at a blistering pace
they fiddle with space
folding here to there
and then to now
and all we do is
wonder how

instead we should see
that time’s hands are we,
balled up in fists of idiocy
with knuckles bloodied
by history
pulling triggers and pins
to win shinies and loot,
never pointing to the
victims dying in soot

the fingers tease & unravel
the fibers and threads
woven from the start
when they should be
weaving a new living art

Yesterday circles above me,
waiting for my strength to drain.
this god awful desert tortures me;
this heat, this pressure, this smell—
i can’t taste anymore, just breathe.
my feet trudge wherever they must;
the next mirage, mere sand & dust.
my burnt ember skin peels off in layers
& my knees hit the crust.
how can i deserve this? i cry out.
& Yesterday’s shriek pierces the air,
my ears can’t stop ringing, it’s all they hear.
on my back now, i force my eyes shut.
give me blackness, i cry.
but the sun bleeds through no matter
how hard i try,
& the night has been absent
for what seems like months.
Yesterday circles closer, closer,
just right above, wings fanning my face.
i hear it now, it’s finally landed;
but i dare not move as it claws near.
a rush of cool air kisses my face,
i breathe deep, breathe long,
& dare not let it go.
i can smell it now, just inches away-
a most foul stench of pure decay.
but as it draws closer, closer,
i hear a whisper, from where?
i don’t know, but it says:

Fear nothing.

i peel my eyes slowly, lash by lash.
the everblue sky never looked so nice,
and how the sun radiates such glowing warmth.
i can’t help stare at it, feeling its rays,
brighter and brighter and brighter and—
Yesterday’s a thousand miles away.

spread the word
tongue by tongue
and lung by lung
from East to West:
we’ve failed our test
from pole to pole
so that the deepest shoal
of floundering fish
may find a way
toward becoming whole

a state of choice
at our fingertips
on the cusp of breath
let’s speak it quick
and mean it like death
because nothing matters
unless we deem it so
and there’s no magic like
the word
to let it flow

Heave and **
and pray all day
and you just might go
to the place we all love
but no one knows
(no guarantees, though)
because as you can see
you just might not be
the right kind of being—
even though you’ve got
lots of dough
(and maybe a plane)
you forgot your brain
and dropped your heart
(the most vital part)
because what you don’t see
or can’t bear to accept
is that heaven’s hiding
right inside your chest

when we breach
the full breadth of our understanding,
we'll understand
the full breadth of our ignorance.

the new cues wear
old shoes that tear
so quick, but stick
like tar to faces,
tongue-tied by laces
pulled through lungs
that lie in vats
of acidic pride;
how far will they run?
how fast will they stride?
but the questions fall again
between gasps for oxygen
as carbon dioxide
and nitrogen
fill the void;
such are the old shoes,
always outlasting
their feet.

With that incredible brain in his skull,
he drags this country through the mud
like a child drags his blanket.
His enormous, mighty hands grasp
impetuously at his phone to plop out
****-like tweets to his army of bots.
That statuesque frame, upon which his ill-fitting
cheap suits drool down, stumbles around courses
in search of new ways to lie about his lies.
And his striking eyes, squint and squirrel away the truth,
deep in the soul of his heart, which is bigly, and grate (we know).
Oh, we know, Donald. We know. It’s hard to ignore
such an enormous heart as yours. So big indeed,
that this country needs to get out from under its weight
before the inevitable cardiac arrest. It’s a democratic test,
while the Feds investigate all the best people
hired to sell off this country’s assets
to net the richest more riches.

we're dead
wrong--deadly
throngs, heading
for death--& long-
itude & latitude's
gone; hope to hope to
hope again; carried
on wind, waves; ferried
in mind; waves, long-
ing kind waves;
shall we find ways
to not be dead
wrong? are the days
too short or two longs
repeating too loudly?
too proudly? too cloudly?
but Earth sang songs long
ago; She sings again,
bellowing: you're deadly
wrong.

a map of skulls and souls
reaped along routes of trade
a rat burrows into the demon's pen
of blissful greed and greed-
ing ignorance agreeing with
mindlessness, taken to com-
plying with heartlessness
shaved with soul-
lessness
into an empty machine--
a killing being
sentient of nothing but
blood battered faces and clean
of all graces--
a sweet decay of inhabitable spaces
do the animals care?
we decide for them
the discussion unheard, buried
in a coffin of laughing reproach
nailed shut, impaled
with ifs, ands, and buts,
but--
what if we didn't?

Falling, eyes
Peeled, bawling
Down, rain
After rain, mud

Falling, feet
Caked, trawling
Down, mile
After mile, stone

Falling, shoulders
Sheared, hauling
Down, blade
After blade, blood

Falling, arms
Piled, crawling
Down, pound
After pound, bone

Falling, guts
Jammed, galling
Down, turn
After turn, waste

Falling, digits
Hacked, stalling
Down, class
After class, cache

Falling, crowns
Cracked, calling
Down, hope
After hope, haste

Falling, trunks
Burned, palling
Down, mass
After mass, ash

Falling, frames
Coiled, sprawling
Down, sec
After sec, gravity

Rising

the architecture of truth falls flat
against the flourish of surrounding lies,
sparkling and glinting in the light,
drawing our gaze and jutting
their corners into compositions,
casting shadows across the truth below.

but the shoddy foundations of lies
are prone to failure and no matter
how fashionable or stylish,
time will reduce them to dust,
claiming those within their walls,
while the foundations of truth endure
time's assault like tardigrades
in the vacuum of space.

so the market of falsehoods grows,
ever eager
to keep the truth
from being bought
for as long
as possible--
let alone believed.

oh to be a Supreme
being, sitting guilty
of nothing, judging
every person, place, & thing
from silence, quietly
whispering violence
door to door, hidden
above the highest floor,
behind words of deceased
"thoughtful" "men";
hallways full of rooms
full of nothing, never
an ounce of light, just
a din of soft shouts
beneath stolen silverware;
oh to be Supreme, being
judged by nothing, not
even a thing, not
even justice, not
even a Supreme being, not
seeing a person, nowhere,
never; oh, to be a Supreme
being is a nightmare
masquerading as a dream

Wash your hands / Don't touch your face
Touch your face / Touch your face
Wash your hands / Don't touch your face / or face corona

(sing in the tune of London Bridge is Falling Down)