On a garden tree of hardened leaves
slithers a centipede anemone
claiming to be a friend of me
sprouting wings splendidly
flying to the Nth degree ahead of me
until I can no longer see
where the wronger flee
behind a Chris Pronger screen
giving me the stronger steam
to bomb the seed.

It's time I sail away
You've given me validation
But I must tide the wave
Of my salivation
With separation
So I pull the anchor
To embark on my journey
On an oil tanker
That'll likely start burning
Around the corner I'm turning
Trying to get off your gurney

I see serenity
Ahead of me
Beckoning
And lessening
Your deafening
Reckoning
Nagging incessantly
Like a referee
After ******* me
Recklessly
You wouldn't set me free
And got the best of me
But that let me see
I could barely breathe
Under your tree
So the way to be
Is separately

Your chaos blocks me from peace
I'm falling out of Heaven's reach
Marooned on your beach
Where you continually teach
Me to practice what you preach

I'm trapped in Dunkirk
With my stunned hurt
From your gun spurts
That would come first
Before quenching one's thirst
So you always won worst

I'll burn with rage
Until I turn the page
From this infernal mage
And his hurtful cage

I need to find a boat
To cross this moat
Without getting soaked
By your quotes
And your jokes
Making me want to come back
That'll just be another attack

Success beckons like a flippant ******
offering pure triumph
the nectar of glory flows in her.
Attempting to approach I find I cannot move.
stagnant hands emerge from the depths grabbing my ankles
looking down I see they're my hands
holding my craven climbers in place
I look back at my arms to see my hands missing
who needs Kurt Angle when I can put myself in an ankle lock?

I've got a hold of me and I won't let go
escape attempts are thwarted by preemptive remorse
plunging me deeper into the depths.
The knobs on my arms can't undo the harm
of the disconnected hands of the ******
that paralytically punish
tools supposed to help me give me a belting
while the lady in red leaves disappointed.

Tired of struggling against myself
my third rate fate accepted
I'm learning to love the view from where my hands plant me
no view of outside
at least I can see a window.
                                                         ­                                             
A siren's song echoes in the wilderness distance
beautiful serenades are muffled by walls
muted singing is enjoyed in solitude.

My dismembered hands dig into my brain
until things are rearranged
there's a paradigm shift
a paradox gift
beauty becomes ugly
so no one is above me
I can look in the mirror in the eyes of my peers
and see myself standing alongside them
when they're beauty makes them uglier than me.

They don't know pain
they couldn't understand
plutonium thoughts decay vision
replacing it with radioactive judgment.
I surmise negativity is just part of my personality
I surmise success is a ***** who picks the undeserving more
life goes unexamined
while wondering why insanity swirls.

Nagging depression firmly scratches the back of my brain
all that was avoided punches from the past
an explanation of my condition is given to my mistakes
like a father excusing their son's bad behavior
words fall on deaf ears once deeds have been done

failure doesn't care about my excuses
excuses completing a self-fulfilling prophecy
by hands from the depths burying me stationary.

Jesus didn't say the meek would conquer the Earth
Nor did he say they'd taunt for self worth
He didn't say blessed are the conquerors
Nor did he ask I trade my bomb for yours
Whatever he did say
We didn't listen
This death machine stays
And we are its pistons

Life is full of wonder and curiosity as a small child. My eyes see. My tongue tastes. My fingers feel. My fingers feel as much as they can hold. One day my fingers feel a pepper. I'm fascinated by its texture. I roll it around in my hand to try to understand this wondrous world and its glorious gifts.

The pepper's provided productive perplexing pondering but I'm done with it now. Once set down I feel a twitch from an itch in my eyes that see. Eyes don't see my fingers as spicy. Fingers don't feel the pain that resides within them. Ears don't hear the silent marauders invading the grooves of my fingerprints. Satisfying my itch is my instinctive reaction. I'm in for a painful surprise once fingers meet eyes.

All I see is pain. All I feel is pain.
Disorienting pain that makes me sink to the floor. The cold linoleum offers no solace for the hellfire in my eyes. Blind and lost, wandering through agony, father picks me up. I can sense the hands that crafted and nurtured me. He is the solver and thus, will solve my pain. The jubilation of rescue is washed away as he shoves me under a running faucet. Surely, he has betrayed me. Surely, he is trying to ****** me. He throws me into a waterfall and asks me to swim up it.  Between sputtering out water and trying to turn away I feel panicked anger. He created me yet he gives me pain and death? I curse him in my wrath. After hope has been lost the warmth of healing comforts my eyes. The turbulent waves I thought I was drowning in were actually washing the brimstone from my eyes. Father forgives my curses as he forgives all things. Yet, I feel guilt for my lack of loyalty. If I cursed him while he actively rescued me, what will I do when the time comes to fight for him?

The dead go to another planet
one inside of ours
The dead go to another planet
outside our fleshy bars
The dead go to another planet
floating around the stars.

The dead go to another planet
a place they can call home
The dead go to another planet
one of earth and bone
The dead go to another planet
one we're never shown.

The dead go to another planet
and I can't stand it
how the information demanded
is never implanted
as lives are disbanded
with tickets we're handed
leading us to another planet.

If you’re having trouble discerning
whether specific discourse is satire or stupidity

keep in mind if it’s one of those
then the other version of that probably exists.

I'm loaded into the yellow tank
alien abduction
concrete mothership.
Matchsticks
floating near the bottom of a puddle
awaiting transportation through their designated tributaries
they want to be burned out
yet they float damp and unused.

Find a foxhole
head down dig in
no fortified bunker
crosshair jersey.
Snakes slither in the breezeway
sinister squirming tendrils
pervade ventilation shafts.

Pathological spores infect the air
pheromones drive creatures crazy
after the zookeeper injected rabies
cages banging at all hours
never loosen.
Hiding from a buzzsaw
every edge its own blade
all cutting in different ways
through hardened skin and molding clay.

Crouching in a crevasse
as a stampede tramples through
dirt is kicked in my face
but a lion's teeth cannot reach.
The herd keeps moving
but comfort isn't found in the current
raccoons and skunks wander bat caves
after mastering the scent of ammonia.

There's a giant disparity
No economic parity
Or intellectual clarity
When they're scaring me
So I'll collapse invariably
Under coins they're barreling

They nickel and dime me
So I'm pinching for pennies
No peace I'm finding
Working at Wendy's
For the money lending
Capitalism bending
Sharks that are trending

We coin those with stacks of cash
As successes
Even if their heart's black as ash
It impresses

Money doesn't grow on trees
But it seems to float in the breeze
The direction these people please
Or happen to sneeze

I scrape
And claw
But those apes
Are frauds
Playing God
No sin absolved
Without their call

Because I don't put up with their torture
I haven't made a dime this quarter
Because of dollar hoarders
Ruling through law and order
Creating tribalistic borders

Nobody's paying my bailout
I'm too small to fail now
My life's become stale, how?
The **** of a male cow
I tear apart my only couch
Looking for a coin pouch
To get me out
Of this drought

I cut my fingers
And bruise my knuckles
My fatigue lingers
Until I buckle
My stock tumbles
As I scream uncle

We allocate all our resources to a few
While the rest of society turns into a zoo
Where people die to pay their dues
And are given a pocket of coins to use
Which ignites their fuse
But their obfuscated views
Are swayed by the news
Teaching trivial truths

Change starts jingling in my pocket
When I get on a revolutionary rocket
So they buy a gun and **** it
To preemptively block it
They use marketing to stop it
Like it's just another stock tip

They have the guns
They have the money
I have to run
If they start hunting
Because those that say something
Are the edges they're blunting
With coins they're dumping
To protect one thing:
The profit margin
Like social Darwins
They say the hard win
With unholy marred sin
By collecting the coins of their foes
To help economic hostility grow
Until coins are all we know

God smites me
Because I'm smitten
He hates me rightly
For what I've written
I'm his beta kitten
And I walked away
Like Jason Witten
On retirement day
Avoiding a fiery fray
Because I'm entirely afraid
So I chose not to stay

I fell in love
Then felt God's shove
Pushing from above
With a punishing glove

I made a mistake
Then made it twice
That's all it takes
To feel God's ice
Then I made it thrice

Like 7 Brides For 7 Brothers
I've tried enough to know I'm a number
My deadened life's become encumbered
So my reddened eyes start to slumber

I don't listen
So I feel His scorn
Not in what glistens
But people I adore
Becoming those I mourn
Once they shoot me off
Into the lightning storm
Like Alex Killorn

I must pay attention
To escape the detention
Of my own invention
Ignoring what's mentioned
By God in His book
I feel the pawn and the rook
Can outmaneuver the King
All my pieces he took
And told me to sing

The raccoons on this Kentucky farm formed a quagmire. They're wild thieves embedded in the ecosystem. Irreplaceable valuables are erased in the cover of night. The farmer offers to negotiate with the masked vermin. A raccoon response results in scramble trash, they say they've got a birthright from the past. Wits end is where dog ownership begins after the adoption of a rabid dog that only sees death. Regret rocks raccoons wrestling with Cerberus but there's no turning back, Cujo is chained in their yard.  Hellhound terror leaves spellbound hares abandoning their warrens until only reddened raccoons remain with their canine warden.

Lamenting the loss of liberty, a revolutionary raccoon resolves to romp around. The dog of damnation's laser locked bloodlust focuses on the rodent-like rebel. Charging like a rocket out of its launcher, the driven dog is lured from its isolated den. This game of cat and mouse has magnanimous stakes reaching across the farmer's lake.

The rebellious raccoon runs rapidly from the rabid ravenous Rover. The runner dips and dives through cover to avoid the teeth of the other. A snapping jaw matches the movements of the juking and cutting critter. Inside of a hollow tree becomes the raccoon's destination, he enters and ascends, the snarling snapper chasing in after him.

Death's embrace seems certain for the raccoon as the hound's teeth shave the edge of its fur, but at that point the fatter can go no further. The hound's blinding bloodlust vanishes upon realizing it's stuck. Its unwavering rage turns into panicked fear once it realizes its end is near. The raccoon revels in the dog's misery, enjoying watching it slowly starving.

The raccoons revelry is rebuked once the dog just starts staring at it. They both stare at each other, unblinking, waiting for the other to die. Neither of them willing to move an inch for fear of accidentally helping the other. Both willing to die to ensure their opponent's death. The hollow facade that saved the raccoon now becomes its tomb. Defeat and death act as a sedating punishment for the dog's aggression. Fierce foes drink the poison of resentment as they both accept their demise while staring into each other's eyes.

Driving down the freeway in Kentucky, there are only a couple exits people expect you to take. Lexington or Louisville,
pick one. Otherwise, what specific business
do you have going on in Sadieville?

I'm one of the unknown exitters
living 20 minutes off the Mt. Zion Road exit.
No one gets off this exit but me
onto a lonely drive through the trees.

I live off an exit where the vultures eat the dead, then perch on the trees that are dead, deceased in defeat under the feet that eat.
The graves of unknown soldiers lie buried beneath
convenience stores. The storefront sign says open
but the discordance inside is close.

Wandering in the wilderness
while the wind whistled my sins
you joined me in Union
after you missed the right exit.

Voices from the nether sent you letters saying things are better up north. My box on the side of the road holds notes that were
written with the intention of being read, but they're just
thrown out with the junkmale instead.

You burned too hot and I burned too much
in a snare I was caught once you abstained from touch
You were all I had, this isn't New York City
how many people am I supposed to have with me?

150 years ago, brother fought brother over the lives of their brothers here. Not much has changed since then.
A grave robber's eyes are seen in the faces of
wanderers. Welcomes only last until usefulness has passed.

You kept driving through
I wish I could exit too
but will Ohio be any better?
Once you find out send me a letter.

Chasing darkness
surmising depth lies in the depths
trenches are dug in craters
the holes we dig make us special
so we keep on digging.

Subterranean cranium
head in the sand—soul buried in soil
paying the undertaker in advance
the shovel feels lighter once it's smoothing the dirt
guarding the top of the grave.

Coffin solitude
dormant tears loosen the Earth
         the clay dam breaks
jailbreak mudslide
birthed from a muddy womb
crying, gasping for air.

We cleanse ourselves in the healing waters of time
donning our Sunday best for church
joining the choir boys standing at Jesus' feet
singing a chorus of denial
"I never asked for this".

Wading in an eddy
waiting for edification
outside a rampart levee
lamenting lack of levitation
seeing my sedentary station

has me swimming stationary
where the mud is kicked up
spreading a murky brown mist
anywhere I happen to touch anything.

The white water rapids look pure
—at least from where I'm floating
turbulence is welcome at this point
yearning to leave my mudslide broth.

Estranged from strangers
I call out for help
only to receive hell
until I'm tangled in kelp.

A barrier towers over my totality
pedestrians travel on the other side
traversing toward the other sidewalk
avoiding contact—or maybe loneliness

none of them approach the water's edge
they build walls as a protective hedge
shielding them from the precarious ledge
and those that float in the eddy beyond it.

While I'm floating in heaven
My alarm hits eleven
From sins numbering seven
My transcendence is threatened

I lower my elevation
To experience sin
Giving empty stimulation
Where I don't really win

I fair in heights
50 below Fahrenheit
Like an imperiled kite
Flying a feral flight

Living in the clouds
I hear a thunder sound
So I look around
To see I'm lightning bound

A burn immense
From a herd of dense
Turbulence
Into descent

The gravelly ground
Wears gravity's crown
It starts grabbing me down
Until I'm gradually drowned

The weight is too much
And I sink into the dirt
I say enough is enough
Then perpetuate hurt

I couldn't fly
So I rule below
I'm not gonna lie
I wish I could go

Our world passes another at close range
we can see the inhabitants of the other world
waving to us—planning on passing through
but our gravitational fields switch
and we fall into each other's worlds
seeing the beauty of what the other has experienced
before we hit the ground.

After harmlessly crossing your border
          you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
   you snipe from your defensive position
              so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
  they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
                and to start looking for weaknesses.

There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
            While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
           your flanks appeared vulnerable.
                      Blind spots were revealed.

You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
          So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
                             where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
                  Pacifism is more appealing than violence
     but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.

Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
               found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
               They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.

Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
                              after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
                                         hiding from the radioactivity in the air.

Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
        so I develop a permanent wartime economy
                                      and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
             because some insurgents are chameleons
                                      so I **** them by the millions.
                        The more weapons I get
                        the more needless death
                        until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.

When I was young I was told to shoot for the stars
but once I got older I was told to climb a ladder
a tumultuous ladder
with rungs of compromise and concession
some of them just pointless lessons.
Ascenders climb to reach happiness
or escape misery
but I climb to climb
to occupy my time.

I spend all my energy climbing
while jet packs and rocket ships blast by me
their exhaust is blinding and suffocating.
I see bodies fall just as fast in the other direction
reachers who lost their grip
now fall to the bottom
reminding me of the gravity of my situation.

It's hard to say if I'll survive
when some people survive a fall from the top
while others die slipping two feet off the ground.
The fragility and resilience of life
seems arbitrary and random
but everyone ends up in the ground eventually.

Those above me constantly add to the ladder
so I make no progress.
Those below me constantly dig beneath it
so I keep sinking.
Climbing and going nowhere
suspended in air
at a certain point progress
becomes not falling off
and maintaining my grip
through extreme turbulence.

My hands are calloused and ******
the further up I go
the more intense the turbulence
until fear shakes my body
harder than the wind ever could.
The ladder starts splintering into my hand
until I don't know how much more I can withstand
so I devise a plan
to utilize my fellow climbers.

I find companions for assistance
I call them helpers
they're the top shelfers
I want to surround myself with.
They help me up the ladder
lifting me with encouragement
or their arms when words aren't enough
just to help me up.
Whenever I'm knocked down a few pegs
they give me back my legs
and hold my ladder steady
making life on the ladder livable
but they don't hang around forever
because this ladder I climb is mine
and everyone has their own ladder to climb.

I didn't ask for this vertical trajectory
but when my options are die or climb
I choose the ladder.

I open my eyes to close them
I close my eyes to open them
to see identity.
The mirror distorts appearance
I see what I see—not what I am,
an amnesiac that remembers everything,
yet knows nothing. Light fades into the shadows
evidence of invisible particles suspended in air.
The white lines on the black road
leave black lines on my white face.

Tales from the black addendum
demons live, God sends them
we're their descendants.
Dented faces provide rented places for descendant stasis.
Nature finds the cracks—erosion does the rest
mountains crumble—cliffs form
the mountainside dissolves into the ocean
adding mud to the ocean floor—insulation for the Earth's core.

One strike from the air should be considered one airstrike
yet here in America we conflate air raids with airstrikes.

We say one plane dropping one bomb is an airstrike
but five planes dropping twenty bombs is also an airstrike
obfuscating the definition of the term
to lessen its rhetorical effect
and the statistics of our shady war efforts.

In terms of airstrikes we should count every explosive munition
because on the ground people are dealing with individual impacts
but our imperial aerial view makes it look like just one big explosion.

Don’t mistake my kindness for strength
or my treaties for tanks
or my beatings for banks
I’ll bleed just from blanks
then I’ll flee to the flank
to get free from their spanks.

All the mistakes
my mind makes
are mind snakes
of blind faith
that finds fate
in grind grates.

You must be mistaken
when you say I’m misshapen
and there’s no way I’m this craven
I just look for a bliss haven
where I can kiss mavens.

You must have me mistaken for someone who cares
I’m someone who cares too much
I make too many mistakes to bear
and lose your touch.

You say you have no ***** to give
because it ***** to live
without bucks to bid
on the luck to win
so you shuffle spin
off my ruffled ridge
for muscled sin.

It was a mistake talking to you
mistaking the color red for blue
mistaking what you said as true
that you had a bed for two
until I read the news
you had the best to choose
so I bled and bruised
mistaking your clues.

Yemen is a floating failed state spinning in the maelstrom
of flu, COVID, diphtheria, and cholera on one side
and the US backed Saudi coalition on the other.

They float there
like an abandoned oil tanker
floating off the coast in the Red Sea
threatening to spill 1,000,000 barrels of crude oil
until entirety turns black—
a sticky substance that’s hard to clean off.

It floats there as a deterrent—a ***** bomb
Houthis hold hostage future generations
with an IED that will injure all of our children—
why have Houthis weaponized the destruction of our planet?
Could it be that we’ve taken their world from them?

The people drop
like a bomb from the sky
in the Shada area of the Saada province.

The country explodes
like a car of 13 Houthis—4 children—
sending shrapnel to every corner of the Earth.

How many children is a terrorist’s life worth?
Keep in mind terrorists could hurt children
or those children could grow up to be terrorists
or a defense contractor could go out of business
so what’s the price of a child relative to those scenarios?

21,000 airstrikes in 5 years
5 years to do the math
every time we try to solve the equation
the answer comes out negative.

Living in a space station
the bottom faces Earth
life is lonely
hovering in the abyss.
Mentality heavy
feet get heavier as the mind sinks
until dying star feet become too heavy.

Every step taken
pushes the station towards Earth
intense fear                    sinking feeling.
Stay still                      don’t move
nothing stops the momentum of heavy feet
the station continues careening.

Panic                     panic
running around searching for answers
severe spinning starts
corkscrew bullet shot at Earth
no solutions                      pure terror
lead eyelids shield vertigo eyes.

Plummeting in an aerospace submarine
burning in the hellfire of the atmosphere
I keep falling until there’s nothing left.

Does an artist have a responsibility
to steer their audience in a positive direction
or is honesty and self expression all that is required?

The best way to change someone is through love
but you can use force at the price of resentment
or you can **** that person to eliminate their issues.

I wish I could love Jair Bolsonaro
the fatally unfit fascist president of Brazil
one of many idiots who benefit from anti-intellectualism.

He enjoys imposing his will—telling people how to live
so naturally he doesn’t enjoy being told how to live
like a child making rules to a game to benefit themselves.

Jair Bolsonaro doesn’t like using science or logic
so of course he doesn’t like using a face mask
saying protective equipment is “for fairies”.

Jair Bolsonaro contracted COVID-19
and shared videos of himself taking hydroxychloriquine
like a shameless snake oil salesman.

How am I supposed to love this man
when he fills me with resentment
to the point I start cheering for Covid?

People like him had me resorting to ****** at one point
until a rehab counselor brought up a Malachy McCourt quote
“Resentment is drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.”.

Kentucky nights bring stillness
but not silence

tranquility shrouds creatures of the night
their symphony betrays that.

Grasshoppers and crickets chirp ceaselessly
microorganisms making music of magnitude

introducing dusk to night
with unintelligible cheering.

Timid critters make their presence known
using the anonymity of darkness

raccoons and opossums wail in the distance
their cries aren’t a call to action but a wild expression

they could be dying—they could be giving birth
it’s always one or the other.

Vulnerable bellowing brings out the dogs
for a canine crescendo

projecting power into the air
raised hackles raise spontaneous barking

echoing through the ravine
alerting newts and neighbors alike.

The noise is paused as dogs are brought inside
the faint murmur of scolding replaces them

like an aria without an aside
the air is still again

until a pack of coyotes complete the satz
finding their prey as the night’s finale.

We have a conversation
talking for hours
maintained interaction
reveals personality.

We have ***
an exercise of empathy
maintained interaction
reveals vulnerability.

We have an argument
perceptions clash
maintained interaction
reveals differences.

We have a fight
fists fly strategically
maintained interaction
reveals aggression.

We have a war
priorities projected through tactics
maintained interaction
reveals love and hate.

We have a life
harmony is obscured by disconnection
maintained interaction
reveals humanity.

You say you’re the perfect puzzle
and I’m just a crooked piece
that refuses to fit in.

You say I’ll never grow up
yet you’re Impeder Pan
living in Betterland.

If one is good and two is better
then you are two
and I am zero.

You say a blank white canvas is perfect
and my paint only obstructs the view
yet my blank canvas is just nothing.

I never live up to your measurements
because you only measure once
before you begin cutting.

So you give me a test to rate me 1-10
and tell me a perfect score
is the number one followed by a zero.

You ask me to rate Kevin in Kelvins
expecting me to cynically sell the Celsius
as not as fair in height as your Fahrenheit.

It sets you off
knowing I was turned on
like the freeway exit away from you.

You say I can’t see the forest through the trees
I say you’ll see the forest once you’re on your knees
then you say you will be a plains walker as you please.

You plant charges of C4
telling me “expect to see more”
submerging me under the sea floor.

You say the end
justifies you being mean
which just means being average.

You cut the cord
before I can pull the plug
once we’re at the end of our rope.

You say you’re perfect
as long as you’re without me
finally, something we can agree on.

Some people have a jungle mentality.
They say if we lived in the jungle
the strong would dominate the weak.
But this isn’t a jungle
it’s so far from the jungle it’s impossible to say
exactly who the strong and the weak are
when there are so many variables
and the society we live in
dictates the skills and attributes we acquire.
Yet some people try to turn society into the jungle
because they think they’d thrive there
but their jungle doesn’t have trees
it has chimpanzees cut off at the knees
nor does it have a sustainable ecosystem
it has concrete walls and steel bars
where they beat the small and leach the large.
The ape beating its chest the hardest
hoards all the bananas
while its shrewdness starves.
The only jungle it resembles is Upton Sinclair’s
but before that jungle can be realized
they have to plant the jungle mentality in our minds.

Can art and religion coexist
When art is about asking questions
And religion is about providing answers?

Two men square up
in an octagon
they circle each other
they try angles
to find the wrecked angle
to reach the top of the pyramid
for a diamond reward
to make life on this sphere bearable
because deep down in our dome we know
we preach the Holy Triangle
but ignore the lessons of the cross
hope takes the shape of its negative container
which is half empty so we’re always divided by two
the octagon mentality is reflected in the Pentagon
people fill rectangular plots in the ground
while others profit from manufacturing projectile cylinders
hiding behind stars and stripes
while we fight one another with dollar signs
in the eyes ovals stream from
we see the trapezoid we’ve built for ourselves
where our circular lives take the shape of a fist.

On one side of me lies one
on the other side of me lies the other.

The one is the one
the other is the other.

The one separates me from one another
the other turns the one into just another one.

There is no other one
so all the others are ones.

Stay with the one
or be the other.

One or the other
pick one.

America has an obsession with guns
and will glorify anybody that carries one.

America has an obsession with race
and will glorify anybody that shares their face.

Imagine every statue and memorial in America vanished
and America placed you, Mr. Reader, in charge
of deciding what every monument in the country would be
—events commemorated, dates remembered, people honored—
how long would it take for you to start naming confederate soldiers?

You’re a disembodied voice
only appearing in mirrors
like the Candyman.
Sometimes I look into the mirror
and say your name three times
then finish jerking off.

A hurricane
ensuring pain
churns our way
yet I choose to stay
through bruising rain.

The storm approaches
like a swarm of roaches
with the scorn of locusts
like the plagues of Moses
with nature as our hostess
we find ourselves voteless.

Locals weigh survival against finances
making them liable to take chances
until they’re dodging giant branches
that fly like crying banshees.

Irene, Katrina, Andrew
chaos on land grew
when they ran through
and our dams proved
that they’ll slam you
if you can’t move
stubborn plans lose.

We thought our sanctuary
was a temple
but now that place is scary
as it starts to tremble
water rises above sea level
then rises above head level
so we can’t hear the treble
of disintegrating metal.

The windy water
simply slaughters
sons and daughters
as sinking fodder
not a skink or otter
they drink the water.

Can you run faster than the wind?
God pays us in bulk for our sins
with water spins
the Father wins
and those of us on the ground
are left to turn around
and run in the other direction
after a water wall’s *******
our brick and mortar protection
doesn’t pass Mother Nature’s inspection.

Late night chore
****** score
can of sardines Toyota Camry
cigarettes are thrown out the window
after they’ve burned to ash.

Life is grueling
money pulling
social circles are salesman circuits
items in stores can be sold by anyone
money belongs to whoever is holding it
the rabbit outruns the fox
because the fox is running for its dinner
and the rabbit is running for its life.

Wheels are spinning
not winning
up and down Hopple Street
cash clutched in clenched clinging fingers
swivel squirrel seekers scan the street for swine
snakes slithering to ****** sparrows with clipped wings
flashing lights bring fame and shame.

Lifetime of disappointment
hedonistic enjoyment
outstretched arms receive god
precarious stones in the water mark the path
murky liquid lies beneath       lies within
murky thoughts from beneath lie within
murky dreams from within    lie beneath.

Cycle of looting
then shooting
concession consolation
paranoia prerequisite
thievery theology
potholes collect in the freeway
vehicles begin to fall apart.

The pathetic get pedantic
with thoughts mostly planted
the world they misunderstand it
yet there’s still discourse demanded
so they take terminology and brand it
as whatever they need to stand fit
and begin digging us into the **** ditch
of their messy rhetorical **** sandwich.

They use the term doublethink
as a subtle wink
to how they’re dumb and stink
on a drug that sinks.

They use echo chamber
to dismiss with anger
the opinions of strangers
for perceived danger.

Anything they don’t like is virtue signaling
it’s my Aunt Gertrude’s symphony
to construe simply
the spider’s spindling.

They call others thought police
while they have a lot to preach
because they want a monopoly
over what the public got to see.

They use the term hivemind
to deny why
the other side cries
saying they want a prize
for parroting the right thing
they avoid the scorpion’s sting
by diminishing and destructing
the other’s mind as nothing.

All of these terms have their place
yet we use them to race
to arguments lacking grace
putting palm to face
to bomb the brakes
of the train that takes
us to a lane of fake
******* banter waste.

Spiderwebs are everywhere.
Spiderwebs are in the air.
The webs that ensnare
are the webs they share.

Little strings appear out of nowhere.
In my mind they appear no fair.
Those lines tell me don’t go there
by sticking to my nose hair.

Spiderwebs are as sticky as lies.
I guess that’s how they catch flies.
I guess I thought I was more wise
until I walked into a spiderweb surprise.

Their nets envelope my home
so I’m caught in their web.
If I choose to roam
I could be dead.
So I stay inside instead
and wonder why in dread
while I’m tied to my bed
by a spider’s thread.

I know Christians and sinners
misfits and winners
sprites and spinners who fed me my dinner
while we weathered the blizzard
of the grand wizard’s
****** trigger.

We watched in dismay
as Satan decided to stay
to beat the enslaved
and show them their grave.

Their white hoods brought fear
because they killed the queers
and those who chuck spears
we saw the Bible smeared
yet steered clear
because a black man’s teammate
was just as good to cremate
so we figured we’d leave fate
to those who only see hate.

Not our problem
was our solution
we let bigots call them
this world’s pollution
while we built an illusion
of a country of inclusion
yet punished any intrusion.

I saw
and didn’t help
just prayed to God
to avoid those welts
worrying about myself
the Bible went on the shelf.

I saw my brother murdered
yet stood still as a girder
knowing if I went any further
I’d feel the end of their burner.

I wanted to speak out
but there was nowhere to reach out
in America’s deep south
so we put up signs saying KEEP OUT.

Two lanes
two lines
two trains
two times
two blunts
too much
to lunch
too rough.

Two taxis
two cabs
two backseats
to dad
to dinner
two grinners
too inner.

Two hours
too long
to cower
to home
to something
too nothing.

Bats found residence in my fireplace
discovering shelter in
protective brick walls.
Cold fronts attack in sunshine absence
I want to ignite a flame                 but
I fear the bats will infest my home
                      a home the bats see
as an addition to my fireplace.

At one point I couldn’t find love to purchase
I thought you ended those searches
but now I’m getting nervous
thinking I might be allergic
to your nature absurdist
and I can’t swerve this
feeling I’m worthless
stripped of all purpose
boils start to burn us.

I’ve got an eczema
sense of a
relationship
rashly lips
can’t kiss
who they wish.

I can’t leave the house
or your eczema breaks out
you scream and shout
and make me doubt
if your love is devout
when you treat me like trout.

Stress boils through my skin
after you tell me I win
and leave my house of sin
leaving a gift in
an itch
given by a witch
to make me twitch.

You’re the itch that rashes
causing unnecessary scratches
leaving a width of lashes
on my skin in patches
your personality matches
the blistering ashes
of my skin that detaches.

I keep itching
I keep scratching
to be switching
from your thrashing
into comfort
to numb hurt
of dumb words
creating thunder.

A doctor gave me a prescription
to avoid your dereliction
and feral diction.
He gave me an antidote
in a plan of hope
helping me cope
with saying nope.

The rash lingers
like poison fingers
choking me
woefully
draining life
like rain at night
I pray for light
and wait inside.

I found cortisone
in the form of a home
with a man
so I’m in demand
not your empty hand
red from the brand
of all the discomfort you withstand
now that you’re itching like sand
seeing I’m no longer ******.

I’m turning from Blanche DuBois into Chris Benoit
taking a streetcar named Desire to Monday Night Raw
after the oppression of the law got stuck in my craw
because the discretion of the flawed became the voice of God.

I’d always relied on the kindness of strangers
only to find the Million Dollar Man’s danger
directing the Army Rangers to Jesus’ manger
letting the Undertaker deal with the remainder.

I relinquished my rightful place
to the bank’s Crippler Crossface
taking everything until I lost grace
going into a holocaust craze.

I’m upset about the places I can’t go
because I’ll be ***** by Marlon Brando
when I ask the referee for a hand though
he just responds with a ****** no.

I have retired my display of Vivian Leigh
now Whatever by Our Lady Peace plays
as the Rabid Wolverine walks to the stage
to fight the Big Boss Man in a cage.

I gave up teaching class to my sister
to fight an *** who’s a mister
whose slaps can blister
so he blasts this spinster.

The law is a tougher opponent than Eddie Guerrero
so I apply my aptitude into becoming a pistolero
after getting jabbed by my French Quarter pharaohs
I can feel resistance down in my Marc Mero.

I start to take steroids
because there are boys
whose terror noise
impairs my poise.

I go all out performing flying headbutts
fighting until I see the dead’s guts
exterminating enemies like bed bugs
but then I start to dread hugs.

Now I assume a stranger’s spite
so I can immediately fight
I’m swallowed by night
wearing these tights.

In my rage I **** my wife and son
now my anger is no longer fun
even if it came from their gun
it’s me who’s the loneliest one.

I changed from a lady to a wrestler losing my ****** mind
fighting Mankind while stepping on landmines
until I can’t find any grand signs
and I’m anger defined.

Riots should be considered natural disasters
precipitated by injustice
especially when it’s police brutality
but much like global warming
America will ignore the natural disasters
for right wing interests
watching the storms sweep through routinely
pretending not to understand
until we’re swallowed by the maelstrom we’ve created.

The Christian imagination is captured
by the idea of the rapture
where Jesus comes to save us
like he shouldn’t just shame us
because no one is blameless
for this great mess.

It’s a dangerous mentality
to say our vitality
is based on morality
the rapture is that emphatically
where Jesus is battling
the forces of the ****** darkness
who are those I deem heartless.

The rapture can be Christian revenge ****
or their way of explaining this death storm
either way it prevents our best form
which is what Jesus was sent for
but now the student is the mentor
twisting words that meant more.

War is pushed to the side
it’s viewed as a sign
we’re living in the end times
like we’re in a hopeless ******
and tentacles just went by.

Nuclear proliferation
and global warming
bring them elation
for the rapture’s forming
so if the wars get gory
and match their prophetic story
they’ll practice diminished mourning.

God loves everyone individually
so it seems silly to me
what billions before us have seen
isn’t the same fate we’re deemed
why would we be
treated differently?

We must all walk through death’s door alone
I wish I could take everyone in my home
but that mentality is ******-suicide prone
yet when the comfort of company
becomes too much for me
I say quite lovingly
the rapture is coming
to drown out war drums drumming
I say the rapture is coming
to drown out more guns gunning
I say the rapture is coming
humanity’s mental growth is stunting
I say the rapture is coming.

Oh God, here they come
thirty to fifty wild boars
I’m quite stunned
so I slam the door
and look for my gun
which isn’t there anymore
the liberals took it away
not because of bullets sprayed on concert days
but to make me gay
which is why I hid my AK.

Thirty to fifty wild boars are attacking
while my children are in the yard
I can already see their bodies stacking
without an assault rifle to guard
so I find the weapon I’ve hidden
and say to the swine good riddance
the assault rifle made the difference
it’s not just a recreational interest.

Wild boars have only killed four people in US history
because they’ve been plotting
so to me it’s no mystery
these wild boars I’m spotting
Are terrorists
that share a fist
with liberal wrists
so I must defend my country
with assault rifle hunting.

These razorbacks
find ways to smack
those who firepower lack
leaving destruction in their tracks
their leader is wearing black
he’s the harbinger of doom
wielding a scythe
like a broom
to show me eternal night
in my tomb.

My armor piercing rounds
defeat the rotund hounds
their bodies fall to the ground
my family is safe and sound
but that’s not enough
my survival was luck
I go to the government for change
to get weapons in a deadlier range
because my assault rifle can **** thirty to fifty wild boars
but what if I’m attacked by thirty to fifty more?

They see me wearing skirts and stilettos
living my life in falsetto
which they claim a false meadow
and all call out hell no.

They call me godless
when I crossdress
in this frost mess
of lost guests.

They call me a queen
just to be mean
I am what they deem
what they instantly gleam.

Some don’t like what’s different
so the townspeople pick up their pitchforks
they want to diminish my imprint
I guess that’s what they call me a ***** for.

They despise the flamboyant game
coming from my derelict frame
they ask if I feel no shame
I ask them the same.

Every time I’m on the verge
of a dirge
they swerve
from my verve.

While I walk on the air
they watch and they stare
envy ensnared
jealousy scared.

I see myself as ethereal
and try to be pure
they see a disease venereal
in need of a cure.

They say men mustn’t be feminine
even if it is genuine
and there’s a place they’ll send you in
to die with the men who sin.

They order me to mask my grin
and act masculine
but I never asked to win
so I bask in sin.

I search for connection
turning in the direction
of those interested in my *******
not my introspection.

They’re so ******
they’re so catty
they’re just wishing
for a daddy.

The lo-fi
don’t know why
I go cry
and don’t pry.

Excruciating wonders
tear me asunder
until all of my plunder
is a magnanimous blunder.

My throat gets a mite coarse
from the blight force
of their high horse
on my white porch.

My tonsil gets scratchy sore
once they freeze my core
and I sing no more
exiting the door.

I can’t speak
let alone sing
my body is weak
and so are my wings.

They want me in their baritone
narrow home
where sparrows go
to carol no.

I see the slinking bass
ruining this stinking place
engendering a sinking face
whenever I get a thinking taste.

There’s a sharp staccato
in the places I will not go
where the race of evil taught notes
lower than my shipwrecked boat.

I go underwater like the Maldives
silently we all scream
living in our small dreams
rooting for our ball teams.

Once they see I’ve drowned
they hand me back my crown
and tell me not to look so down
after I’ve been gagged and bound.

I respond to their monotony
noddingly
plotting the
same odyssey.

I adopt the stature
of Margaret Thatcher
I’m the student’s master
like a brimstone pastor.

Now I sing as low as I can go
and my flow is extra slow
because I could never grow
living my life in falsetto.

I want to be part of society
I want to have proper propriety
but I feel woeful worry inside of me
in the form of anxiety.

What will they think?
What will they say?
Would they even blink
if I told them I’m gay?
Or would peace be betrayed
by the revelation I made?

My thoughts are hurried
because I’m too worried
they come in a flurry
vision obscuring.

It’s a slow grind
in this snowblind
I don’t know why
I can’t grow wise
so my nose finds
blow lines
until I glow like
a strobe light
turning on and off
like Jared Goff
because apparent cops
who share my slop
scare to stop
my stairs to the top
so I get impaired and flop.

The only person not allowing me
to share my personality
is myself acting cowardly
fearing they’ll respond sourly
I want someone to empower me
so I can conquer this task towering.

I found my call of duty
inside your warzone
after leaving my pressurized cabin
and dropping in randomly
I started collecting money and items as fast as I could
to match the competition’s capability.

Everyone’s an enemy, everyone is hostile
I fear them and the weapons they’ll use on me
barraging me with dragon’s breath shotgun blasts
to put me down quickly
or silently sniping from far away
so I can’t defend myself.

The only way I can survive is staying in your circle
which keeps moving away from me
so I sprint through the fields and forests
making my way through already looted homes
hoping no one takes advantage of my vulnerability
racing to your circle before I suffocate.

Once I finally get to your circle I realize it’s too small to hide in
because everyone is so close together
I must engage them before they attack me
but they all lay siege to the small shack I’m trapped in
lobbing grenades and firing at me
I can’t even poke my head out.

So I stay inside
donning my gas mask
letting the circle overtake them and pick them off one by one
as I wait inside anxiously worried someone may try to join me
but eventually they’re all gone and I’m the only one left
and in that moment I have achieved victory royale.

In the 1970s there was a wave of soft pop that struck America
one band at the crest of that wave was The Carpenters
formed by Richard and Karen Carpenter
they were wildly successful
their song We’ve Only Just Begun is still a ubiquitous wedding song
Karen’s smooth and pure voice drew giant crowds
but despite how timeless her music is
it is equally contrasted by the briefness of her life.

Karen captivated a worldwide audience with her music
but some people just can’t be reached
indoctrinated by our superficial society
thinking every celebrity should be a supermodel
critics made snide comments about her being Richard’s chubby sister
even though she wasn’t overweight
and Richard was addicted to Quaaludes
but even more important than the public was Karen’s own mother
who worried of the public’s feelings more than her own daughter’s.

Karen felt pushed to lose weight
so she hired a nutritionist
who loaded her down with carbohydrates
which obviously made her fatter
crushing her faith in nutrition
turning her towards unhealthy methods
...which worked...at first...
but unfortunately it kept working
and she refused to change, unlike her body.

Fans who once cheered for her
now gasped when they saw her emaciated skeleton take the stage
they thought she might’ve had cancer
and were concerned about her weight
but to her it was the same crowd telling her to lose weight
now telling her to gain weight
she was done hearing it
and stuck in her ways.

Her friends were worried about her
and pleaded for her to seek help
but her mother’s profession was repression
so Karen hid her depression
while her mother told her psychiatrists were for crazy people.

Karen tried using a man to make her problems disappear
and married Tom Burris two months after meeting him in 1980
he would verbally abuse her; calling her a bag of bones
then he’d *** money off her; amounts up to $50,000 at a time
needless to say the relationship was ill fated
and they divorced in 1981.

Finally Karen’s friends convinced her to see a therapist
who brought her family into a counseling session
and urged them to tell Karen they love her
of course Richard was willing to say so, they were always really close
especially after Karen had helped him with his own addiction issues
but Karen’s mother refused
berating the therapist for using her first name; Agnes
and informing him that wasn’t how their family did things.

Karen Carpenter passed away February 4, 1982 at the age of 32
she died from ipecac poisoning
she used the substance to induce vomiting every day
and it slowly dissolved her heart.

Richard was devastated.

There’s not much I can add
I guess Karen’s story speaks for itself
it just ****** me off critics jeer with impunity and without empathy
they’re free to cajole great artists while having no value themselves
driving artists away until we’re only left with negativity
it makes me want to cut out all the demons’ razor sharp tongues
before they get a taste of another angel’s wings
but would that really protect those angels
if they’re born to demons?