This bitter endgame theory
is the remnant of us
tightly clutched in a loose collection
of dulled hidden blades I kept in
empty sugar pill bottles
for moments such as these
My shallow breath slowing
showing
nothing left but hesitation marks manifesto readings
to stave off never lasting mob stompers
losing control of thought criminal empires
All is lost with wounds swabbed in hopes of growing cultures
not inundated by murderland vultures
cackling that doomsday clock apocalyptic-talk
as they pick apart failed crop circles
The past is in the past but remains so tense
as you stand revolted by wretched plans
while wrenching cold calculating razors from my hand
because being allowed to touch seemed so unattainable to me
in the first place
and now that you're gone
I
am
so
scar struck.

When I look through transparent windows
I view over creation
My eyes fill the colors
The colors fill my tiring, laboring days

Boxes stack up with struggles
Papers written without ink
are wiped away by the puddles
and the foot stompers on the streets

Strength carries away my fading nightmares
The good fight
needs the seeds to plant
Out of the soil and roots is our sword and shield

Could we grow an extra tongue
to speak Truth more boldly
Or an extra ear
to hear over each echoing mountain?

Maybe we need a staff
when we walk through deserts and scorpions
Or we need a bay
so we land on shore and not wander away

The gnashing of teeth on chains
is heard like a siren
and can be seen like smoke
Seven days without learning makes one weak

How can I travel
to another galaxy
if I do not have a rope
to link myself back to home?

My rope is strung on a moon
and I fall into space
Finding only the map of the universe
I realize my home is there as well

We have never been to
where creation was never created
back home where I slowly walk
The trees can tell their stories of creation

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                Scary Men in the Streets at Night

They swagger into the convenience store
Sullen in their grotesque tats and shabby tees
Shaven heads, unshaven faces, gas-station shades
Old roach-stompers, unwashed jeans, bad-/ss bling

A big ol’ Glock .45 on every man’s hip
Manly-man Velcro tactical gear
Beer-guts rolling over their leather belts
More than a hint of menace in their eyes

These are our local deputies, of course -
Our criminals usually show a little more class


(There is no one I admire more than a proper copper, but until local governments provide better training, better pay, better backup, and meaningful benefits to our police we’re going to have to suffer the leather-boy Barneys.)