There is a man
who writes signs
for the homeless,
puts different lives
on display,
spends his time
night and day
over squares of cardboard
or triangles of vinyl,
he turns them into
war vets
or leukemia survivors,
he slaves away
so that they'll get
people to listen,
he wants people
to hear the heart
of the world murmuring
as it cries,
because we have left
them,
their lack of a place
to reside,
is our society's dark side,
so he is not a man
of the people
he is a man for the people,
he wants that spare
nickel,
dime,
or dollar
as much for them
as his words
are for himself
and his own sense
of redemption,
because this world
has gone cold on the surface
but it's heart
still burns,
still makes you uncomfortable,
when you see his signs
in the hands
of men and women
in the grassy medians.

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well."

On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.

Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
Though numerous, they were lightly armed
against our spears and swords.
We burned their ships and slew their men
Their Panic turned the tide.
Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere
urging on our side.
A  Legend holds Pheidippides
To Athens then made haste
to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!”
at the end of his last race.

He's singing a song with his eyes
And everyone can hear it

People sit with their heads down
Facing the red light
Ignoring the loudest sound a human can hear
Silence

Trying to ignore the loudest vision we see
The man on the median
Without a home

And he's singing a song with his eyes
And everyone can hear it

The red light has paused us
Forcing us to stop
Some of us try to continue our motion
Through our phones or radio
But something has stopped

Some of us are angry
Feeling that he’s taking advantage of the pause
Filling the pause
And the silence
With a picture
Framed by our window
That we didn’t ask for
But he exists whether we see him or not

The column of traffic
Before the left turn
Is filled with empathy, resentment, and judgment
all at once
The feelings running into each other
Like waves of water
Sloshing between the cars

“Being homeless is a choice”
“He didn’t ask to be homeless”

And he's singing a song with his eyes
And everyone can hear it

He used to have a home
He lived in wealth

And sitting in one of the cars before the red light
Is a man that used to be without a home

But the man on the median is happier somehow
Not all men on medians are happy
But somehow
He is
How strange

He disturbs us because he is one of us
A fellow human
Living in a way we aren’t


~ JL

certain words don't provide adequate
ontological modes,
they provide ontological medians
or means, but not modes,
for example, a good comparison would be
to compare two words, only two words:
a. atheism              and b. apathy.
dissect the words during a syllable
cut as a meaningful prefix, in both
examples that's a-,
what do you get?
a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory
given that atheism is a type of theology,
a logic to disprove the existence of something,
but it's still a theology of some sort,
now the second example:
a- (without) pathology (/ailments of
range whether phobias or their antonyms,
psychological constructs that are stressed
more prominently than serious pains
that leave everyone psychologically paralysed
by that parasite of pain).
in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua,
which is more important in human affairs?
qua apathetic or qua atheistic?
personally? i think the former - there are more
obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions
than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity
to be suddenly struck down with plagues
and prophetic ailments of ill fate...
i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist,
you could only be a true atheist if you
were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet
(that old chestnut from the book of genesis,
in the beginning there was word, and the word
was god), or if you were part of that
famous experiment done by frederick ii
hohenstaufen where a bunch of children
were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns,
just to prove what language was spoken first;
well the experiment conclusively
produced a bunch of mutes...
i guess extending the experiment's parameters
to animals would never work:
try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities
of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan
moved the horde east without due respect
for peace-loving mongolians.

Take the pills, they say
It’ll make the pain go away
Rather than address the root causes
Let’s fill her with antidotes
Temporary solutions
Hopeful lies.
Take this for your skin
Don’t question why you’re out of balance
Why there’s a correlation with the stress in your life and the budding mountains on your face
Instead of bursting at the seams
Blood vessels burst in your face
Don’t question the fact that a man will never caress your face
Because they’ll be met with medians and potholes instead of a smooth ride to beauty
Don’t question that you’ll never get to try the new updo
In fear of scaring men away by bearing too much of your imperfect skin
No man will attempt to mount the peaks of your troubles.
Take this to stop nature’s course
To allow any man to do what he wants and not have to worry about accidents or entrapments
Not have to ever take responsibility for mistakes
And they’ll call it your safety and security.
Take this for the searing pain that flashes behind your eyes and leaves you in bed on the most beautiful days of your life, unable to function
We’ll stuff you full of preventers and painkillers and not ask why a twenty-year-old has the stress of a soldier on the battlefield
We’ll ignore the pressures of school and money and relationships
So we don’t have to talk about it.
It’ll all wash away, when you wash down those pills.

First days of spring
How many poems have been written about you?
Could you count them on all your fingers and toes
finally free from wool socks
or on your highway medians’ flower buds
barely visible from the rolled-down windows of passing cars?

Let me add one more set of words--
images of a Saturday afternoon in April
cats snoring
pressed against sun-dappled window screens
and daffodils adorning
even the smallest patches of earth
between city streets and sidewalks

And most of all
that sublime knowledge
a proof of concept
that bulbs become blossoms
that winter layers will be shed.

The things I thought were dead and rotting
were only dormant for a season.
The chill of winter--which will come back--
fades for now, replaced by milder breezes.

The dull walk to my parked car
a trudge that seemed so long and dreary
is now a brief journey
dotted with colors and  
full of the splendor of living things.

A moment of rare silence,
perhaps honesty, even prayer
on my drive home at night
among jacked-up trucks,
shifty-eyed low beams,
shifting medians of concrete
and brake lights as far as I can see.

I’m afraid what I will do trying
to outrun this life and untold others
I’ve cut off and are now coming at me.
A true fear, the kind I trust
as I grip the wheel with the strength
of anger that sees its worth in me.

Some mornings I stand in the road
and the moon is full in the trees
and pulling for me. Birdsong
is bringing me first light
to wear like a St. Christopher medal
against the surround sound
of the expressway always close by.

Fly, little bird
find your peace
know you were loved
fighting against growing up
for years
together.

From "we love Satan"
to "Franken-Mamma"
to late night rides
and jumping medians at 2AM
facing head-on collisions
with life.

So fly, little bird
the time is now,
fly.

I've waited decades to discern
the reservoir beyond the norm
liquid recess of humanity
home to creatures most deplore
varied ranges of experience
between the surface and deep abyss
these stratums called my soul
away from the province of safe shares

I longed to find my place
beyond the shoals of Xanadu
somewhere to call my home
where the beautiful monsters roam
brethren most would reject
are companions in varied depths
these fantasies beyond the veil
inspiring what I’ve become

more fay than humankind
this is my destiny
I share the discoveries
verifying the path within
for those who follow on
in the medians of the mind
central of east to west
away from secure shores

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180713.

A gullible gumdrop of a fella -
fooled like the daffodils of winter
Standing proud in the morning light
'Let the sunshine shine with all its might
Under the ice loiters the miracle of Spring
May the birds sing sing sing '
Hooray for meandering brooks
Let the fly , the dancer & the toad play
Let my persona be drenched in sylvan -
steam , covered in the aroma of evergreens
I should choose a name for every steppingstone
A devotional for new corn , a prayer for her newborn
April chicks , goslings & fawns
Pungent loam , red clay medians & pine thickets
The spooked , buzzing locust & the evening crickets ..

Never before has shame borne a new meaning,
The eyes failing to convince vision,
Seeing now is disbelief,
For all they are, and will be, is a terrible lie;

Right from the tarmac of the airport,
Greeted by stink and algae, rot and disrepair,
Gun toting men in military fatigues,
And a jumble of rickety trolleys;

Across dirt strewn medians,
Road blocks mounted by zoned out operatives,
Dusty highways dotted with gaping holes,
And terrible bypasses hewn into tired looking rocks;

Struggle across makeshift bridges,
Old railway tracks, abandoned,
Dark bends and dangerous loose surfaces,
Overgrown shrubs, perfect hideout for highway rogues;

The joy on our faces,
Whenever we arrive safe,
Glad to be off the hot, stinky deathtraps,
Of the north-south-east roadways.

Walking these streets
My feet stick to the pavement
Wet with blood and ***

The air thick and stagnant
Settling in the lungs like ash
All around are seas of broken glass
And scattered shards of dreams

Children with vacant eyes
Playing at gutter wars
Their miniature armies
Filling the night with screams

Teenage existentials
Nursing junk habits
Prepubescent mothers
Trading food stamps for ****

Beggars with cellphones
Pacing the medians
Pigs in blue getting head
In silent stairwells

Boarded up windows
Keeping secrets in
And all hope out

Silent mills
Desolate railroad tracks
Stretching forth to nowhere

Boulevards of desperate shadows
Vacant lots and empty playgrounds
Burnt out tenements
Foreclosures and yellow tape

Slouching back to my room
An overflowing ashtray
And walls that sigh
All night long

I settle in, laying back on my bed
With its familiar creaks and groans
Thinking of my far away love
Who will someday lift the darkness from these streets.

Two of salt
Have a heaven, have a done
Wrent with the times, a unison fault?
A picture of silence, when you have a question?

What is salt to a weary heaven?
Claim the door, or make a fruit a sovereign future
We have the sulking, the tradition of when art is the question
Can a hardier nuance, become the notion to endure?

A picture of paradise?
Promises and privilege, to greet your decisions
Of waiting and fating the stare, opus hopes is wise
So to a form in choices void, is a wakeful two, intimation?

Of a welling conscience, and the first of many kinds
Of wishes for, and taken with impressions visit
Medians or tedium, a rule of voice is to become our mind
A sake, with tomorrow on its nerves, and the rest of the future for wit

Creating the art of hours, a wishing order to worth
Is a raging held in honor or contempt?
Longing for a masters stroke, can a sharing candor, leave us with certain...
Ours of heed, and curiosity, to be a show of what life lent?

The mastery of a premonition
To work the magic of the age, a host's place and or confirmation
Come by the senses of another, to speak the truth of intuition
That has become the pout of romantic powers, a vision of a generation?