K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.

We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.

K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.

His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.

In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.

K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.

Do you ever feel confused?

I see a million different
            r      r      r      r      r      r      r­      r      r      r      r
            o     o      o     o     o      o     o     o      o     o      o
            a     a      a      a     a      a      a     a      a     a      a
            d    d      d     d     d      d     d     d      d     d     d
            s     s       s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s        ­in front of me.

Yet I hesitate to move.

All are entirely d i f f e r e n t,
                                                       yet distinctly the same.

I can make out face
                                     f a c e
                                                 f a c e s
                                                             ­           in the distance.

But they merge together
                                            into every possibility.


They are:
warm.     cold.      livid.       smiling.      
                                                  ­           mine.     yours.   ours.

All  S M I L E at me.
Some show their teeth.

They are:
there.      here.    nowhere.       everywhere.        
                                           ­                                   past.    present.      future.

All  H I S S  at me.
Some have no tongues.

They are?
living.     dead.    or somewhere in-between.

Where your prejudice is my pain -

                          The grey reflected so brightly
                                        from your black and w h i t e  eyes.


In a space where your victories make me warm,

                           Or when your pain is bursting
                                         through my own heart,


Only then will we truly understand what road we should take.

For we are all one.
                    
                          We are all the light

                                                   all the dark

                                                           ­     and every road.

where I live
now is very hot
it's the dry desert

mountains encircle
the valley where
the rainbows lay

for short breaks
on periodically
sprinkled grass

I may find it beautiful but,
you may find it unusual.

Do you ever feel frustrated?

I'm overcome with a million words
                                                                ­that I know I'll never say.

Time stops around me,
But my brain is  a l i v e.

Thoughts gather,                
                               and 
                                              jmup 
                                                  ­               aornud
Until I can't make sense of what I'm feeling.
E v e r y t h i n g  becomes me.
I'm a deep, wide river
                                dried up in the sun.
Somehow barren,
                              yet
                              ­        drowning.


I'm walking along this road,
                                                     not going anywhere.

I'm living each day of the year,
But it's routine, copied,
                                            routine, copied,
                                                         ­                   routine, copied

The same    t i c k,    
                                    t o c k,    
                     t i c k,  
                                    t o c k,

Until I can't make sense,
                                          Of where I'm going.

I am nowhere.

I'm spinning in every direction,

Standing on top of the world.
                                                      
                                                                ­                L O S T

But here
All the same.

I have no words
But only feelings
That I am roughly gulped
Like breezy air
After dipping in the sea.

My words are the keys off beat
In choir, the one off key
The bird who flies in the opposite direction

The ecentric. They call us the liberals. The freedom fighters. They say were are the hippies, the weirdos.
What makes me different........................
My hat is so tall you can't see the theatre performance
My eyes are so curious I see a light on every ceiling
My hands are so wound they jump like bunnies on every desk
My feet as so tired they twist in the soil

I paint a picture that shows shadow and dark
I feel I am both
I Feel like the wind of the opposite direction