There was a boy who hated cops,
Cow-faced, pig-bullies, power-drunk hacks.
Racism, raids, and traffic stops.

And maybe, like the boy, if they weren’t attacked,
Hadn’t gone to work expecting the worst,
Maybe they'd have had their community’s back.

But life’s not that simple; some wounds are cursed.
They made him mean, like a shelter cat,
Born into pain, already immersed.

He was a boy who never fought back,
But luck still left him, too early, too soon,
Born in the stick season, raised in the black.

How could he know that all fields bloom?
When shown only malice, one cant help but stare
Facing down evil, missing the good in the room.

Lucks for the lucky and life isn't fair
But no orchid's less beautiful than weeds just
Because orchids need more love and more care.

Great luck, I must have
For your gallery came in view.
There laid a similar face
That at dawn, my mirror drew.

I looked at every nook and cranny,
Even zoomed in the pitted dust.
By hook or crook, as they say
With every measure I must.

I saw no pictures there,
No proof of your presence at all.
Only your name echoed
In antique cups and dusty hall.

Yet I knew it was yours,
My devotion wasn't merely a cue.
Here I gloss at just your name
In this Gallery made for You

Thanks for another day
Others curse their luck, stale breath
Eventually our enemy becomes our brother

Cancer checkup, another swinging **** who fears his death
To not necessarily sacrifice each and every day for another day
I’m going to go to my grave unsung like almost everyone

Numerous number systems beyond the real
Look one way, from another come the heart’s missed beats
One way out of the mind’s limitations is through another mind’s
      contemplations

Another autumn, another election, so aimless and sublime
The white egret ate fish after fish, one then another then another...
You get a limited number of long walks, so take your time

One gives up body and soul but that’s not what I came to talk about
Slug the world and the world slugs back
It was amusing in my youth that God’s finger could move me to another
      square

Another duality, a day in the woods, jet passing overhead
I am in favor of kindness and you prefer concentration camps
The slow death of one sometimes makes the sudden ****** of another

To survive only as many more years as there are petals on a randomly
      picked (ox-eye) daisy
Another winter passing its calling card in at the window
One day follows another until the last day and on that day there will be
      weather

They say April is a month of rebirth, a month of healing.
What a lie. April is a *****—a wolf in sheep’s clothing—giving you just enough hope that you can stop and smell the roses, only for it to unzip its outer skin, forcing a thorn to strike you in the eye.
They say death comes in threes, but they don’t tell you that April’s showers of misfortune come tenfold, never ceasing, leaving you gasping for air.
Eventually, the storm will stop, as it always does, and I’ll be there in fields of wildflowers, soaking up the sun. After all, I’m good—just a little tired.

13 is the fucky
un kind of lucky.

Whoever rolls snake eyes
by dice dies.

Roll a seven,
and pray for heaven.

Two dice, one die:
solve for y.

There's no promise of love,
I was lucky to find it.
Nothing says there will be someone there,
For you to hold or be held by,
When the storm rolls in.
A very few get to know,
Just how it feels,
To embrace your lover.
Carefully placing your hand on their face,
Love isn't promised,
Possibly it may never come,
So I am lucky to have it now.

An Irishman once had the luck
To find a free chicken to cluck:
     They went to the coop
     Where the chicken would ploop,
But the chicken, turns out, was a duck.

I almost lost you twice this month,
Almost stuck a blade in my heart.

Tomorrow is March 15th,
A well-known time of bad luck.

I'll be looking over my shoulder every turn,
Be wear the ides of March.

One step forward, two steps back.
I’m trapped in an endless tango.
My dancing partner is Bad Luck.
Tied together with chains of fate,
We strut across the wooden floor.
With every attempt to leave this
Spinning choreography tornado,
I am twirled back into his arms.