It's funny how things seem the same
The sunshine, the trees decaying into autumn colors
People still go to work
My rent is still due
My anger is a gift

Somehow, I thought it would be different There'd be panic
There are no people in the streets, yet
Premeditated ****** is due to be legislated
They'll **** your mother
They'll **** you next

I still dream even though the Dream has died
I have the same amount of money in the bank
Though maybe not so much soon

A felon, a ******, a con man, a fool
A dictator, a fascist, a criminal, a tool
I don’t know what happens next
But I’m less an MLK
And more
A Malcolm X

around the tree
the mother puts
down
each gift

in a box
wrapped in satin glossy red paper
a toy gun
batteries sold separately
in another
a plastic race car track
assembly required
and a third box
of tiny aluminum cars
that will never function
as well as the boy’s imagination

the little girl
who knows nothing but sweetness
and intelligence
opens a box, wrapped in soft white tissue,
of new doll clothes
made from whispers of cotton
finely manufactured beauty
her other gifts
a doll’s house, a toy record player,
a pair of faux wool mittens

dad, silently
without acknowledging
he has dreams
without thinking
he has desires
thanks the children
for a new screwdriver
and thick socks

mom, in her absolute role as
the center of all the
Love possible
in the universe
smiles
there is a purple glass figurine of an elephant
the boy bought
with his own dollar  
from a yard sale
a paper card
in the shape of a heart
with stick figure snowflakes  
drawn on in pencil
from the girl
and earrings
of gold and diamond––
love Hank
*          *         *
without a smile
no day of love
trading her beauty and intelligence
the sweet function of imagination
for manufacturing and assembly
today for a dollar

an 8-year-old Chinese girl wakes up
puts on an old khaki tunic, black slacks,
paper shoes
and goes to work

it'll be solar flares,
or nuclear bombs.
famine, plague,  
or madness.
no more electricity.
gone will be the phones,
and satellites
won’t connect us  
to each other,
no more
global positioning,
drones to ****,
or televisions.
we'll still have hunger,
and ***.
art, will begin, again.
no more
gas pumps, charging cables,
or credit cards.
we can stop dying
by cancerous reception tower.
our attention spans will return.
we'll forget
to reach for light switches
as we enter dark rooms.
our eyes will adjust
to seeing the stars, again.
we'll forget all about this life
to remember ourselves.

the city,
brick and cement,
a thousand glass panes
and pavement.
a prism of sunrays
as I sweat through my shirt.

boiling pasta kettle
steam my face,
the griddle’s hot flecks.
scolding fluid,
pocking my skin.

eyeballs and eyelids,
and face muscle tense.
as I drive into sunrise.

iridescence from her
glittering warm canyon,
and my hot heavy breath.
quiet and pleasant
summer nights
pass away.

through a lifetime,
cancer in the pores,
from bright blue
sunny skies.

a newborn baby
radiates warmth.
the still sharing element
from mother’s womb hearth.

hot bullet leaves a gun.
with a hard punch.
like a hot poker through a lung.
here is one thing you can’t beat,
there is no such thing as cold,
only the absence
of heat.

I got the small room.

I am winning the day.

Finally, I can breathe.



except, the walls are stained,

the mattress, too.

thick brown streaks;

a hundred men have sweated

The Fear

in these walls, I think.



the mirror

in the shared bathroom

sees the blood in my eyes.



a fly, a small black, buzzing

fly,

crawls over my fingers

as I am writing this letter.



and the fly crawls

over me,

Over the table,

Over my dreams.



crawls over cheap, thin-soled shoes.

my words on the page.

my whisky, too.



the fly crawls across the dents in my soul.

the handkerchief

I use to wipe my mouth.



and so, what do you do?

I swing my pencil at its soft dark body,

failing,

I flail my arms,

as crazy men do.

would anyone rescue me

from my hell and understand.

the fly and I.

isolated I am.



through the window

pane,

under the full haunted moon,

I undress myself.

to the bed

I lay myself soon.

the single-sized sluggish bed before me.

bed of a hundred men.

one hundred dead men.

one hundred dead-drunk men.

me, now as I am.

it goes on and on like this
a hundred hours
of attention grabbing
feeling you up
life goes on and on
like this is it
a whole game
in my hands a computer, strange
I’ve got a virus
world pollution can’t be fixed with a Prius
numinously vetting
editing, all the Love I don’t know how to give
selfishness
it isn’t what it is
please restore me to factory settings

into the new dawn they went,
technological device
in hand in hand.
though many things will not change,
Love will suffice,
Love is brave.
and though the world is the same,
that also means,
kindness stays,
joy remains,
dreams are still made.
and The End is never finished,
it just bequeaths unto us,
time immortal wishes.