I sleep on sheets covered in beer and carry boxes of bottles to the trash room, boxes and sheets and smells that could get me in trouble with the people who wear uniforms
And I put my head on the shoulder beside me and everything is sweat and stale alcohol and three am and I was supposed to do more homework tonight. I was supposed to get more done and go to bed so much earlier.
But here I am, tired and lying beneath Kenyan blankets, atop Blue Moon covers, lightly taking your phone off your chest and setting it away as you slip into sleep beside me
Here I am, bringing you trash bags I bought with my own money, carrying a box of illegalities I didn’t drink to the recycling, leaning into your flanneled embrace in the Sunday morning quiet of the hallway

I will take care of you, no questions asked
I will always take care of you

Before sleep’s waves, in the dark, holding my hand to yours and telling you that I am here to talk— and knowing you will never take me up on it.
Asking you questions because it’s my job, and you say I do it too well, and we both know that that avoids the question in the first place.

I will take care of you, asked questions unanswered
It is 3 am on a Sunday, and I will take care of you
Always.

part one:

everybody needs somebody to love;
to adorn with plastic ornaments;
to say they feel lost;
and mean it;
a real love:
feelings of assuredness.
believe me,
i am sure.

part two:

gasoline heaven lines nostrils-
and the brain-
and the hands and heart it controls.
the pockets, too.
is it sad to realize and not care?
that the pockets and the nostrils-
and the steel strings (and their haunting reverberation)-
and pencils to paper-
come before true, and honest love?

part three:

no bodies left behind,
or given away for the future.
no turpentine-
no poppies-
or silk.
no illegalities;
rule breaking;
infidelity-
a simple desire to be an artist
and the sacrifices an artist makes
only to fail and continue to yearn:
failure

Am here
Maybe I was here
Writing you a sturdy poem
Screaming about something
Nothing
Sometimes
Am confused about religion
Religious thoughts, religion beings
That she hates
And I hate that she hates
But why does she hate
Ugh too much hate in gratification
and that pungent smell
Of love
Mostly "loved"
Coated in hypocrisy
Of belief and  change
but for a penny
Or a few dollars
and the perfect orator
For your hearts
For your minds.
For the sake of politics
I'll shred your soul
but only if you don't mind
him being gay
Or lame
Or late for my crucifixion
Of inauguration
That was acquired through
Illegalities of power
hungry
She said
I can't love a broke man
that feeds me more lines
on a monsters ink
that you've woven
and left in my bed
for me to fall in love
With your raw
Open heart
that keeps fighting
racism
and equal rights
for women
against elite tyrants

Criminal Trump has done what no other U.S. president has ever done. He has created a gulag in the United States of America. It is a metaphorical, and evil, gulug:  an archipelago of lies, cheats, racism, misogyny, illegalities, and rampant corruption, among many other offences. His Oval Office has become a black box, spiritually so dark that truth cannot enter. His friends, his associates, his heads of the most important governmental departments are, or have been, in prison. His Republican cohorts, most notoriously in the Senate, have been craven for four years. McConnell has shamed himself innumerable times in the political arena. Starr is no star at all, but a moral Black Hole. Stalin got away with his gulag in tact. Trump will try to cheat his way to four more years and not only keep, but also enlarge, his.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks