Some people think they're rich
Because some people have less money than them
Some people embrace the illusion that they're poor
Because some people have more money than them
It's the contrast of both that creates the illusion
Yet when this life is over
Both won and lost
And though they lived in separate neighbourhoods
They retired in the same cemetery

there are loose leaves
at the bottom of my teacup
I rarely finish drinking the thing
- instead I stare through the dark transparent liquid
at barely-floating twiggy tea leaves that
escaped from the bag
I am forgetful
and unforgiving of myself
I am too easily entranced by
lights and thin branches that dance above muddy grass
my eyes see things breathe
like marbled floors and brick buildings
I am so enraptured by rabbit fur
and tree bark
rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and I love the game of seeing how close I can get to them
before they leap away

when I think of bliss,
I think of not knowing what is coming next
more even, not caring

when I think of bliss,
I think of running after rabbits
or petting a tree
I do these things when no one’s looking
so no one catches the crazy in me

there are loose coffee grounds
at the bottom of my mug
caffeine kills me
and I love the taste
of the cruelty
but my body is hurting
again
like last year
where fainting and falling and confusing my words in conversation
arose every time I felt an anxious feeling
nudge its way in deeper
maybe it’s just way of giving up
my body surrendering in complete so that I feel full effect
of how badly I’ve treated it
it’s hurting again
so much that sometimes I can barely get out of bed
or get off the bus
and walk the trek home in the nippy night

I see rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and oh look, I am repeating myself
again
I hardly notice because my head is hurting
like there are a million and one hurricanes
inside of it
less of a crash and more like a rush
there is a difference between headaches
and light headedness
both hurt though
still I’m ashamed I’m lightheaded all the time
there is a weakness in it
that only frail people can relate to,
the scatterbrains, the unconcentrated, the anorexics, the cancer patients
the sick-of-some-sort
what am I?

unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous like appeals
from a jaded pulpit
such as they are, are powerless
a passage from a discarded tract
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favours a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at the corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased

unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous in their plenty
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favouring a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that  time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased

We are dying, the world is ending...
The fact is inevitable, yet we pretend that it will never end, we think that nothing will go wrong in our lives, so we ignore the warning signs. We ignore the amounting number of wild fires that burn our neighbourhoods, the ever steady rise in temperature, the ever increasing number of deaths in natural disasters due to our populations. I'm not a "SAVE THE EARTH, SAVE YOURSELVES" person, I just think that we have to wake up from our perfect little dream societies, and at least accept that accidents are imminent and that we don't just do something after the event has happened, but be prepared before it happens so that more people don't have to die from unpreparedness that was at the fault of our governments ignorance towards something that may only happen once.

After hurricane Katrina struck the U.S. Government spent billions on hurricane prevention in that affected area, while the rest of the coasts of the U.S. Stand vulnerable and naked to even the smallest of hurricanes.

Another example is mount Helena in Yoho National Park, we know that anywhere from tomorrow to fifty years that she will erupt. But as the world does everything but pay attention to it, there are unknown scientists taking measurements of the volcanic activity and becoming more anxious by the minute trying to save the uncaring world that live below the mountain.

There are hundreds of examples that I could rant on about, but no one wants to hear it because it conflicts with their tiny little perfect worlds.

community overcome by
ingenious ridiculouness
roaring through the
commerce neighbourhoods in
urbanias down town area
slowly stating truths as lies

offenders bleached into rays of blue
forced to live amongst shadows

sanity slipps away as the mind
asumes memory as all we've got
noticing nothing but the
calculated risks of the end
tourmented by formal
indifferences backed by
timeless thoughts of lost
youth that once was...

Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.

For want of fire, farther furnaces sphered in alignment
I lit your cigarette and you ignited my tongue
we crossed our wires
and poured roads a cacophony of car horns
and shifting street lamps heading East
hazard lights left on as the planet rushed by
now everything is muted in your wake

I keep pulling at my flesh
this body was always a puppet for you
Husks for which I was growing in to
and decorated with threads and falsehoods  
            
weekends built to be empty            
with all my windows and doors closed
not even an echo escapes out of politeness
for a memory I am just learning to keep sacred

There were fireworks once
they celebrated the mortal distance of
hours and kilometres between us
now fotographs grow heavy
collecting shadows made less so
with each new attempt at levity

Don't save me from these days
I may lose count of the steps leading back to you
lose count of the clouds for which we mortgage tomorrow

Somedays move heavier everyday

I miss you

Hands so small as if broken by this world
found me in places I didn't know were home

As we raised our peluches
and layed down in foreign parking lots
everything is a facsimile of what could've been but we try everyday

Trees lengthen around us as we wait
for our chance to plant our lips among them
to add garden to the changing green

I reach for you over seas
I dream of you recklessly
I breathe mutual atmosphere
I don't want to leave this place if you won't take me

In neighbourhoods as safe as routines
I hide and wait for the sky to be paved
as these streets overflow with thunderstorm warnings
with cigarettes that won't quit
with good coffee and new uses for paper

My tongue waits for your toes behind the last unlocked door
As you practice the full nothing away from me

My tongue waits for your toes behind a last unlocked door

say something or just
keep on makin' ghost-patterned, intervening silences,
                    singing
or half-murmuring
                                 verses, those ones from slow songs under low light,
the same refrain that runs between all the others,
through the passage of weeks, stained tobacco sweet by eleven-thirty iterations;

                       [post-meridian or particulate matters only,
                                                                           of course,
                                                                        it's hard to wake before noon anymore.]

with the way these rhythms keep us down
                                                          and out,
counting the methods-
the summations of potential miseries,
and the probabilities that all would or could turn around, before the end of the week.
                                                                                        or the next one.

                            and,
outside the door, the one after that,
                                       over the acres of concrete and pale shade,
streetlit likenesses hushing air through melting neighbourhoods,
                                                            I make imaginary footprints,
wondering which, of the field of household starlit comforts,
                           is the blade of grass you cast seeds from
to inadvertently germinate and sprout a well of aspiration, the wind in a stranger's ribcage,
                                                                      continually growing, hiccoughing leaf litter,
                 with every last breath.

I saw these neighbourhoods
I grew up in these neighbourhoods
I saw these streets
I grew up in these streets
I lived passed them… sort of
I didn't end up in jail, a ******… or deceased
Still, whenever I walk through them today... I feel at home
A sense of belonging
A nostalgic longing…
To remain here forever
But realize that forever would be too long
I would be fed up by month number five
Getting high every day… getting into fist fights
That was no way to live a life
It was just about getting through the day…
Survive
Exist
Eat
Be alive
These things are very different from living
Because the devil that gives you certain heights… compliments them with issues
And he just keeps on giving
I see the junkies, a hardened lot
Taking their ‘cut’ from the public service vehicles plying their route
And woe be unto the tout that refuses to pay
For these scavengers get vicious, they scratch, punch… and loot
I call them scavengers because that’s what they seem like… true
But as I look into the crowd, their ‘gang’, I realize that I know one of them… actually two
They cross over to me; we bump fists… a way of greeting
We’re still ‘boys’, but if I were to describe them now as ‘wayward’?... Fitting
I cannot do that though
We may have taken different paths in life, but there was a time when we hang together
A time when we were young, running around these streets and I called this place home
Now, what sort of man would I be if I just upped and forgot where I came from?

I feel I have to make my defence
Regarding those who over several millennium
Believe they can speak for me;
I do not need to name names, do I? You know
Exactly who I mean. What can I do?
I speak briefly to someone once and, before
I know it, we’re ***** buddies-they claim to
Know my inner-most thoughts,
My opinions on every subject from what
Clothes to wear to who to marry.

Do I not have more important things to think about?
The well-being of an entire universe to evaluate
On a daily basis?
How you treat one another is your concern-
Just keep me out of your bigotry and spite,
My name out of your books, my voice out
Of your heads. I am not who you claim me
To be; I am far better and, at certain times, far worse.
I am both nothing and everything!

You can nevertheless be assured-
I do not lead your armies, support your murders,
Sanctify your suicides, bless your hatreds.
I do not inhabit your words,
Your statues, your art, nor am I the knowing
Voice in your head or the gnawing pain
In your heart. Own what is yours!




Originally, I was a small-time local deity,
Lord of the mountain, brooks and olives.
Benevolent, ***** and shy.
Nothing special! One god amongst many
In and out of pantheons, attached to this
Goddess or that. Sometimes I was el of the
Desert, sometimes the family god in
The corner or staring out of the tent flap-
Inauspicious and insignificant!

I was happy then. I had none of the obsessive
Responsibilities of a universal god. I seduced
The local women, fathered thousands of mixed-children-
Part deity/part human-received the flow of eager
Sacrifice; the few remaining aurochs,
Bulls, deer and first born. The smoke always revitalised me!
Children’s flesh was always particularly nourishing!
For such extensive insurance for my continued interest
I protected each group who so honoured me, destroying
Their enemies, as well as their friends.
(But, oh, not now! I’m expected now to exterminate entire neighbourhoods,
Nations and cultures! Now I’m expected to be the murderer,
The sole master of death!)

I was without ideas! I accepted everyone, loathe to judge!
****** peccadilloes I found interesting, fun.
Adultery I saw as an aspect of marriage,
Homosexuality, the absorbing antitheses of the endless
Production of new life, from its sterile cusp
Seeping forth new ideas and artistic burgeoning.
I created beauty, adoring it. I danced to
Lively music, sang to beautiful songs.

In Egypt a disgruntled warrior-priest arose, preaching violence,
Preaching conquest. I trembled in his angry presence,
Shaken by his bloodlust. An excitable poet sang of his adventures,
Turning a 100 followers into thousands. The poets used my name-
One fashioned in gentleness-to encourage war.
Then, from the confusions of statehood, prophets emerged
Spreading their misery through my authority,
Grinding my benevolence under soiled sandals,
Telling others what to do, as if the words were mine-
Engaging in genocide with pitiless intention.
They flail my soul with madness!

And so on and so on; numerous messengers
Shouting of sin and retribution,
My voice reverberating with their words,
As I stand in the shadows like a serial killer,
Frightened of lamplight. With nothing
More to do, conforming savants
Described rules for life, a non-existent heaven,
Transcribed my thoughts from their own experiences
Created another reality, ignoring their own.



I am now terrified of my name
(EL, YHWH, Allah) Terrified of what it represents-
Burdened by its acquisition
By the bombastic and cruel.
I, who was once a god, now
Am captive, a prisoner of recitation.
Where once I had priests to beckon, they
Now beckon me. Where once I pronounced on
Goodness, I am now too alarmed to speak.
Where once I was the object of sacrifice
I am now the sacrifice itself.

the morning is kind...
silence fills the empty streets
where drunken people like sailors
once roamed,
now they sleep soundly
with the early breeze cradling them

bakeries and flower shops open,
the mailmen and delivery girls
make their way through quiet neighbourhoods,
the early birds rise
with a vision of coffee and breakfast,
and the sunlight is gentle on the skin—
go outside or sit by the window to feel it.
it kisses you,
inviting you start the daw anew.

(i couldn't say more than enough, or
much at all. i am uncertain but
only ever-so-slightly and, overarching
paradigm, i'm happier than ever, even
if i'm still sad.) we play
party to endless routines. bite our
own tails with startling frequency.
shudder or spark. most often both,
but most often meaning little, for
meaning is intrinsic, only where you
implant it. in patient hunt for
our exterior products, we numbered
blades, outside; hovering above and
without fields. writing the same
light motifs as always. nothing looks
like stars except stars, or sand, or
freckles in your eyes. everything
shines a little dimmer. something
about the way our hands brush
through stems. directed motions.
observable quantities. sentences
underpinning lifetimes. how does
one figure their actions or inaction
as anything but universal? how
does one decompose their patterns,
already found irreducible? from
either side, movements are local.
we reside in pure neighbourhoods.
all existence outside is asleep.
the hallways contract. water runs
from & over our skin.
                                       shivered

and, as basis,
                        discovered this
world is just as dizzy. just in
new increments. not eating for days
sends you sick. eating for days
does likewise. broken down or
breaking down, we idle and
sleep and sometimes hope for
coalescence (or, at least, as far
as i can find). but, meadows, too,
still sleep, forests still sleep. all
alive is this room, or shadow,
or minute discharge radius. so, if
you aren't here or closer, how can
anything matter? asleep & passing
through city-light. tender ghost.
sweet summary. some days, even
i am discontinuous, but only for
passing swathes. field underfoot
& distance now mean little more
than nothing, and little less than
everything. and, as dual, i
could hardly forget. scale &
continue in each second. it is
cold & getting colder, and i've
figured out how to miss you,
                          already.

You live in,
A broken home,
With a shattered window,
And a disconnected phone.

You travel with,
Your broken feet,
With rough pathways,
Leading to a blocked off street.

You see through,
Black and white eyes,
With a look so unwelcoming, tiring,
As you're badly disguised.

You sing as,
A bird in the woods,
Soothing and caring,
But fading away from the neighbourhoods.

I listen to your broken voice,
On a broken street,
With your broken eyes,
Hearing your broken heart beat.

And now I'm slowly breaking,
Make room for me,
Because with you on a broken street,
Is where I'm destined to be.

Gertrude, Stradbrook, River and Roslyn,
off of McMillan, my thoughts froze on Osborne
A drive through the Village on slippery streets
Bought records, drained pints
                        swallowed down summer nights
Back home in Wyoming--think I'll be fine
                         'til some night, filled to gills
                          trip through streets with a stranger
                          and sing "One Great City"
                          through swollen closed throat

And I remember...

Confusion Corner, commuting through cold streets
Watched you drive as the daylight died
I narrow my Focus,
                                     you eased into traffic
The Assiniboine ran and was watched by Riel

January.
Johnson's Terminal.
London Fogs.
Took Yellow Dogs for long walks
and Exchanged now for then. Snapped pictures, again and again.

Snow up to my hips
Spent a night at St. Boniface
We cased a cathedral, your friends seemed to like me.

Lines ran from reserves, over oceans and borders.
Your hair ran down shoulders, brown waves for a blanket.

Winterpeg, Manitscoldout
Portage & Main
Shivering, smiling
at a Tavern Uniting with friends,
'til we took the King's Head...
We took the King's Head.
Long live the king.

January.
Magic Thailand.
Curry soup, curried thoughts thawing,
melting, falling from pickled brains,
                      through lips chapping

I donned my Tuxedo, chopped down Seven Oaks...
Your Catholic heart spoke
     reached out for St. James.
     St. Vital answered behind Fort Garry's walls...

Our hearts, they were neighbourhoods
And the streets were all salt.

Blistered paint on your blue '02 Focus

To the City Center of the continent's middle
Form a Perimeter
Frame a city
Bullseye, center, a Gold gilded Boy
he leans into sky, as they sing, as I hear.
The road North Ended--November, it was.
I think, one year prior, in Robin's Donuts
front doors swayed, on hinges that sighed metallic,
I caught your eyes--organic, unplanned--
               through fog frosting lenses
Caught them, held on
               Held your deep brown
               In my gunmetal blue

Seasons will chase--haste to follow more seasons
White streaks to green
and the Red River runs.
When they score at the ballpark,
"Go Goldeyes!" the cheer sounds
Cheer. Cheer!
The Guess Who still ****,
but the Jets completed their round trip
"Go, Jets, go!" so the cheer goes.
"Cheers!" Cheers like bells.
             Bells
           Pealing
Peeling like your sunburnt back
            Bells
          Ringing
           Striking
Bells singing long
Bells sounding loudly from Grace Bible Church
  baptizing Baltimore as it kisses Osborne

Bells ringing. Round sounds.
Round rings for fingertips touching
Bells
Round sounds that hang on my neck
and sing me to sleep every night--
remind me how badly you wanted those bells
                I denied you.

They sing "Left and Leaving"
             and show me old scars
          they ring and peal and strike
                         and sing
                         unending.

I remember March of 2008
Dropping my toque in the mud-and-slush street
            We took Pembina Highway
              Ate Vietnamese.

I remember...

Confusion Corner,
Commuting through cold streets,
Watching you drive as the daylight died
In your blue '02 Focus
Ease us back into traffic,
The Assiniboine River.
And Louis Riel.

So tell me...

Comment-allez vous, ce soir?
Je ne suis pas comme ci, comme ça.

I’m wearing your old jacket. Remember? The one you used to fish in. The one with the tear in the silk of the right-hand pocket. You used to tease me. You used to say that this jacket kept your loose change safe from my chocolate addiction. You being left-handed; me being right.

I bury my face in the nap of the moleskin collar. My nostrils fill with your scent - stale cologne, a hint of woodsmoke, and...fish. More disconcerting than unpleasant, it’s all I can do not to choke on my memories of you. Of me and you. Together.

'Tell me, how can I be, now that you alone are gone and I am left behind?'

I feel like I’ve been abandoned in a foreign capital with nothing more than the clothes I stand up in and a wallet full of the wrong kind of currency. The day is drawing to a close. My luggage has disappeared with the exhaust from the bus which took off before I could catch my breath and explain my dilemma - that I’m not sure where I’m going or even where I’ve been. Lately.

Maybe a kindness will point me in the right direction. An open-all-hours diner on an inner-city corner, snuggled in between the high-rise office blocks. Maybe I’ll have enough cash for a meal and a trail of hot, sweet tea to lead me into tomorrow. Maybe I’ll close my eyes and remember where I’m supposed to be and what I should be doing.

And just maybe, as the rhythm of the traffic slows and the night progresses, I’ll find some peace in the ever-changing cityscape. A time-lapse production of late revellers, harried shift workers, the dispossessed and restless; until finally the earliest commuters and exercise fanatics emerge from the riverside neighbourhoods to face the new dawn.

‘Hey, lady.’ A disgruntled voice shatters my reverie. 'I ain’t got all day, y’know.' Scrambling for cash, I reach deep into your left-hand pocket and find...***...a limp fifty-dollar bill...and a battered envelope. There’s a note scrawled on the outside in your familiar hand:

'How can you be, now that I alone have gone and you are left behind? The short answer is: you will be. For you are as singular and complete today as you were before 'mine' became 'yours' and 'I' became 'we'. My darling, I’m no tourist. You know how impatient I can get - always taking the most direct route. I’m just out of sight around the next corner. You take your time and meet me when you’re ready. Sometime...later. Whenever. I’ll be waiting.'

Stunned, I mutter an apology to the waitress and step out from the warm fug of the café into a bright, fresh New York morning. The doorbell tings shut behind me and I realise with new-found clarity that I know exactly where I am. I’m home. It’s not going to be a great day but it’ll be a better one, which is a start. Besides I have things to do - chocolate to buy, a jacket to launder, and a needle to thread.

So …..
  
Who Are The ...  
... " Good Guys " ... ?  
In These Modern Times ... ?  

Osama … Obama ... ? ?  
Or Those … Civil Type Guardia ... ?  
  
What ...  
Makes Them Good ... ?  
  
The Guns They Use ...
As If They ... Should ….  
To RESTRAIN and ... Defuse ...  
VIOLENT … Neighbourhoods … !?!
  
But REALLY …  
Is This ... What They Do … ?!?  
  
I've Heard Stories ...  
That … Relay TRUTH ...  
About The ABUSE ...  
Some Guardia … Choose … !!!  
  
Like …  
STRIPPING Men …  
In … Spanish Streets ...  
To ... Prove To Them ….  
The ... Kinda PROBLEMS ...  
They're ... BOUND To See ...  
If They ... DON'T Respect ...  
The ... " Gendarmerie " … !!!!!  
  
Good Guys ….. !!!?!!!  
  
REALLY … ?!?  
  
Or Employed … BULLIES ...  !?!  
  
The Type Who ... FEED ...  
of … "ABUSE FILLED Deeds" … !!!  
  
The Type That Make ...  
Young People … BLEED … !!!
  
When ...  
Guns They … PARADE …  
Aren't Used … " Properly " …  
  
Kind of Like …. " NEWTOWN " ….  
Where It's CLEAR … Gun Sounds ...  
Will Now … RESOUND ...  
In The ... Hearts and Mouths ...  
of ... Parents Now …  
  
Resound With … " LOSS " … !!!!!  
Cos' A ... LOVED One's Gone … !!!!!
  
WITHOUT A …. Song ….  
Or Farewell ... "Prolonged" ...
  
So …. ???  
  
What Was The Mantra ... ?  
of … Adam Lanza ... ?  
  
To Shoot REPEATEDLY ...  
In A ... KILLING SPREE …  
That Took … SO MANY … !!!!!  
  
Was His Mind So HEAVY ... ?!?  
That His Thoughts … CLEARLY …  
Had Become …  "UNstEAdy" … !!!  
  
So …  
Where Were Connecticut's ...  
GOOD GUYS … Then … ?  
  
With The ... " NRA " ... !?!  
At A ... Shooting Range … ???  
  
Shooting Guns For …  "FUN" … !!!  
  
While The Blood of A MUM ...  
And Youngsters ..... RUN .....................................
  
Down SCHOOL Hallways ...  
In The … Middle of The Day ... !?!
  
Now The NRA Says …  
  
"Bad Guys with guns,  
need to face, good ones !"
  
Okay Okay ...  
But Let's ... Get This Straight … !!!  
  
It's ... OKAY For A Man ...  
Whose Been Paid and Trained ...  
To ... SHOOT TO **** ...
  
Pretty Much AT WILL ...  
Cos' It's Been … " Okayed " …  
By The ….  " NRA " …. !?!  
  
Who Said ...  
They Were Good … !!!???!!!  
  
I Learnt My Lesson ...  
Watching … Charlton Heston ... !!!  
  
It Would ...  
Seem To Me ...  
That ... NRA Peeps …  
  
Care ...  
MORE For ... MONEY ...  
Than When … Children BLEED … !!?!!  
  
It's ... ALL About GREED … !!!  
  
Cos' ...  
Good GUYS ... DON'T NEED ...  
To Have … " ARMOURIES " ... !!!  
To ENSURE The Streets ...  
Are Filled With … "PEACE" ...
  
and I … For One ...  
DON'T Believe That Guns ...
Have … ANY Function …  
In …. Education …. !!!!!!  
  
Educate Our Youth ….. !!!  
About The ...  
  
HARM They Cause ... !!!!!!!  
  
They NEED To Be Schooled ...  
In ….... AVOIDING Wars ............ !!!!!!
  
And In ... Avoiding Depression …  
That Leads To HARSH Lessons ... !!!!!  
  
It Time To STRENGTHEN ... !!!  
Our Fight Against ... Guns ...  
  
And Time To … " LESSEN " …  !!!  
" NRA " ... Type Funds ... !!!!!  
  
That SUPPORT …   " The Lie "  
of …..  " Preservation of life " …  
    
Through The Use of …  
………. GUNS …………  
  
Seeing Blood ... Run …  
DOESN'T ... Signify FUN … !!!!!  
  
NEITHER Does ...  
... The Sight ...  
  
of Police In Schools ...  
With A Gun By Their Side … !!!
  
They Weren't In View …  
When I Was ... Being Schooled … !!!
  
So FOLKS …  
DON'T BE ... Fooled ... !!!  
By ...  Lobbyist Groups … !!!!!  
  
When It Comes To ...  
  
... "Who is Who" …  
  
Who Are THEY To Decide … !???!  
When It Comes To ... Peoples' Lives ...  
  
Who The People Should Believe .....  
    
To Be …………………………  
  
... "The Good Guys !!!" ...

Recently saw a documentary
Of neighbourhoods beyond words

Gangbanging
Bullets flying
People falling
Blood spilling
Families mourning

Drugs circulating
Kids dealing
Cops bursting
Addicts overdosing
People dying

People getting robbed
People getting *****
Mass incarceration
Families with no fathers
Drug dealers are kids role models

Lack of education
Lack of opportunities
Lack of amenities
Crime is almost a norm
They definitely need intervention

Commonality we've surrendered
the Public House now a seeming  relic,
we've been paid with others speculation
and remember convenience always gate crashes,
neighbourhoods now meekly surrender,
still November is our mono chrome
a telling time
stating past standards did exist,
the corner shop is now boarded
primordial no more:
the proliferate supermarkets triumphant
advertising opportunities for local people !

I live in a
World where the trees
And neighbourhoods
Are upside in the sky
And there is stars on the ground.
One summer day
A woman decides to
Jump falling
To the stars.