there is some kindness in the way
the earth is suspended on gravity's back.
how it
rotates on it's axis,
bound by the sacred trust
that space won't bottom out &
shake us all from the earth
like crumbs in the bed.

there is little kindness in the way
the earth is suspended
in war, in turmoil;
with handguns & machine guns
& bombs strapped to civilians-
tied to the greater majority
with the intentions of a few.

there is little kindness
in fighting fire with fire-
when our own backyards are burning
&
our neighbors are to blame.

there is little kindness in the fear
of what lies beneath a burka,
a niqab,
a turban-
a police uniform,
a trench coat
or a white robe
&
a
pointed
white
hood.

there is little kindness in the terror
that sleeps in the backs of our minds
and sets up shop in our beds
& lays low
while we condemn the third world,
the local news just confirms
and confirms
and confirms-
we were killing each other first.

there is little kindness in seeing humanity
as this side of the border
or that.
the world is more of a revolving door
that spins you dizzily
& spits you back out.

there is some kindness in the way
gravity still holds the earth
like some sick, sad science fair project;
like some ****** consolation prize.

humanity is
a bed of crumbs
clinging
thanklessly
to
sheets.

i am driving into the sunset,
it's intensity is shrouded by pines & birch.

heaven is made of islands,
golden & afire-
they are illuminated by
good wishes & good deeds
gone to sleep.

the road winds deeper into the hills
/ the trees become dense.
i turn on my head lights
/ they cut into the dark.

the islands are swallowed
by monsoons,
by typhoons-
by hurricanes
with the names
of all the bad girls and boys
who don't wash their hands
or eat their dinner.

until...

the night comes quick
& the islands are all washed away.

i am the flower
that blossoms
in the
minuscule
spaces
in between
the probability of beauty
&
the ​impossibility of
the
​cactus's
prickly
spite.
​​

the wind eventually made its way in to pick what it could from the bones of the not-yet-dead; soon they’d become one in the same and it doesn't matter a wink to the bystanders if you’re still alive.

We’re just a planet covered in scavengers waiting to lick your bones clean, to tear your vital organs to shreds and your flesh from your bones, to swoop down from the sky and steal your still-beating heart from your open chest, to take your valuables, your organs, your wallet.

Time is a carnivorous beast, an oily, black vulture picking brittle bones dry from inside a heart that’s lost its mind.