Better men have fallen before,
By word alone. Take these
Phrases in utter that matter not
To action, what man can judge
He who does, when he does nothing?
Mark the words of youth still young.
Tell me, when I have aged,
Have my thoughts & views really changed?
Have I any measurable way, what would the depth gauge read?
On the core of my character - my values & beliefs?
Field the breadth of life, would there be anything left in me deep?
Will there only be cold hard surface,
With nothing underneath?

I like hair enough to whip it,
To have the wind pull it
And muss about my face.
It's reminiscent of living,
Makes me feel grounded.
Enough hair on my chin
That I can stroke it when I think,
Weather it with whiskey
And plenty of smoke.
I'd like to say it's for joy,
But lately it's for the nerves.

It's humbling to look
Up at the stars, the
Gorgeous night sky.
Humbling to think,
Someone revoling one of those stars
Is staring back at me.

Things searched for
Are not connected to our internet,
Closed circuits.
The people who engage, are quiet.
And the circus is far, and close.
Hell, it's in the sky,
In submersible boats.
In dry heat,
In bitter cold.
It's above ground & below.
It's old pen & paper,
Passing notes.

What would protecting the minority have been, in 1776?
Those things which took us
Over a hundred years
To correct.
Because that is the basis of this Republic-
Not mob rule alone. The math is taxing.
And we must ask ourselves,
How far are we willing to go?
How committed are we to erroneous ventures,
To never admitting wrong?

Very quickly, have my
Compatriots rushed to take sides
In wars & conflicts that are not ours
That have no real bearing on
The American Way Of Life.
And what is that, these days?
Because I know, from
Pouring over history
That we are a very aggressive peoples
Steeped in the rigors of tradition.
But, similarly, believe in equality & peace
And self-actualization & freedom.
We flip between beliefs, diametrically,
With seemingly little reason
More based on superstition.
I know of the hopes they held at the beginning;
The founders of the nation
Who were, in aspects, mistaken;
On women's rights, on enslavement,
And many more. But,
That is the bugle call of progress;
To right what is wrong.
Those things that must be addressed,
For the betterment of all

Disburse of false truths,
Of complex ones that hinge on the day.
For it is ever so changing
And will be gone before being ready.
Live with the simple ones, like love
Those timeless classics
Which none among us
May ever truly corrupt.
And those things that branch from it
Like kindness, patience, compassion