall lift you up,
Higher than I.
Bring me to hell,
I'll show you Heaven.
Because that's what love is.
Opposites do attract.

She told me one time,

That all of life was lost. 

And she told me that time,

That she was afraid.

She said she was alone,

That no one loved her.

She said she could not be happy,

That love was a lie anyway,

Because people always hurt you.

I answered her in kind,

That the sun,

Following the night,

Never ceases to rise. 

I told her that was love.

I told her she was not alone,

That the sun caressed her

Skin and bones,

And that was love.

She did not believe me,

For she preferred the night.

Mysterious,

Dark,

And comforting,

She said.

I said that was fine,

For the stars could love her,

Just as the sun did.

She fell so in love with darkness,

That it consumed her,

Killed her. 

She did not understand me.

It was the light in the darkness that loved her. 

It was the stars amidst the darkness,

That could save her. 

But alas, 

They did not. 

I only hope now,

That they can save me.

I.

The pen,
The mighty sword.
The ink,
The blood runs black.
The pen,
That which changes the world.

II.

Mein Kampf,
The Communist Manifesto.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which tears apart.

III.

The Bible,
The Torah.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which brings together.

IV.

Common Sense,
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which starts revolutions,
That which changes the world.

V.

But wherein does the music lie?
In the strings themselves,
Or in the hand that plucks them?

Wherein, indeed,
Do the words reside—
In the pen itself,
Or in the hand that wields it?

Here I sit,
Empty paper before me.
Emptiness,
Waiting,
Enticing.
So many words
To be written.
So many songs,
To be sung.
So many,
So many.
Words of lead,
Drop like stones,
Into that empty water,
That blank page.
Here I sit,
Pencil in hand.
My enemy before me,
My weapon at the ready.
White paper runs
Gray,
And is blurred.
Rock beats paper.
Words of lead,
Cover the paper.
Rock,
Beats paper.
For I write with rock,
And cover that paper.
Words of lead,
Drop like stones.
Into an empty well,
From a full mind.

I sit in contentment,
For my enemy is dead.
That blank paper,
Has been filled.
No longer is it something to fear.
No longer,
No longer.
For the paper has words,
Words have power.
The paper is powerful,
Endowed with the strongest of the strong--
Rock.

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.

Colors turn,
Leaves fall.
For everything there is a time.
Autumn is a time for change,
A time for being human,
A time to reflect
(On warm summer nights),
And a time to anticipate
(Fiery winter days).

We are human.
Ever-changing,
Ever-moving,
Endlessly.
We are autumnal beings.
Yellow with happiness,
Orange with warmth,
And red with anger.
Red with love.
Red with hatred.
We are as cool
As the crisp breeze,
And as warm
As the colors around us.

To everything there is a season,
For everything there is a time.
A time to lie complacent,
And a time for change.

Autumn is the time for change.

I saw god today.
Sitting in the alleyway,
Head hung low on the subway.

I saw him wordlessly crying,
As all the world went flying,
Dying by.

I saw him homeless and asking for change on 54th
I saw the streetlight illuminate his graying, ragged beard.

I heard his name yelled--
Out of fear.

I didn't see God
In the white picket fences,
In the pristine churches with cushioned benches.

I didn't see Him
At fish fries,
Or in ostentatious Osteen's obnoxious cries.

I saw god kneeling on the splintered pews;
I saw him fleeing with the Jews.

I saw him in the south,
With the poor,
Lying naked on the floor.

I saw god and didn't recognize him.

For he was kind
And accepting,
With eyes that saw,
But were blind.

I saw him wash the feet of sinners.
I saw him cry and pray at dinner.

I saw god today,
And we talked,
Embarking on a casual foray--

he asked me to tell him my misgivings,
And my doubts about faithful living.

I did.

"god, there is so much hypocrisy in this world,
And often, in your name it's unfurled.

You weigh down the oppressed,
And lift up the oppressor.

Christians shame their daughters for abortion,
They cry murderer and throw your words at her.
They do not help.
They do not heal.

Christians turn away those who would seek refuge.
They forget that you were Prince of an exiled people.

I am told that if I do not accept you,
I will go to Hell,
And you know this to be true.

Or worse,
A better man than me might go to Hell.
Because he calls you Allah,
Or Buddha,
And no matter the good he might do;

Still he is doomed."

god heard me,
And his tears fell--
Free.

he paused a moment,
And then responded,

"My child,
Can you not see?
Here I am before you,
And look how my 'disciples' turn away from me."

he said that word with bitterness and disdain,
I'd like to note.
It dripped off his tongue,
Even as blood fell from his wrists, legs, and side.

he carried on:

"Look how many are afraid of me,
How many reject me--
Because they don't want to see.

Look how many seek their own gain.
See how many look away from my pain.

Still, on Sunday
They'll come out and sing--
Cacophonous droning,
Wailing and moaning.

They do not worship me.

You see me here before you.
I am not their God.

Their God is one of self-advocacy,
Of Selfishness--
Of sublime, self-serving servitude.

I am Selflessness.
I am Poverty.
I am Outcast.
I am Brokenness.

I know your concerns.
I know you spend long nights questioning your faith.
Questioning others' faith.

Blesséd are you,
My son.

Blesséd are all my children,
Who seek to serve those who do not know my name.
They are my children still;
And still others of my followers have strayed farther for fame.
Blesséd are they, too,
That they might know me--
And you.

You come here and speak your truth,
And I thank you."

god stood up,
Humbly bowed his head,
Ever subservient,
And walked away.

I sat in silence,
Contemplating our verbal parlance.

Then I too stood up,
Walked away.

I saw him sitting outside,
In his hands,
An empty styrofoam cup.

I saw god today.

And as I walked away,
I saw one man stop, give him a couple quarters, and a nervous, friendly smile.

I saw another walk past, dressed in her Sunday best, averting her gaze, using her body to block her child's line of sight.

I saw god today.


Did you?

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

Beauty in pain,
Such a sorry sight.
Love unreturned,
Such a forlorn feeling.
Helplessness,
A despairing disease.
Time passes by,
But nothing changes.
Routine,
Such a boring comfort.
Meaning becomes meaningless.
Meaning is rare,
Found in hidden corners,
Unseen doors.
It must be sought out,
It can never be
Discovered.
Because no moment has meaning.
Meaning is not intrinsic.
It is given,
Awarded.
To a time,
A place,
A memory.
Meaning,
Is nothing more than
A human construct.

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.

Ah, how perilous!
How tenuous is the hair which holds the Sword of Damocles!

How terrible it must be to lie in the seat of power,
To be cradled in her ***** of lust, ambition, and greed--
To turn endlessly over one's shoulder,
To have one eye forwards, and one eye back,
Never at ease.

When the throne becomes a death knell
A holding cell
A hotbed of restlessness,

Look up! Look up!

See the mighty sword above your head,
How it sways to and fro,
And on the hair of a mare rests your soul, your sole lifeline's thread!

You find yourself in the pit
With the pendulum swaying to and fro,
To and fro,
Closer and closer,
Closer and closer.

How terribly loathsome your position has become--
What painful prostration must you now display in self-effacing humility,
An abomination to your pride and claim of invincibility.

Ah, but what respite!

To live no longer in the shadow of fear
With the threat of death removed from above thine head
Like the unshackled chain of a man excused from the gallows

You are free!
Liberated!

But do not forget,
For the torment of power is a great responsibility,
And you'd be wise to remember that the favor of your king can change at a moment's notice--
He is a paranoid man, after all.

Behold!

The Sword of Damocles!

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

Is there anything more beautiful
Than the tree in fall--
With whom I am enamored, enthralled, even--
Clinging with ev'ry sap of fiber in her being
To iridescent color and majesty?

Like the ageless beauty at the party
In her ballroom gown
As all stare in awe and wonder
Before the night comes down
          And the leaves drop
          And then she, too, falls--

          Naked.

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 pledge a grievance
To the flag
Of the Divided States of America
And to the Republics
For which it stands
Two nations
Under (no) God
Divisible with restraints and injustices for all

A mass of emotion roils about,
Yearning for clarity,
Closure.
But they fight as they swirl and dodge each other,
Each fighting for supremacy.
Like electrons around an atom,
I can't pin one long enough to identify it.

I try sorting through them,
Addressing them one by one.
But it's futile,
They're far too contradictory
For my fragile mind.
How can I know who I am,
If I don't know my thoughts?

I long for peace,
For an identity.
But too many worries pass through my head,
About this or that,
The endless what ifs like clouds against the sky.

I sleep.
I let my thoughts battle each other
Free of my interference.

And when I awake,
All is well.

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

I am not okay
And I guess that's okay, but
I hate how I feel

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.

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?

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.

I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.

I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.

I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.

Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.

The base layer of sediment for my being.

In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.

How could I throw it away?

Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.

I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.

In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.

In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.

I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.

In them I see leaves of growth.

Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.

These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.

They show a person, a being--
A life.

Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.

They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.

Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.

They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.

I don't want to hear about your guns,
Quite honestly.

I don't.

I don't want to hear about your second amendment,
Your well-regulated militia,
Your intention to maintain the security of our free state.

I don't want to hear how guns don't **** people,
Or how murderers will always find a way.

I don't want to hear how your right to a gun is more important
Than my students' right to go to school
And come home--
Alive.

I don't want to hear it.

Because I want my students to be safe.
I want to be safe.
I want to feel reasonably assured that there won't be a school shooting in my building,

And right now I'm not.

Because it can be anywhere,
Any time,
Anyone.

It could be your son,
Your daughter.

It could be you,
Who has no more soccer practices to go to,
Or games to watch your child play in,
Or dreams to work towards.

I want to hear about solutions
(and no, I don't want a gun myself, thank you very much).

I want to hear that my student's right--
My student's Declaration of Independence-given,
Inalienable,
Truthfully,
Self-evident
Right to life

Matters more.

Than your Constitutional
Second amendment,
15 years later.

Because it does.

No more.
Never again.
March for your lives.

When they stood up,
And spoke out

About their experiences,
And daily trials

I too wanted to stand up,
And apologize.

But I did not.

I sat down.

And listened.

Lean in a little closer, my love,
And let me tell you my plan.

I have a plan, oh yes.
Don't you worry, I've got a plan.

I've got a plan to love you today,
Tomorrow,
To eternity.

I've got a plan to be there for you,
To hold you, to cherish you as my own.

I've got a plan to spend my life with you,
Grow old with you,
Grow a family, too.

I've got a plan to keep you by my side,
Ever happy,
Ever mine.

I've got a plan to make plans;
I've got a plan to plan a plan that will show you my love more true
Than I could ever do.

And so I write this to you,
My poem,
Your psalm,
My plan.

Research paper due
Hours away, and yet I
Have no urgency

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.

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?

Water droplets fall,
Upon my exposed back.
I sit in the shower,
Allowing the rain of my life to wash over me.
The water runs,
Creating shifting patterns on the floor.
Streams cascade down my face,
Dripping down around my mouth.
Running over the same paths of tears,
Freshly shed only moments before.
The rain falls upon my exposed back.
I am naked and helpless,
The rain falls endlessly,
Upon my exposed back.
I sit and watch,
As my motivation runs away.
Runs down drain.
The rain still fails.

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?

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.

My father shows definite signs of toxic masculinity.
Always with the "man up" or "toughen up"
I think he was afraid I was too sensitive.

When I was a kid, he told me it was okay to cry.

Then I guess I cried too much.
And it was no longer okay.

I learned to swallow my emotions,
Pills so big I thought I would choke.
My voice caught,
My feelings were strangled.

I learned, too, to listen and observe him more.
Yes, there was the homophobia,
There the unmistakable reek of feared emasculation,
The lines about how certain things were "effeminate,"
Including things like the way I sat,
Or wore my long hair,
In my own home, no less.

I don't think he thinks me very manly.

Never mind my compassion, loyalty, or steadfast, stubborn nature.

I've learned not to care so much what he thinks,
Though the very act of not caring hurts.
I'd like to be able to share who I am with him,
But I think he disapproves who I am,
The way I choose to live.

Never mind I am straight,
Though it would be no excuse if I were not.

Never mind I have a beard,
Though it would be no excuse if I were clean-shaven.

Never mind any of the qualities that I am,
Any of the things I am proud of,
Any of the reasons I call myself man.

To him, I am not masculine.
That knowledge sears like razor burn,
Leaves scarred tracts of pain and resentment.

Doth a man not bleed?
I suppose not.

There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.

She whispers slow,
Soft, seductive secrets. 

She sashays with stealth,
And deposits a million kind kisses

Upon these,
My tired and listless lips. 

She breathes beauty,
Boldly inflating me. 

She summons my soul
From its deep and haunted hollow. 

She comes closer and closer with confidence,
Knowing that I am coolly complicit. 

(As ivy climbs its tremendous tower,
So too do I grow gratefully into her.)

She lifts my life,
And we float free of fear. 

Far, far away from here. 

To a land of longing long-forgotten,
Where all are secure in their insecurities. 

She takes me there,
Loves me with tender care. 

And then, with not a word,

She softly dissevers,
Disperses,
And departs.

I am left alone.

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.

Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
What do you see?
look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Am I alive?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Why are you here?
What do you fear?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
How does my soul look?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Is this real?
Does love exist?
Look into my eyes,
And tell me,
Are we together?
Is this forever?
Look into my eyes,
And make me feel,
Like I'm alive.
Look into my eyes,
And lose yourself,
Within me,
With me.

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.

Like the metallurgists of yesteryear,
I must melt, mold, mend, and make.

Like a master teaching his apprentice,
Schooling him in the ancient ways,

So too must I impart on my readers my knowledge, my thoughts, my living.

Leaden words of silver roll off my gilded tongue,
(Perhaps someday you, too, shall have gold-plated lips),
Into the warm, receptive ears of followers devout.

You admire my art,
And rightfully so.
But I need you, as surely as you need me.

You see, intricate inlays and ruby-studded pommels are beautiful, yes.
But the sword dispatches a sterling service, soldier.
It is functional, as are my own subversive talents.

The wars you wage with my weapons are worthy ones,
And we ought both take pride in them.

Without your deeds I would have a mere hobby, not a duty.

But I have traded the battle swords of ages long past
For the fountain pen of today, and tomorrow.

Heed my words,
Even as you would kneel before my sword.

I am--
The New World Blacksmith

His cheekbones are hollow,
But he is not empty.
He wears the sad smile
That he's worn for so many years.
His grin is wide,
But his eyes,
They are tried and tired,
Vacant vessels of nothingness.
Yet still he smiles.
As if he knows that which
We do not.
It's a friendly smile,
Wide and toothful.
The smile of an honest man.
But honest men are weak,
Easily broken.
Honest men don't last long,
In this dishonest world.
But he is honest,
And happy.
Happy in his death.
Free from this.
This dishonest world.

This is not a poem, but...

At least 10 people were killed as a result of a school shooting in Texas this morning. It's a tragedy, but one of the sort that seems to diminish in scope with each passing month. Ten people lost their lives in a fury of unimaginable pain and anguish, yet we seem to grow more immune by the hour. it's a mournful event over which we should weep, but it seems our hearts grow frosty and we hardly bat an eye. Because here's the thing--it's hardly news anymore. We are hardly surprised, hardly hurt, hardly affected. And this is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

4 victims were killed in a Tennessee Waffle House--surely now that I mention it, you recall the headlines. That was less than a month ago. The Parkland, Florida school shooting that left 17 dead was less than 2.5 months ago. The Sutherland Springs church shooting that left 26 dead was 6.5 months ago. The Las Vegas Massacre, which saw 58 people killed and over 800 injured, happened not even 8 months ago. The Pulse nightclub shooting that left 49 dead is not even 2 years old. The Charleston Church shooting, killing 9 and perpetrated by white supremacist Dylann Roof, isn't even 3 years old. The Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting that killed 12 was almost 6 years ago, and the Sandy Hook shooting, leaving 27 dead--20 of whom were elementary schoolers--happened only months later.  The Virginia Tech shooting that killed 32 was 11 years ago. Columbine, where 15 people died, will be 19 years old this coming Sunday.

We remember all the headlines, but little of the aftermath. There's too much pain and trauma involved to fully recall the mournful scenes that follow each shooting. And so we are forced to attempt to move on with our lives, thereby washing our hands of the stain of these ****** massacres. We call for reforms, then forget when our politicians move on.

Indeed, our greatest and most fearsome coping mechanism, put simply, has been to forget. We forget the anguish, the empty, hollow, now-caustic thoughts and prayers, the toothless promises of reform. We forget, and move on. On to the street, on to the next, safe in the knowledge that we tried.

...

It seems to me that the greatest and most lamentable tragedy of this entire conversation may not be the crime itself, but rather our reaction to it.

And so it was, then, that when I read this morning's headline about the Texas shooting, I was hardly surprised. My greatest shock was that I was not shocked. And that I was not shocked, and that you weren't either, I'll wager, might be a crime greater than all the others.

After all, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, no?

Until next time, then...

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.

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.

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

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.

Where is our humanity?
Where is our compassion?
For which homeless brother on the street do we sympathize?

Instead we avert our eyes.
Tilt our heads downward,
Shuffle our feet a little quicker.

Then we wrap ourselves in cocoons of sameness.
Facebook friends who think like us.
Who fear like us.
Who feel like us.

We fear the other,
Think ourselves better,
More refined,
More intelligent.
Right.

All the while forgetting we are cut of the same cloth,
Made by the same God.
Created perfect in His image.

We forget ourselves.
Our DNA--99.5 percent alike.
Genetically, we are a mere .5 percent different.

.005 difference.

But we could not be more apart.
Our worlds,
So immeasurably at odds,
And nary a bridge to mend the divide.

Us against them.

Where is our humanity?
When did we lose it?
Down which rabbit hole did it fall?

Why do we not cry for the downtrodden, the oppressed?

Why do we not cry for those who oppress?
For their loss?

Why do we not help them?

Why do we, instead--
Hate them
Disdain them
Disrespect them
Disregard them

?

Where is our humanity?

May I share this sky with you?

May we both look up,
Thousands of miles,
An ocean,
Continents apart,
And share these stars?

I long for your eyes,
The ones in which I see a million stars,
Bright and beautiful.

But your eyes are far away.

So instead I ask,
Might we share through a friend?

Through this great benefactor,
Vast and endless;
A deep blue blanket,
Speckled with pinpricks of hopeful light?

Might we share in the knowledge that we share this sky,
You and I?

I long for your love,
Your heart,
Your stars.

But I'll take this sky instead--
It is all I have.
And it is rather beautiful, too.

Don't you think?

It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.

I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.

I think in Solitude
I become more confused.

I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,

Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,

Reader.

This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.

Still I know I'll submit

To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.

This is my only wish.

****.
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.

The sun rises,
And a child is borne.
Borne unto a home,
As leaves are borne unto trees.
A child rises,
Bursting forth
From the warm waters of the womb.
Smiles abound,
Tears of wordless joy,
Of pride unspeakable,
Incomprehensible.

A mother weeps,
Morning birth.

The sun rises,
And a child is borne.
Borne unto poverty,
Unto darkness
And despair.
The child's potential gleams,
Shimmering
In the fabric of daylight.
Soon to be suffocated,
Dried out
In the hot summer's air.

A mother weeps,
Mourning birth.