The tether faded fast.
The chink in the chain becoming more distant to each other.
Two hands unravelling.
As the tether faded, the grief and sorrow grew, seeding itself.
An oak tree affirming its roots.
A cry of dismay in a blink.
With the tether gone, both oak trees became familiar with each other’s soil.
The tether a forgotten memory.
An ancient picture screen.
A brief wind of past occasionally shook through the trees.
A faded disconnection caught in the breeze.
I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
to unknown soldiers.
But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.
Usually, not even that.
we do not want let into the room, we want to smash the fucking walls
call it diversity not ‘decentering whiteness’ not, smashing white supremacist cis hetero patriarchy,
not THE CANON IS FUCKING RACIST
THE CANON IS FOR MEN BY MEN PRAISED BY MEN
FOR THE BOURGEUIS BY THE BOURGEUISE OWNED AND RUN BY THE BOURGEISE
THE CANON IS AS WHITE AS THE PAGES YOU TURN AND THE PAPER YOU WIPE YOUR ASS WITH.
THE CANON IS A CLOSED ROOM WITH A BARRED DOOR
WITH QUEERS ON THE STREET NOT EVEN BOTHERING TO KNOCK
BECAUSE THEY KNOW THAT THE DOOR WILL NOT EVEN BE CRACKED OPEN IN THE SLIGHTEST.
WE DO NOT WANT LET INTO THE ROOM,YOU BUILT THE ROOM YOU OWN THE ROOM, IT IS YOUR HENCHMAN WHO CONTROL THE INS AND OUTS OF THE DOOR.
WE WANT TO SMASH THE FUCKING WALLS.
IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE, YOU WILL BE PART OF THE RUBBLE.
YOU WILL LEARN WHAT IS LIKE TO HAVE YOUR HOUSE BROUGHT TO THE GROUND.
The good men wrongfully believe they are gods
The true gods have all died out
The streets of Hercules have been reduced to rubble
Our white knight lies on his deathbed
Sleepless nights are our only salvation
We wish we could dream of what we need
We need a hero
We’re holding out for a hero
My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.
Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me
My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt
I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words
I only knew
that I was a fool
when I left that bubble
and walked down a path of rubble
I asked my eyes
why they were so blind
I asked my mind
why his thinking was so behind
They refused to answer
and left one noise afloat
a beat that I know served as a moat
from all reason and logic
leaving me in a state so tragic
I heard a whisper
my mind said "listen"
sunken in tears I did
and I heard it beat with candid
"It was I oh silly soul
hang in there, I'll recover soon
I'll guild my cracks
with a new love so bright
and even fall in an abyss of fright
It's not my fault ask the powers above
for I myself am mysterious to the
of love" - heart
Here comes the sun in all its glory
tracing the hemisphere in its slow
rise over rubble, but first the tallest
steel and concrete dedications to
the lives living high while their
green shadow casts below over
the desecrated. I see bright night light
shining blue. I see wide, wild light
only high noon. Morning, all day
veins are caving under the rubble
under the tallest.
Here comes the nasty truth, suited
in belts clasped with wealth for
well being, beating the lies with
a dollar sign, until the ugliness
of the first story presses like
meat into the underneath, under
the detritus concealing lives in
the dirt with the needles.
I see bright night light shining blue
in the park restrooms. I see wide, wild
light only high noon from the under-bridge,
waiting for trains to come crush.
How many times have I wrote you this poem
it's getting darker and darker here
I'm getting worse and worse everyday
I had a plan for all this writing
but I got lost in my demons
I try to rid myself of my regret and just purge
Just purge with all these beautiful words
Yet I'm starting to see I paint my life in all kinds of grays
I am starting to see it has nothing to do with you it's just me
Making exscuses for my ways
I'm just trying to feel alive
pointing fingers at everyone who's not to blame
Because I'm the one who's guilty
isn't that everything you wanted me to see
as I'm picking through the rubble of everything you left me.