A spark
unspoken,
heart reserved
burns for at token
it has not yet earned.

The dove
dirtied
by the dust
starts at the sound
of us,
and goes
shooting up.

Freedom
is the fiercest passion
unfettered by reason,
it is to live
in reactions.

I touch her skin.
My fingers gently move
across her curving collarbone.
With impassioned wit
I extoll
the virtues of
unrestrained lust.

Our thoughts burn bright
pushing us on
towards a scorching light
of devious delights.
It incites chaos
bringing destruction in its wake.

Though happiness reigns
for years and days
others feel a deep pain,
feel betrayed
or grieve the loss
of those they loved
who ran off.

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.

How many mothers are aggrieved of themselves
Shattered by the heart of matters which they take part of the blame
No longer denying in their crying
That they too were made fools
Beggars yearning for a redo
To undo the terrible truths
Revealed and reviled

How many parents would stab their own heart
To undo the part they played
On any given horrendous day
And see the ones they lost
Returned
Unburnt
Unscathed
Unbathed in blood
By the horrors of the day

And whilst some cannot rewrite those dark nights
Perhaps they can pass on the lessons in wrongs
So other mothers can make this life right

This is an echo
A poem
That I have written
A thousand times

This is a rainstorm
Of humanity
A shower of grace
With thundering compassion

This is a sunny day
Where people learn
Not to hate
Forget the warring ways
And say
We will be ok

This is a love story
Not in a book
But written in a look
In one daily act
And then another

This is humanity
A spark you see
Of what I want to believe
That you and me
And everyone we see
Can be kinder
Wiser
Not prone to the hate speech
Of rich political hucksters
Not working the will
Of loudmouth proselytizers
Picking up new text books
Not old dogmas

This is the hopeful promise
That I tender in this poem
We can be better

Scheherazade always stopped
In the middle of her stories
Not just because she wanted to live
In spite of the Pharaoh’s nature
But because stories never really end
They just transition to a new beginning
One to another
Stories begin from some other stories end

The pulsars flash in space.
Hydrogen bombs explode
Sending waves to warm my face
Light to make the day
An unintended consequence
A thought of hope and beauty
Warmth on my skin
Sparkling pools
Reflect old memories
Who I was
Is not who I am
And I can always be better
A seeker swimming
Barely floating
Almost drowning
Always getting wetter
Stuck in the thick of quick thoughts
Rising faster than ocean tides
Dancing on the edge of death
Barely a breaths distance away from
Insight or despair
Today I am alive
I am alive
I am alive
******* it is great
To be alive

She was the muse that wrote Shakespeare
The ink for the hard end quill pen
The pink brushes and paintings
She filled in
The scrolls
The songs we longed for
She was every inch of our existences
The persistence of evolution
The resistance to the poison and pollution
In every breath we stole
And seconds we sustained our vain self
She was there
Embedded in the genetic
And will be till the last tree
Burns down
Till the last cell withers away
Till the last protein pattern is lost
Incinerating in a nova holocaust

We are not a first world country. They are not a third world country. We are all part of the same world. I am not part of a white race. He is not part of a black race. We are all one race in our human family.

Oh Persephone you frighten me
Dark hair falling
Arms flailing
Hailing nothing
But the darkness you claim
The pain that maims
Your reason

Pushing the razor
Harder and deeper
Sliding it in and out of your skin
Like a credit card purchasing
Temporary relief
From your grief

You say that you are poisonous
But I say you have been poisoned
The virus is in the air
On the tv
On the streets
In some of the books
In strangers looks

In the aftermath
Heart break
Takes its’ place
Followed by apathy
Till there is nothing left

And though you never cut your chest
Your heart is still leaking
Leaving
A subtle arrhythmia
Hade’s fingers
Crushing each ventricle
Squeezing just enough
To keep you alive
In agony

Little albino avatar
I cannot tell
If your picture
Is a fiction
White skin
Raven black hair
Dark eyes
Darker lips
Hoops ready and razor sharp
To cut any man’s heart
If you are death
Than I am
Your ever humble
Corpse servant

God suffer the little children
While the little children are suffering
His mercy
Is an illusion
His righteousness
A delusion
If he is real
Than he is a ******* *******
Can’t or won’t save
The kidnapped *** slaves
The kidnapped
Child soldiers
The ***** altar boys
The ****** baby
The beaten innocent
Tears of anguish
And rage
Wet my face
Cause if this illusionary being
Can’t or won’t save the children
How could he save
The human race

You don’t always have to
wear a red cape
to swoop in and save your
super friends.

Sometimes you can
share the burden.
Sometimes you can
let me in.

Then I will be wearing
my own green cape
cause green is great
and it’s my favorite color.

We love them
like we know them,
like each camouflaged
back pack wearing person
is a mother, daughter,
father, brother,
sister or simple son.

We love them like
they are war heroes,
returning champions
from the greatest
Super Bowl ever.

We love them
like a steak
overheated,
tenderized,
walking till
their bodies cry.

We love them
like they are sheep
bleating from the beating
of bullets, bombs
and lack of sleep,
pushing on
in the long walk.
Till, fatigue takes
every smile and
daydream they ever had.

We love them
Like gods loved
their sacrifices;
Young men,
virgins to life,
slaughtered and worshipped
then denied
the decency
all sentient beings deserve.

We love them
Like they are
chess pieces;
Place women
and men
on the battlements
for the expansion of
capitalistic gains
that wears the guise
Of democracy.
What hypocrisy!

We love them
like we hate them
because they believed
enough to bleed.
While old men lie,
children lie in graves
six feet deep
to many columns wide
and to many rows long.
Even if they come home
they really don’t.

We are not the personal property
Of some person who proposed
As always I oppose
The subjugation of our identity
In pursuit of marital bliss
This institution does not fix ****
It just repackages old ideas
In modern consumerism
In love I am not yours
And you are not mine
But I am not blind
To the stunning visage
The gift of your existence
I just don’t think real love
Requires ancient legal and religious
Assistance

The title will not come
But the words flow fast
Stanzas breeze by
Poems progress
Short stories
Are written
As if I’m possessed
Prodigious outpouring
As if I am being chased by death
But the perfect unifying theme
Does not present itself
The art will not find its name
The work is left untitled
But it is finished all the same

Oh dear were you here
I might not fear
But being unclear
I hear you still
managed to disappear

-----------------------------------------

Before you bake that beautiful loaf of bread
Please pass on the last piece of pie
So I might delight in such a delicious treat

-----------------------------------------
Cut out that kind of caterwauling
You're killing my kittens cat nap

There were no grand pronouncements
No standing ovations or help desk waiting
No nurse on standby for a stand-up guy
No friend at Jack’s bar to pat him on the back
And send him home in a taxi cab

There was no Monday mail that wished him well
No national pride that made him swell
Just this hell a sorry state for sale
And no one he wanted to tell

So, with nothing to show
He let the bullet go and watched the blood flow
No fire alarms sounded, no ambulance rounded the corner
No other mourners other than the quiet night coroner
Nothing left but an empty room and a short obit
That gave his name cause of death and that was it

Think of me as poetry
Sweetly succinct
In this meager
But beautiful reality

I never meant to be a ghost
A white ethereal thing
Wasting in my hauntings
Fading till I become diaphanous
While other foolish specters
Float and laugh at me
In a horrendous cacophony
Yearning for the living
But knowing I am dead
Reaching for new lovers
But never finding their hands
Searching for old friends
Longing for lost family
But I am me
As I have always been
A ghost dancing in the wind
Cold white sheet shimmering
And pirouetting
Praying that someday the forgetting
Will settle in
And I will be normal

When I was younger
I wanted to be
Superman
Spiderman
An X-man
A man
Like Gandhi
Or MLK Junior
A writer
An artist
And through
All of this
A good man
So here I am
The poet activist
No leotards
I am not marching
Or flying
But I am trying
By writing
To make the world
A better place

He can’t sleep. He can’t speak. He just whistles. The wind works its way through his tight teenage lips, disrupting the subtly silent suburb. Frequencies fluctuate. In the distance a dog barks. Then another dog barks. The piercing sound of high pitched whistling doesn’t stop. Aside from his holey jeans, old flip flops, and smelly green shirt, whistling is all he has. The sound resonates with everything he is.

He whistles with the lost hope of love. There is a soft undertone of sorrow. His whistle is as beautiful as a piccolo. It is more fluid than a flute. Farther in the distance a mournful howl echoes in response to the whistle.

The night carries him onto a bus. One stranger stares scowling viciously.

Another strangers growls, “Shut the **** up.”

However, this pied piper cannot. He refuses to stop. The whistling continues.

        Up and down, it is a haunting sound. Fifteen minutes of whistling while the bus carries him home, to nowhere. Here there is an empty alleyway with a metal grate giving off waves of stray heat. He works his way to the one dumpster occasionally stocked with the days rotten left overs. To some the stench would turn their stomach, but to him it is sweet salvation.

An officers asks him to stop and show his I.D, to no avail. The request is repeated carrying a hint of arrogance and anger. Even so, the whistler is unable to stop. A hard hand grabs his wiry arms. They struggle, another officer joins the fray. Somewhere along the line a foot smashes against his ribs. He whistles for them to stop, pleading with his pursed lips. Steel toed shoes smash his gaunt face. The whistler finally stops.

The cops do not. Years’ worth of rage works itself out on the young man’s body. Inside his skull the whistling continues accompanied by a ringing. Pain singing and singeing his brain, leaves him breathless. This is nothing new. It is no worse than his history. The red welts, the black bruises, the damaged ear drums, and the broken larynx, all the scars from previous violence.

Violence meant to silence. Beatings that stole the words from his breaths. Speaking through the wind was all he had left. A secret language he kept to himself. The dead tell no tales. Instead the wind whistles back at a broken corpse.

Can’t go but I gotta go
Got to let that yellow
Water flow
Think of waterfalls
Of river ways
Of ocean filled days
And I can’t get to sleep
Till I get this **** out of the way
I hum, I moan
I gasp alone
Sound like an old man
In an old folk’s home
Cause I got to go
I shake and twirl it
Yell and curse it
But I still can’t go
I lean against the wall
Grunting loud enough
To hear it down the hall
Forcing it so hard
That I almost **** ****
But I still can’t go
Finally I stop
Still myself
Talk gently
Whisper softly
To relieve myself
And the sprinkle starts
I passed on the poo farts
And a steaming stream
Explodes from me
Free
I can finally go to sleep
But now I am not tired
Fuuuccccck

You suffered so I smiled and I offered you my hand
It is just a tool to lift you up and help me understand
Were you come from were you have been
Suffering without anyone to call to help your suffering end
At first your eyes were averted in shame and guilt
I think I can kind of understand how that felt
But I tried to help you to see
You are not alone because we are all part of the same family
I can’t offer you cash or a place to stay
I haven’t been exactly were you are or felt the exact same way
All I have is this hand that I offer you in love and friendship
And I hope you realize that we share this kinship
You are my brother in spirit and blood
You are my children in responsibility and love
So I give the best part of me that have
A hand to lift you up and a joke to make you laugh

Look at the lovely Lord Byron
Sweet John Keats
And Percy Shelley
What an awesome group
Of poets
Bet they were really romantic

As a child I asked my mother
to mend my lonely heart
to accept and understand me
as I am and not as who she hoped I’d be.

Please do not turn your pain on me
inflicting wounds so deep
that I refuse to ever trust myself.

Eyes aflamed with tears.
Sinuses clogged with snot.
Without comprehending
without words I asked for her patience
her kindness, to secure my innocence.
I asked for safety at home.

Had I known the violence she would sow
planting row after row
of red marks and broken hearts
I would have found a gun
and a safe little corner.
I would have asked no one
and taken the peace I deserved.

If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.

Summer's breath
is a fetid breeze
that leaves me
sweating grievously.

Dull, repetitive driving,
heat draining
all my mental energy
like a seasonal vampire
leaving me uninspired.

Enter the earthy aroma
of someone new,
a refreshing spring water
point of view
a friendly face
with feminine contours.

Though *** is not what matters,
she is novelty
in the form
of a human being.

This thick stultifying summer
becomes less of a ******
with the introduction of new variables
that pull me from
my old terrifying echoes.

A stranger with
unknown stories
emboldens
the previously bored me
to write great poetry again.

Fair maiden hand
Be not maiden to man
But word warrior
Queen of your land

The anxious
Knotting stomachs for decades
Centuries of building nausea
Nerves red and raw
Raggedly exposed
Uncertainty
Fear
And for you
Few
Who
Have not known
Such agonies
Give it time

Welcome to the worse
ending of our human universe,
cause this is the lamest
apocalypse.

While the world is dealing with
a covid pandemic
and corruption that is so systemic
that our president can’t even begin
to hide it,

I am keeping busy by
trying to write
brilliant rays
of inspiration into
this endless night life;
Tired of the long line
of the long blind
stumbling stupidly
far behind,
unable to find a sound mind
among their cult of greed.

My deep dark cynicism
has been building
brand new chasms
that collapse into
whispering despair voids
which need to be exercised regularly,
but all of the gyms are closed.

I know there are truths and perspectives
that sparkle under the surface,
of this world that makes me feel worthless,
things seldom seen unless the poet deems
to share their deep dark beautiful dreams.

But those were the poems I wrote
to warn of the wolves at our throat,
and now I see my lines of predictive poetry
have becomes our pathetic armageddon reality.

You can take my home
repossess my car
steal my cell phone
and break my heart
take my pad of paper
but I would just
put the pen to my skin
or memorize the verses for later.
You can’t stop me
from making sweet poetry.

It is not a surprising revelation
That the devastation
We face in this nation
Is of our own making
We wear the emperor’s
Empty clothing
Naked without knowing
How hard the wind is blowing
Genitalia showing
And we would be ashamed
If any brains remained
But this is the live fast age
Were we work hard to play
Struggle to survive and barely get paid
A living wage

No matter what they say
When I walk away
Only slightly scathed
You can call me lucky

When the scabs on my heart
Finally heal and chip off
And consumption’s cough
No longer bleeds
You can call me lucky

When the darkness
That others seeded
Never succeeded
And I manage to still be
A kind hearted me
You can call me lucky

Cause I live and I write
Still got a job
I am still alive
I say with a smile
I am a lucky *******

The plain porcelain ***
is splatter painted,
a smoking crimson
as the yellowish ****
swims in the bowl.

The old man moans
from the agony of
an antibiotic resistant
abscess.

The nurses undress him
To find a score of bed sores
that were hiding,
open wounds deep enough
to touch bone.

Gentle hands wipe
while he softly whimpers.

The round and dimpled cheeked teen
watches, smiling warmly,
offering calm words,
emoting compassion,
and answering any questions
the dying man might be asking
in the last stages of
his drug induced delirium.

After the cleaning she holds him.
He calls her mother
and she doesn’t correct him.
Jagged breaths slow
as she hums an old
family Lullaby
and he goes
as peacefully as possible
into oblivion.

I am a fool,
prince or pauper
standing proper
in time.

I remember my place
how this current season tastes,
sounds, and feels
but forget how it will
end.

In spring I think
The flowers will bloom
eternally.
It never occurs to me
that Summer will be
right around the corner.

In summer I expect to sweat
get a buzz cut because
I hate hot hair
not thinking
time’s shrinking
will see me sinking in
to summers end
where fall begins.

Fall finds me believing
I will see leaves fleeing
Still falling from bare trees
that sit squarely
before me
though obviously empty.

Winter is a desert.
Nothing warm;
Just cold storms
that make me shiver
forgetting the past
and the future.
I only feel the frigid present.

I never think about or see
the seasonal transitioning.
I only know the now.

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.

Green bodied bison
with brown branch legs
press over and in
the frontage roads
that I am passing.

Monolithic green forms
moving forth like
a herd of wild
but super slow
silly buffalo.

Almost static
except for
the way they move
in the summer wind
flowing back and forth
then back again.

What a wonderful set of
modern megalithic
monsters made from
my imagination.

There’ll be days
precious moments
see them sunning
by the bay
till, the sea
sees the star light,
blinking angels
dissipate.

There’ll be years
yarn unspinning
as we stumble
towards our graves,
but the seconds
in-between breaths
are what make
this life so great,

and the children
that we leave
littles daughters
full grown son
are like blooms
that lose their trees
as our roots
wither and flee.

Till, the song
that I am singing
becomes the song
that they passed on
and the love
that I was bringing
are the wheels
that just roll on.

So goodnight
little planet
precious place
that I lived on.
I know you wont
miss me one bit
but I was grateful
to call you home.

I sleep but even in my evening slumber
Hear the sounds of summers coming thunder
Cringing and receding from the screeching sound of screaming
Mother earth beseeching while her creatures keep retreating
Scorch marks scar the fragile dirt
Pox and plague for self centered worth
Rain drops heavy as anvils
Hitting ******* my ceiling tiles till
They plunder my vacant eyes robbing them of their wonder
I turn to my tormenter screaming at the thunder
Be gone foul tempest haunt me no more
For I am but a fragile human being and you’re a superior storm
With your vaporous manifestation shocking presentation in fluid form
The storm replied shattering the stillness of my life
With a bolt two feet to the left of me that seared my eyes
Sockets dry the storm left no tears to cry
Singed I sobbed silently heaving and weeping
**** you nature

The King would leer
and see Caesar sneer
at the folly of loving fools.

Oh, how I know I long to
be made for love.
But in loving you
I am made an ***.
For loss of senses
becomes euphoria
and fairy madness
falls on my blind spot
in a tempest
even Ariel could not abate.
Winds would shred my soul
and see timber set afire
by the lightning of desire.
Using its light to play Othello
flipping white for black.

Oh, Juliet my dear
I fear my love for you
is just an act of suicide.
Still, I would die
happily, as all other lovers do.
For there is much ado
about nothing while
melted men of shadows
and scripted puppets
lose themselves
not in facts
but the opposite of that.
Love makes a poet of me
and a fool of us all.

The clouds came courting,
converging on the moon,
a congregation
of celestially
illuminated bodies,
painting the night sky
with their smoky grey, white,
blue, light
cumulous wonder.

She sits stressing,
depression pressing
sharp silver metal
into her skin,

leaves adults stuttering
and wondering
what is so wrong with her,
while looking down with
disappointment.

How strangely that lately
they forget
how intense
it felt
when they were kids.

Its like intentional amnesia
as they try to numb
any primal passions,
dulling their once
delinquent delights,
quelling the yelling curiosity
in favor of
a less passionate
drunken love.

But she has not yet succumbed
to that humdrum
self-inflicted
emotional wound
that is draining
yellow liquid,
oozing
that which is
conflicted
that which
we should be using
to understand
everyone else.

Teenage heartaches
and high school drama,
friendships lost
or changed
drastically,
with all the pain
it leaves,
she is set in
an ocean of confusion.

So, at night she lays her face
in a salt wet pillow case
as she cries
herself to sleep,
instead of ending her week
at the bar down the street
like her parents do
just to get through
their working blues.

Watching videos
from youtube
and reading poetry books,
she still dreams of more,
uses her art to explore
hopes and dreams,
while her parents seem
to exist hopelessly.

When the silence comes
she sits disquieted
as dark thoughts
settle like sandy sediment,
then float up
like all that flotsam
from the wreckage
of her young
sea sailing heart.

Her parent don’t
have a clue
how much she is going through
and sometimes
she doesn’t believe
that they even try to.

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.

I was lost in the grandeur of my name
Set upon a stony path
Full of thorns and hypocrites
A weighty road with walkers
Trampling over flowers and thickets
Thick with tricks
Blood boiling on golden bricks
Barbed wired fences
Flags and floats paraded
Common sense
Ignored
Deplored
Considered a bore
But before the end
Maybe I will find the truth

Isn’t she great
That cow
That spits sand from her utters
Fat and flaccid bovine
Munching on grass
Spitting out a calf
At equal intervals
That trapped beast
Not the real thing
Just an illusion
Bell around her neck
So she can never step
Too far away from her field
Ready to be killed
Without an ounce of awareness

Sometimes we slip through the cracks
fall down a hole or trip into the looking glass
and never manage to find our way back.

Innocence is betrayed as it is parlayed into
the whole growing up thing that
we don’t want to do.

Playmates fade away as we lose yesterday.
Their faces blur then just disintegrate,
along with the games and stories we made.

Time becomes the anchor that weighs us down
as we struggle and drown in deadlines.
Playful pixies dust fantasies are lost to these
important and emerging responsibilities.

Teddy Bear hugs and fairytale love
become the stuff of forgotten hopes,
and with each romantic advance rejected
the dreamer dejected retreats to
the safety of a stale and scheduled reality.

Till the mirror reflects the inner sadness.
Our shoulders slump, skin sags, and wrinkles,
as our eyes lose that sly Peter Pan twinkle.

-2023

Oh, I bare my tragic soul
And grow as an artist
One pinky up my nose
See my toes
Curl up
See my *** clench so tight
As I sigh and moan
All **** night
Cause I am an artist
Sweet sad me
What a genius
More because
My town can’t see
The brilliance
Of poor old torture me
Boo hoo hoo
The tired cliché
Like that tired phrase
All Van Gogh
One ear off
And one left to go
I think you all should know
I am only so, so,
So, so
So you know
All angsty stuff
All suicide rage
All depressive love
And lonely days
Poor, poor, poor me
My life is like a tragedy
Insert tears
Insert sob story
Insert boring prologue
About how nobody knows me
Insert a laugh
No x that **** out
Cause I am a very, very serious artist
But this poem is only a mockery
Of poor, sad, pathetic little old me

I dulled my discontent in the delusion
Of superiority moral and intellectual
Imperative to prevent partial self-destruction
Emotional constipation from my
Former fast food occupation
I had to believe that I was a pearl
Swimming among swine on company time
I felt my mind contracting from the enacting
Of my arrogant disposition that poisonous position
Set me in constant opposition to my peers
And all those years in fear of being ignored
By those I deemed inferior to my interior being
I should have seen the truth of things
That I would have been better served listening
Than vehemently dismissing
I would have been a wiser human
Instead of a just wise enough to admit that
I’ve been wrong many times in the past
But hell I am still such a smart ***

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

I push back
against
the frothing
phlegm
that clogs my throat
and drains down
my cleft chin.

I push back
against
the razor
that has been
like a pendulum
of madness
and human
suffering
cutting left to right.

I push back
against
bad influences
with a few exception
because a little bad
ain’t so bad
and you gotta get mad
to change that
which keeps pushing back
against your desire
to be a decent human being.

We are only human
Built up from the muck
Made of dna
Purpose constructed
From chaos
How we define
What designed us
Time plus adaptation
This ecological manifestation
That feels pain
That feels love
That feels loss
And so much more
Compassion in actions
One person to another
We could not be better
Because we are only
Limited children of the cosmos
Only human
For such a small span
Of time