Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your ***
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.

.

A fog this night has settled in
Among the chiseled stones
With dates now carved of ending years
and places so alone

Shadows weave in dense display
Each noise our skin it crawls
The squeaking of the rusty gate
Like footsteps in the halls

Shaded in its own dark beauty
Garden glows 'neath half hidden moon
A rose's thorns prickle the night
Trembling winds carry somber tune

Voices loom behind the walls
Whispers of secrets rushed
Cries of anguish simmering ready
Betrayals are quickly hushed

And still we walk with eyes so wide
Shivering our hands we hold
Bound by fear this wicked night
Lost among the gravesites cold

It's my fault this nightmare eve
A shortcut sought, a new way home
And now we wander, careful steps
Deeper than the eerie roam

Finger nails against blackboard scrape
The whistle of a boiling kettle
Sounds that make me shiver and cringe
Maddening and unsettled

I imagine a band of ghostly beasts
Play upon our organs this night
Stealing our hearts, tortured minds
Now I'm clinging to you in fright

Hold me tight I’ll find an exit
Somewhere down this crooked path
Lined of shrubs with broken branches
Beating hearts the aftermath

Not much further, there’s a clearing
Just a few more steps to go
I’ll let nothing come and harm you
Because I do love you so

Why not the ******* who just robbed the old man at the corner store
Why not the lady who crack induced her own abortion because she didn't want a baby no more
Why not the gang banger who killed a man just for his name
Why not the dishonest greedy businessman who's always begging for change
Why not the creep at church that gets away with touching little kids
Why not the guilty pastor that knew about it yet acted like he never did
Why not the ungrateful mother that enjoys bullying her seed
Why not the evil grandkids at gravesites holding their hands out in open greed
Why do people like this don't feel as much hurt and suffering
Why does it seem my life is just a living offering?

my brain started to rot,
with the thoughts that i dare not word,
the etchings and carvings of my trauma that i wish to never return,
and as life grips my throat,
the shaky breaths fail to escape my chapped lips,
drowning under the oceans anchored and below my sunken eyes,
with this weariness, i try to strive to see a world that loves me just the same,

and as my heart beats, falters, and persists,
despite all odds, determination fills my veins,
with aged scars, blackened burns, scarred scratches,
representing times i wish to forget,
the reminders are scorched into memories i like to pretend that never existed,
alongside the fact that my family did not foster a holy bond,

and, if any angels are near me,
them, as my witnesses,
can confide in that they only noticed spilled blood my own father admitted he never cared to see, the permanent cuts bound to my thick skin,
as i gazed into each slice,
wholeheartedly believing my blade would cut me from the ropes they ensnared upon my everloving entity

with the fury of the sun,
at the top of his tar-stained lungs,
he accused me of his premature death,
due to the stress of my illnesses he neglected to heal,
both still living with no regrets of the abuses he inflicted into my kin,
and the apple did not fall far from the tree,
similar sinisterness struck into my being
by the sinners i am expected to call my gracious home,

i am no angel,
and if god is cruel,
then you are the devil,

i am no savior,
no fallen child,
no messiah,
no hero from the stories that are my sanctuary,
just a wanderer, a journeyer, an existence that will cease,

and no matter who i am seen as,
and no matter how long i live,
and no matter my death date,
i will tell myself what you never will:
i am made of love,
i am made of light,
i am made of hope,
and i am a star that will never stop shining, even after my supernova
and as i become stardust, or rather dark matter,
the blurring of a century, if i am lucky enough, will fade into space,
and hopefully, if i am fortunate, another sweet, sincere, sorrowful soul will turn their eyes to the midnight sky,
and smile in the comfort that there is genuine happiness and beauty in this godforsaken world, even if it is lightyears away,
a keepsake of my soul, yearning my deepest desire, to be what i only hoped for anyone who so wishes,
though, especially endeared by those i love,
for i cannot gift it to myself, knowing the circumstances of life does not discriminate,
i want to love you forever,
but i cannot; our gravesites are as eventual as our smiles,
and, even, if for a moment,
couldn't it last forever...?

Ebullient field of stars throbbing with nectar;
Startling the void,
The hum of insects rising as a voice
Searing off the thromboids
My bent chest, arrested with the weight
Of heavenly urchins Time and Scene
Wake me from their undulating chords
Explain in plainsong what it means

The air is never meant to prince
To the king, Leaden Gravity
Nor the light let loose its leather reigns
On the chariot’s calamities
Err to the night, its frozen breath
Sing over its shoulders, undertow
All gravesites crown with fresh bouquets
Everyone who will never know

The place seems somewhat less imposing,
The healing effects of time a beneficence
Denied to wood, metal, and stone
(The high towers bent or fallen,
The chain-link and barbed-wire of the fences
Rusted, unsuitable, merely vestigial)
But it maintains a force, a malevolence
In spite of a certain dilapidation,
Though its physical condition no more than a passing concern
For those who have returned,
As they have matters of a less corporeal nature
Which necessitates a reappearance at such a place:
Some have come in penance for transgressions,
Be they real or imagined,
Some have come to mourn,
For while there are any number of monuments and museums,
There is a dearth of gravesites.
While some have come simply because they continue to be,
Their very presence, their simple act of survival
The essence of testimony.

Bring your chin to the edge of the table and roll your tongue out
flat like a dead slug, take a scraping of your taste buds
conventional speech will now be banished, puns vanish,
in conversation, dense condescension, identify by sleeve
trust isn't earned anymore, intercept all personalities as duds,
that's what you rotate in circles for, segregated communities, one cannot always deceive  
cut the scarlet letter for your disorder in the roof of your mouth if the warnings are something you somehow mismanage
don't you realize you're living with everybody's instability?

Before you're down a dead end road,
slow down and process the information overload
there's no privacy in the path of progress,
your secrets better not exist, regress, be meaningless or harmless
literal translations marked in the margins by martyrs
dancing like satyrs on their victorious gravesites, the effort a culmination, they pun-ish  
for all the good their culture does in vindictive service to selective silence, it seems remiss
that essays and humor, misunderstood wit; one misstep all they lash
dyers on hills who recolor the grit and reality of the past
censorship is a dangerous tool
ask any oppressed voice

Censorship changes history's very imagery
omits thought, will, obstacles and triumph and choice!

You are human, your nerves are raw and your heart beats like a drum
when the hand that strikes it stirs your blood, let the outcries come
poetry is unbridled in revolution, furious in chains
a brand that scars the bleary eyes behind all stifled ideas, corked within your brains
the thunder of marches inspired by speeches, the movements and power wielded by wordsmiths
sheer influence that shames Mjolnir or Excalibur, when a million speak as one, cry as one, the tears of one million are torrent rains
within the wildest eyes, brightest minds, purest hearts and kindest souls, waits this now-waning gift
for who can rightly rise in today's vast opera of need?

They call for everything all at once, who can genuinely lead?
All I can say to be honest, not certain, but true
is that thinking different isn't bad;
it's a waste of being an individual to let anyone else do your thinking for you.

Fifth commandment breached regularly
epidemic of gun violence in America
bullets fly, scream and tear into flesh
senseless rampant mass killings
rip across fabric of society
buzzfeeding, jump/kickstarting,
paradigm of mortality.

Since January first
two thousand and twenty three
countless innocent people lost lives
deliberately, yet randomly targeted
shot dead at point blank range
merely going about
their ordinary business.

No clear cut motive nor profile
delineates active shooter(s),
who could be either (or any) gender
and range in age
from grade school to septuagenarian.

The latest homicides woo,
and appease the grim reaper,
where gunman(men)/women slew
***** deeds done dirt cheap
many baker's dozen innocent people
unknowingly and unwittingly drew
(rather gurgled) their last breath
choking on splintered blood vessels
beckoning, issuing, and twittering minimal
horrific animal primal gasps and groans.

Adversarial criminal minds
finds yours truly to interject
reasonable parenthetical rhyme without reason,
thus I temporarily tack tangentially offtrack
with cogent concise contemplation
to extemporize, lyricize, and soliloquize
brutal nasty senselessness
perpetrated courtesy fearsome
half cocked pistol packing maniacs,
whereby evils unrelentingly replaying nightmare
(exceeding cruelty by magnitudes administered

courtesy rocky horror picture show)
of gruesome carnage broadcast across
social media platforms
of killing fields anew,
in the minds of those unfortunate souls
who bear witness to deadly crime,
where odd stark juxtaposition
elicit skeletal goldenrods yellowed stalks
adrip with morning mountain dew
encompassing fresh footprints,
where berserk humans

prowling in the tall grass
(them of naked ape infamous
zoological niche) lately trod
in search of human prey
welcomed unsuspecting killer(s) true
colors transformed into hideous monsters
predictably soothing savage beasts
undertakers grisly task patching
shredded bodies after homicidal maniac
fired bullet(s) setting corpse
recalibrating counting queue.

As month one of new year
(according to Chinese tradition
water rabbit constitutes animal de jure)
allows, enables, and provides
brisk business for crematoriums
or funeral parlors.

Whether native American citizen
or foreigner (perchance student) slain
survivors bereave and issue final adieu,
whether gentile nor Jew,
perhaps including
child named Caillou
instantaneously slain, who
knew
not what felled them
engrossed amidst social ballyhoo

ex post facto registering grievous hue
pallbearers accentuating somber view
eclipsing most recent prior massacres
similar to previous you
ululations reverberate yesterday's sorrows
without handy dandy blue's clue
lame motive explaining
cold blooded slaughter
vis a vis unsurprising discover re:
firearms Jane/ John Q.

Public kept stashed loaded, deployed...
guns up the kazoo
cocked, gauged, primed...
for unleaded opportunity
to unleash barrage
invariable generating hullabaloo
to curb ****** violence
trumpeting predictable brew
ha ha alloyed against National
Rifle Association almighty

elephant in the room courtesy hathi howdah  
supported lobbyist's motley crew
(think three ring circus)
versus increased uproar
protesters chorus nearly few
tile opposition pitted grand Poobah
despite alarming statistics shew
plus increasing fresh gravesites dug
amidst freshly mowed fescue
attesting to wanton shell shocked
headlines indiscriminate brew

tilly assaulting sensibilities
without rhyme nor reason
yet, yours truly doth boo
leave rampant hatred
directly linkedin to
former "FAKE" commander in chief,
(biden his time as patient hunter)
whose acrid, horrid, rabid vitriol
still darkly colors political hue
man gushing ****** fountainhead few

ming and appreciable frothing
lathers up right wing supremacists
greenlighting smoldering new
bile radicals hot headed
volatile mindset whereby
self anointed anarchistic Guru
possibly fuels global warming
evidenced by displaced Inuits
flooding courtesy melting igloo.