Though I rage
against the days
on blank screens
and white lined pages
I know Dylan Thomas
wouldn’t give a ****
and neither would
T.S. Elliot.

Robert frost
is not my boss,
nor is Allen Ginsburg
any sort of mentor.

I like the Romantic
movement,
but the modernist
and symbolist
do not direct
or reflect
the truth of my existence
and trifling experiences.

I love Plath, Poe,
all the Bronte sister,
and Miss Dickinson.

Though they are
all deceased
I do not surpass them
with my own vision.
I am merely on a
parallel mission.

The feet of time
trudge on
on infinity’s dime.

Beneath its nimble steps
the cement sidewalk crumbles.

Time liberates
the land,
freeing it from
the bonds
we placed upon
its muddy back,
erasing imagined borders.

States crumble.
Nations deteriorate.
Man’s footprint
will eventually be erased.

Except for climate change.

There was rowdiness.
There was disobedience,
non-compliance,
but not any directly
dispositional disorders
of defiance.
There was violence
but not his doing.
There was a troubled child
bright, buoyant, but wild
There was me growing.
In my personal experience,
it felt as if they would rather medicate
and make their life easier
then deal with a complicated situation.

They say greatness
comes from grand
achievements,
military service,
athletic endeavors,
or the acquisitions of wealth.

I do not need that flavor
of false bravado.
I would rather wrestle
poetry
from the heavy heart
of humanity.

On Sunday the world was
wonderful,
brightly colored,
so full of hope and purpose.

On Monday my mind menaced me
with painful memories
accompanied by
terrible mood swings.

Tuesday was exhausting
and empty.
I was a shell of apathy.

With enough caffeine,
Wednesday was
magnificent for me.

Thursday, Friday,
and Saturday
seemed to be ok.

Sunday seemed to stray
halfway into
a very dark place.

Then when Monday returned
my heart burned
partly in pain
and partly in rage.

Do not write to me
of the white blossom tree
when you never look up to see
the bright daylight
that reflects off
the bleached white petals.

Do not write to me
of the horrors of war.
Do not explore
the picture you
place before
the face you hate
much more,
when you have
never ever even
gone to war.

Do not write to me
of love and love lost
when you refuse
to yield to the blues
of loving someone
who will never love you
or that you will eventually lose.

Do not write to me
of humanity
when you seclude yourself
in a shaded corner,
sitting in cemeteries,
dreaming of heroes,
trolls, and beautiful fairies
while life goes on
without your participation.

Do not write to me.
Go out and live
to be free,
expressing only the things
that you live through and see
because every other poem
is just a fiction,
a projection
of the emotions
as you think they are
or believe they should be
not necessarily partially punctuated
stanzas of reality.

She hides quietly,
folding the saffron scented apron
over here shy blue eyes;
A timid and mini sized
mirror of his younger life.

Her mother smiles,
gently pushing her
sweet Penelope
forward to meet
the man coming in
from off the street.

Out of a cab
with a camouflaged
duffle bag
watery eyes
weep.
Not hers
but his
are wet
with the same blueness.

His uniform smells
but does not repel
her curiosity.
Inches away
from his scraggly face
a tiny voice timidly says.
“Are you my daddy?”

With one hand
he wipes away
the purest tears.
With his other arm
he pulls her into
the deepest embrace.

Her hunger is veracious.
She speaks so salacious
and I parallel her passion.
Cause no touch could ever sate us.
I burn at a thousand degrees.
It is only she
who could come the closest
to cooling me
as she drenches my body
with her juices,
while our flesh
slips and grinds together
slippery with the hard work
we call pleasure.

It is tiresome
a wasted effort
reaching out to
the wrecked refuse
of humans who abuse
people who have
already been
terribly misused,
tortured, or suffering losses
that would break you
straight through,
then in two.

I break my fist
as I crash against this
brick wall of
prepackaged *******.

I break my neck
as I try to twist
and barely miss
taking a bruising hit,
but still manage
to hurt myself
dodging it.

In the end
as I move to bend
letting light in,
and distorting it
taking the fragile part,
and reporting it
I break my heart,
but never lose it.

How many tears
can a parent give
filling the seas
with all of their grief?

For those who know
such sorrowful horrors
there can be no reprieve;

And for fellow human beings
whose nightmares
parallel those horrible waking scenes
how can they not weep as well?

How can they not fill a well,
knowing that their growing
children could be
suffering
and/or
dying?

Tis a fury that spurs me
to heights beyond
this herd of sheep.

It is my arrogance in knowing
that gift I have been showing
should be recognized
by my peers
to whom I am barely
peripheral scenery.

The well of anger
swells in danger,
giving me dark pleasures,
pushing me to be better,
while lesser
beings sleepwalk
through their daylight scenes.

It seems
that no one really wants
a unique human being
at least not in my vicinity.
They prefer the obscenity
of a banal mind.

So, the theological,
and astrological,
tarot reading,
flat earth breeding,
pollutant seeding,
masses turn me seething.
Till, red froth
fills my good nature.

I push on,
continuing in curiosity
to see how far
poetical philosophy
will carry me.
Hopefully it will be
to my grave
and years beyond
in literary acclaim.

But, I think most likely
like the lite night breeze
both me and my work
will die alone in the dark,
cold, and unnamed.

Come closer
as the earth’s crust
crunches, covers,
and **** near smothers
all existence;

As clouds conceal
the mad mass
of human tumors,

and hide the high tides
that move
to their moon perpetuated
groove.

Come here and hear
the sounds of nature.
They may not ring clear
but are held dear
by this queer
wanderer.

Come now
and see how
the splendor
of our floating sphere,
this space rock,
is so much more;

Look up
from those
strange screens,
get your *** over here,
stand with me and see
how this world moves
so **** beautifully.

Paintings may portray
a wide array
of life so gay,
but it is only
a still life
that the painters paint,
and the only time
we find that life is still
is when it has gone away.

It is the melancholy
of stares lost in thought
of empty chairs
that we forgot
to dust off.

It is the place
where we become
strangers from
the homes we
come from

where shadows flicker
quicker then the stiffer
bodies that fall

and we mourn them all
each with their own degree
of wet or silent grief.

It is silence
all pale pallor and deathly
waiting patiently
to take you and me

while our loved ones
are finally left
to feel the grief
that we now
feel for thee

You remind me of
the most dangerous love
a poisonous kiss
that makes me
pleasurably
delirious
like a drunken peasant
who dreams of
making sweet love
to nature's
perfect painting.

You remind me of
Van Gogh's
swirling lights
within his starry starry night
a piece of art
with the heart
of such sweet melancholy.

You remind me
of someone
I still love
with a passing
friendly passion
like two boats
in a foggy bay
that almost crash
while they are
one their separate ways.

The city sounds of ordered chaos, the constant wave of people crossing back and forth like a human tide. Strangers cut in and out of their tiny groups and barely miss colliding. Honks and bleats hasten the crowds pace as they race to cross the road. Some people stare at their phones, others watch the road but no one looks directly at another human being. Somewhere, near here and in-between there just off to the side a stranger sits mumbling, barely coherent.

“Watch me.”

The age lines run so deep into his skin that they might as well be built in. White stubble paints a drawn slightly sunburnt face. Deep dark blue eyes scan the city life for some unknown relief.
A red line catches his eyes, followed by a childlike voice singing playfully. “Watch me mommy.”

Tiny matchbox cars race around a shallow hole. The little cars cross dips and dirt ramps increasing the young boy’s excitement, as he mimics his favorite show. They crash into a partially exposed root. “Brrckkkeeech bccccch.”A fake explosion sounds. Dusk begins to fall as the cars settle into their makeshift cereal box garage. Smiling and dusty the boy crosses the small road, then the tiny parking lot, and comes home.

Long ***** white hair falls messily across the man’s worn face. All but a few awkwardly placed teeth are gone. Some are yellow while others are darker and rotting. His breath reeks. The emaciated figure feels the cramps of hunger pains. A brown speckled haze clouds his vision, followed by a slight coldness and dizziness creeping over his body.

“Watch me.”

Cardboard swords clash in a titanic battle of good versus evil.  Until the young victor jumps upon his sawhorse stead. A yowl of pain sounds as his tiny sac is smashed. The pain jolts upwards and inwards causing temporary paralysis. Thin legs scrape the wooden brace dragging chips of paint down with him as he falls off his fake saddle. The victor is defeated by pain. A few seconds later the internal pain passes and he is up and at it again, running straight for a large tree. At the last second he swerves barely avoiding a painful collision. In his mind a red cape swooshes behind him as he flies off to save metropolis.

The summer heat draws pit stains on the old man ***** orange tee. The neckline is stretched and has an almost circular pattern of moisture. Barely able to move, his sick stench draws the attention of flies. Bugs buzz by almost as frequently as strangers walking by.

“Watch me.”

Tears fall from the tiny child eyes, as he stumbles in pain. A deep **** runs red with lines of falling blood. His mother picks him up and carries him to the neighbor’s car. She whispers soft word of reassurance. The tears eventually stop.

The man clenches his chest. Pain permeates his being. His breath is lost. He stumbles falling harshly against the cold grey cement sidewalk. Tears fall. He reaches for strangers pleading weakly for their assistance. A foot smashes against his left side, causing more pain to flame up; while forcing him to edge of the sidewalk. The crowd keeps moving.
A stranger snarls “get out of the way you ***.”

“Watch me.” The old man whispers as he recalls his mother’s warmth. Soft kisses planted on his forehead. Sitting in the dark living room safely snuggled next to his mother as a scary storm rages violently against a small house.

“Watch me.” He cries. His voice, obscured by the city, fades and is forgotten.

We all leave each other
one way another.
One door out,
an exit some live to see.
Parting lovers
fall to pieces
and with broken hearts
learn to live in grief
while others leave
buried underneath
large patches of dirt.
Thus, in time’s passing
we live to see
all the memories
of those who’ve left
fade to the fatigue of
our tiny existence.

Someday far too soon
this frequently falling buffoon
will be dirt and decay
rotting away
in another strange cage.

Hopefully not a wooden casket
to be dropped like the trots
and covered in crunchy kitty litter;
I would prefer to be
buried underneath
a freshly planted sapling.
Let growing roots
pierce and devour
every nutrient in me.

Do not let my resting form
await eternity, being so boring.
Let my death be a joining.
For in life I was brought forth
by mother nature of course
so, it only seems right
that in my twilight
I should serve
the source of my birth.

The night rolled in
like a tired truck driver.
It was getting cold
but he didn’t care.
He chuckled, “bring on the snow.”
As his tires started to spin again.

Time to crush the clock.
Time for his last stop,
hit the delivery spot.
Then the trailer drops
and he drops off
at the nearest truck-stop.
His engine was running ,
heater hot,
Until, midnight hits
and his heater stops.

Sleeping sound
and dreaming of
a long ago war,
a little girl,
and two sisters more,
the sound of a piano,
dozing off in Sunday service.
Then not going to church anymore.
Then his dreams turn
Aleutian island cold.

Less than twenty four hours later
the engines slows to
a dead stop.
The manager of the rest stop
hits knock, knock, knock.
The door is locked,
so he phones the trucker’s boss.

Opens the cab
and finds his frigid form.
A body that didn’t weather this storm.
It really was his last truck stop.

The politicians
are corporate shills
who take our taxes
to pay their bills,
then let greedy businessmen
keep their pockets filled
not caring who gets killed
by the bombs of
the war profiteers.

My heart is a haunted house
A horror cornerstone
That holds the ghosts I know
Sparse specters of pains
Laughs, tears, and love

Shingles that twinkle
Under star lit nights
Door knobs to nowhere
With the fingerprints
Of everyone I ever lost
Empty rooms that remember
Every lesson ever taught
And everyone one
That I forgot

Casper does not live here
Full bodied forms
Of ectoplasm do not appear here
But everyone I know
Will either meet here
Or be left behind
When time finds
No more locks
Or knocks on
The red painted door
That drips crimson
Finality on the front porch

In deeply disturbing dreams,
Heavy metals thunder
strikes lightning quality
violence,
inciting tension,
inducing exhausting levels
of stress.
Till, fatigue and anxiety
snaps a fragile mind.

Thud, thud, thud,

“God, please no more.”

Thud, thud, thud,

“Make it stop, I just need
thirty minutes of sleep.”

Thud.

A single trigger sounds.
The breath of brothers in arms
stops.

A softer bounce, rattle, and thwop.
as one tired body finally drops
of its own accord.

Thud, thud, thud.

Other adult children move forward,
while the self-inflicted sorrow
stains the hollow fox hole.

Thud, thud, thud.

I just want to let you guys know. I have read a lot of poetry books, but I seldom find the kind of quality and depth in those books that I find here and on tumblr.

I got a friend
who scraped the
bottom of the bin
with his skin,
felt his flesh
caving in,
nearly fell
giving in
to the end,

But we can
rise again.

Cause when
I was depressed
and death pressed
his fingers in my chest,
when he walked me
right up to
the nearest ledge,
when I peered
over the edge
into eternal
nothingness,
when I wanted
nothing less
then to cease to exist,

You called me on my ****,
gave me something to eat,
then talked me up
and out of this abyss.

So, I thank you for that
and I hope someday
I can pay you back.

Singing birds sit
on thin tree limbs
that fracture the heavens
while a white streak
seeks to sheath
itself in the
turquoise sky.

She sheathed her sword
inside my chest
from the middle
slightly to my left
and left heavy metal
to mar my fragile flesh.

An aching bubble,
broken spot of blood
puddled from my *******
into the mud.

This was the death
of my love.
For such a violent
reaction
was more than enough
to prove to me
I could never be
humanity’s
favorite ****.

I look beyond the black vastness
Of the infinite
that spreads out before me.
My eyes are closed
and I know
that the solid world
of reality
waits past my eyelids.
However, celestial explosions
of white, black, and green
flow through the darkness
that envelopes me.
I am sightless
but sometimes
as I breathe
I find my way
halfway between
the waking world
and the visions in my dreams.
Slippery stones
and water that gleams,
saran wrapped
potato beings
are strange portraits
of this unconscious scene.
It is the breath that carries me
as I float slightly
above my body.
It is the silence and solitude
that was forced upon me
by an angry and violent
human being.
Perhaps, it was the first steps
Of a ten year old boy
On his way to find
the inner peace
that still eludes me.
Or, maybe, it is
just a faulty memory
that deceives me.

Does heaven have a place
for this pock marked
rebel angel’s face?

The city is a jungle.
Streets run like
ravaged rivers
polluted by strange people,
plastic cups,
unread newspapers,
and other pieces of clutter.

The cruel king crow
cawed at the awed
cod fish cad.

Foolish feathered fiend
fawned and preened
as he walked the
cool cat scene,
while his fishy friend
stopped to bend
and tie his
loose shoelaces
up again.

Meanwhile
not even
one tenth of a mile
down this road
a feline ****
snuck up
and jack slapped
a fat cat
*** hat that
was hassling
his sister Jaguar.

The streets howled
As pigs prowled,
stressed and tense
strangers vented
misdirected anger
at random passersby,
like one unsuspecting
fly by bird guy
who was running on
a caffeine high.

Then there is me,
observing this city,
dumb jack ***
with a fat ***,
who thinks he
understands
what he sees.

The clown in me
sees the mirror man’s
suffering
and camouflages his pain
into puns.
The jokester runs
fast away
from the truth of today.
He plays
with symbols
to say
that I am not ok
but lets laugh
anyway.

One day I will find
the peace and quiet
I need to release my mind.

I will let true characters
breath themselves to life,

Like an old man who forgot
everything.
So, old memories become new
and he has to see
his wonderful history
as a stranger’s story,

A wish granting girl
in the bottom of a well
who has to feel
the horrors of
all the wishes she grants,

A sacrificial sin eating
psychic
who can see all the suffering
and tries to inform
the world
but is gutted;

I will run myself dry
see my strange selves
fly away from the page.

One day when it is to late
I will find the perfect space
and not write all these pages.

Unfortunately, I frequently find though I have traversed the roads of my mind struggling to understand myself, and my own emotions, I am still subject to the intents and judgement of familiars and strangers.

She is a pretty woman
with a delightful mind
strong and intriguing.
I’d like the time
to absorb the wisdom
that I might find
behind those dangerous eyes.

My heart does not know
nationalities.
It only sees
children suffering,
refugees
running.
They are people that could be
different versions of me.

My anger sees deceit
but softens to the struggle
of a familial ******.
He tries to climb in my window
while I sleep.
I rage
but when he struggles to be better,
my anger subsides.
Sympathy overrides
good sense.
I do not trust him
because
he has stolen from me before,
but it is cold outside,
so I let him camp out
on a cot in my house,
on my living room floor.

My sadness sees
human beings like me
being taken in by a republican
corporate shill.
At the same time
my democrats
can’t see how fat cats
hold the leash
of their party people.
So gladiators fight it out
while businessmen make out
better than the land barons
of yester year.

My hope sees
subtle shifts,
slight variations
of people with
noble intent
periscopes down,
heads up,
they march for a better world.

My cynicism sees
my own stupidity
and laziness.
It sees a world ablaze
that will not change.
So I write it out
and go to bed
letting better men
then me
struggle to set us free.

My dreams see?

Soft tissues connect our bones.
Our flesh feels mostly the same.
Skin tints may vary
but strangers aren’t scary
cause despite what is different
so much is the same.

The painter breaks the paper.
Paintbrushes soften the paint,
spreading colors of beauty around us
and help us to feel something
again.

The poet puts himself
in the position of everyone else.
With heavy water words
and emotional verses
the pin ****** the skin
showing ink blood
and he bleeds art for
the world he sees.

Reporter, novelist
playwright,
comic strip artist,
don’t get paid right,
but they play with life
to bring us to the light
that we all can share.

Sorrow was never my scheme.
Pain was never my friend,
but tragedy makes us human,
and losses make us all kin.

Give me an artist that loves us
and I will show you the start
of a true revolution
of love.

It is a lonely voice that cries out into the night, seeking its own echoes, longing for a shadow that reflects its mournful lamentation.  Are you there? Am I truly here? What is the point of this fruitless struggle if I am bound by flesh and destined to die? I cannot crack the code of destiny; though sometimes I can divine just a spark of hope from inspiration. I pay the steepest penance for my arrogance. While others can cloud their minds with the daily confusion, I am humbled by how little I truly know.                        

            However, I remain if just for this fleeting moment a mortal attached to the plane of matter and energy. Life holds boundless possibilities beyond my ability to imagine. So with my limited faculty I imagine something better. I picture love transcendent, Love that feels without desire, Love that lives without want of ownership. I give you, the world I adore, the greatest gift that I have to offer. I cannot send you cash nor will I conceive to write my feelings with the way of war and bloodshed. What I have is in essence what I am, so I give you love, and hope that you cherish it. For this love is fragile and precious. This love is the best of me and now it belongs to you.

The water looks like a bubble
small enough for ants to carry
while ensnaring teeny tiny Ellenya,
which is very scary for her.

Her screams are smaller than fleas.
Her pleas are lighter than an atom,
but no can hear her.
No one comes near her.
Her small stature
does not match
her elegance and kind nature.

I’d beg you be careful
where you step
but she’s barely a spec
that will be swallowed
by some random ant.

I am the sin barer
goat supping up
the soupy bread
that you spiced with
your lies and violence,
to achieve spiritual purity.

I watch and transcribe
the things that you do,
recalling and retelling
the horrors you committed
throughout time.

You ****** the memory
of our greatest tragedies,
all those atrocities,
white sheet warriors
burning crosses
and lynching men,
all those right wing
fanatics who spew hate
and vote in
the corporate supporting
politicians,
all those war hawks
hawking bombs and drones,
all those burnt bodies buried
beneath those broken homes,
all those charred broken bones.

I cry out but just as I am
about to reach you
your rusted blade slices up
and inside my tight gut.
Warm viscera falls through
sloshing out greasy and sloppily
on the grassy meadow beneath you.

How easily I become the repository
for your sick story
as you sacrifice me
to rid your self
of all those memories.

If there is a heaven
waiting up there for me,
patiently playing
on eternity’s
celestial strings.
I hope there are
less human beings
and more trees.

More majestic oaks
standing firm and deliberate
never speaking till
they find the truth
and are certain of it.

I would rather cherish
a cherry tree
in the after life
then face a horde
of alt right
idiots.

Or,
perhaps
as it really is
I would prefer
not to exist.

Long gray streaks
become
bone thin
dragon men
that spread
their wings
across the
afternoon sky,
monsters that
soar hard before
the heavy clouds
burst,
dropping their
acid spit
all over
our planet.

I'm starting to think that in a world were people can be convinced to do things that are not in their interest the guy trying to look out for them is going to suffer more then they are.

The best artistry enraptures its creator in a fugue of furious activity that is almost beyond his/her control. They are overcome with inspiration and must follow it. It is the unconscious mind ripping and taring at the fabric of the creators mind, and it is is the closest thing to ecstasy I know.

Eyes drawn to the dawn.
She was a visionary
seeing violent volcanoes
erupt and rupture
the air above her,
cutting holes of heat,
spitting vile ash,
and burning all
that crossed the falling
rivers of orange and red rage.
Till eve settled upon her
ravaged flesh
and the agony passed
letting her rest.

They resist
and I respect this
social movement
connective bliss
of purposefulness

They agitate
and aggravate
but in this state
they perpetuate
their own intolerance

They volunteer
to make the sacrifice
but look down
on those
who do not try
to give every thing

They say
silence is violence
but I object
They do not
know or suspect
because they
never bothered to
look or listen to
the centuries
of suffering
I waded through
to find the glue
to bind us to
the deeper truth

They say
to do nothing
is to support
while they purport
to be moral magistrates
while looking down
on me

With venom in
their gleaming eyes
they reflect
the attitude
of those they despise
the other enemies
who are ill-informed
to storm the gates
of those who accept the hate
and perhaps
even celebrate
their own stupidity

But they
are not my enemies
Though they
frustrate me
with their
mindlessness
their sublimation
to their political
philosophical
and spiritual beliefs
I still love them
for they are my family
even though
they make me
want to bang my head
against the wall
till I fall
and have to crawl
off to die

You see
you are also judging
confusing
your own identity
obfuscating
while stretching
and skating
around your own
ill-fitting patriarchy
When you fill those pews
when you let
the church use you
submitting to
the found fathers
of the philosophy
you eschew
the one you
view askew
while not listening to
other minorities
who were oppressed

I do not march on
because like the strangers
you claim need to be unfriended
I am a prisoner of this system
of consumerism
this schism
between a better world
and the one we live in

And your ideal matriarchy
does not fulfill
the objective of
a good will
because I lived
in a world of pain
created by the mother figure
Sustained by
the other women
The angry math teacher
the confused lesbian
The frustrated poet
who objected
to my objection
of her religious indoctrination

I struggled to share the truth
directly and indirectly to you
While you walk feeling attacked
because your identity was attached
to certain fake realities

But just for the record
I am with those at Standing Rock
I am with the mothers and fathers
of the Black Lives matters
I am with the masters of the metal moms
who stand strong with their awesome *******
that no man will be allowed to grab
unless she permits this
I do resist this hate and violence
but you cannot equate silence with said violence

Despite my kind heart
I hit my steering wheel so hard
when Trump proclaimed
Most of those people were
professional protester
and his fellow jester
just repeated said claim
My knuckles bruised
almost bled
and I cried for a while
while I lied in bed
because I have been fighting
this battle inside
and outside of my head
for most of my life
and it took you all
this long to come along for the ride
but I will not demonize the confused
the betrayed, belittled, and abused
no matter how much you want them to
Not everyone can feel
exactly like you
Now my struggle has become
four pages to much
when all it breaks down to is
that I am still in love
with humanity’s hopeful nature
Even though it is still stumble
in confusion
on all sides of the issues

You do not know your enemy;
For the flesh you see
bleed just like thee.
Tears swell and fall
when they lose those
they love
those whom
they would hold close;
But then when your
bombs explode
shrapnel goes
in their throats
in their arms
and in their eyes
clouding and killing
their consciousness,
our enemy buries this
body boiled in
rage and chaos
setting the stage
to make them hate us.
How can you blame them?

I watched you fall
and start to crawl
staring up at that
old boring brick wall
wondering how
you will ever
be able to climb over
the top of
that orange towering
obstruction.
You never stopped
to see that if you
wanted to continue
your journey
you could just walk around it.

There’s a bright white light
crack in the dull gray clouds
today.

The collection of cars
that cruise by
are louder then
the winding wind
that whooshes through
the empty trees.

No leaves
that I can see
on those wild dancing trees
but the buds on their limbs
are already starting to bloom.

Now these day clouds
hang heavy
ready
to release
their dark gray
rain loads.

I wait for the water,
but I shouldn’t have bothered.
The clouds merely tease
but never release
a single drop for me.

Seven cameras on,
six are fine
but the other
presents strange
blurred colors.
Gray roads are
light blue.
Green trees
have parts
that glow orange
with red outlines.
The grass seems
to be the same shade
as if all the colors changed
were from
an alien landscape,
but I like it both ways.
The straight and the strange
are equally beautiful to me.

You do not face the debasement
of children and women
cause you worship
popstars, pedophiles, and rapists.
I would leave this
racist nation
but like all those trailer trash
beaten women
I keep thinking
America is a really a good man
and I can change him.