You're sixty years too late
to feel that rumble glorify
your feet & drum a rhythm
into your sole.
Even the printing press is a ghost
& Waterloo Station
-abandoned clockwork-
awaits its next passenger.

He knows
that we know
that he knows
he is fooling us.

We're told to look here ---------------> .
Meanwhile {this} is happening
& the media says (insert 'official' story here)
& repeats repeats repeats
a thousand times
until we're all singing
karaoke

                   *

or you decide to wake up.

These snows of February
are like the cave-making snows
of old; when snow-giants
roamed the Earth
& the only language
we spoke  
was Glacial.

The man wearing the purple straw hat
wonders: what would Joseph Campbell do?

Science is
the magic
of our age.

I want
the old world
back.

the library's closed.

Intersections in the sky:
Lines that loop and spread
white to grey from
horizon to horizon.
Then the rain.
Stars vanish,
moons rise & set,
& at the foot of
this mountain
we are no longer asleep.

My father lost the balance of his mind
in World War II
& the rest followed from Parkinsons,
Dementia, PTSD, paranoia
& ghosts that haunted him
in the middle of the night.
What did he die for?
So politicians & generals
could manipulate us into believing
that endless war is “normal”?
So bankers could pocket billions
while children starve and sleep in the streets
in this land of so-called liberty?
So veterans can beg for money
with jars draped in red & white flags
outside the grocery store
& we all pitch in the silver?
Someone please tell me that this is not why
I was emotionally orphaned at birth
or why I can not recall his weathered hands
without seeing them tremble.

Brother John,
unfurl your purple banner,
let the peace dove soar
above Grafton township
proclaiming victory
over endless oppression.
Ring the chapel bell,
light the candles
in the sanctuary,
shelter us with tea &
the word of God.

Brother John,
the forecast is gray.
I want to hear the truth.
I want to hear your voice
as the world grows dark.

Brother John,
will we ever forgive our transgressions?
Will we survive the winter intact
to bloom once more into the flower of art?
How do we find our pathway back
to our spirit?

Now is time to travel within.
Pray. Forgive.
Create peace. Walk with God.
Make magic.

everyone looks
like someone
you know.

The rope & pulley are taut;
our arms move to salute
yet our muscles flex slowly, disembodied.
Dyed cloth unfurls in the breeze,
history is carved onto black mirrors.

This is the way of perpetual war -
the flag of state will not be lowered,
nor will it climb to a zenith
to flow like a river in sunlight.

It's the last day of the year. I didn't
expect things to turn out like this:
branded, shamed, shedding adolescence,
crossing into adulthood, seeking redemption.
This is not the desert, or a mesa, nor a mirage.
There is shelter here somewhere.
I just need to keep my eyes open.

a trail of ink spills  
past lanterns & statues
on the bridge.
orange flares streak across
your glasses; it is true night now.
if truth is forgotten, who
will weave our amnesia?
not I, or you, nor the one
whose fiction we follow
into the forgotten works.

Everything I was ever taught about _______
(choose as many as apply)
Society
History
Politics
Science
Religion
Relationships
Authorit­y
I need to