The condo's not the same now that she's gone.
The dolls and toys they, strewn across the floor,
Seem lifeless now. Their absent voices sound
On the walls that are quieter than before

But toys are quiet anyway. The dust
Of doors that slam won't echo in this pall
Nor the pitter patter of her little feet
Nor the cries of "Daddy! Daddy!" in the hall

That rang like joy of birds that have not yet
Grown wings enough to take into the skies.
The kitten that has grown does not forget
Her fairy voice nor the swift time that flies.

Every time I see her she grows tall.
While the world at large is spinning like a ball.

I only wish to see the artist play
a game that does not interfere with this.
A portrait of a mind that doesn’t stay
in line with what is taught to all our kids.
A nuclear weapon set to self destruct
a tiny tear in threadless high design
an addict who is honest to the rug
to which he whispers into every night.
I want to see the artist make a dent,
to smash the frame until it’s fine enough
to form into a line he might regret
and breathe it in until he can’t stand up.
How obvious the stakes become, at last
when every perfect piece is printed fast.

What putrefaction oozes up from hell
To poison aquifers of decency
And common sense? The crops of
reason smell And do not nourish the constituency.
What polar vortex drops from unknown heights To freeze the congregations of the heart?
The steeples topple, enmity ignites
And malice rips tranquility apart.
The times devolve. Security and peace, Once real estate on which a home could rise,
Shrugs off its immigrants, revokes its lease
And shows indifference to human cries.
A Lucifer of arrogant display
Has come to sweep benevolence away.