poetry

I tear news clippings from newspapers
to remember flesh and blood martyrs
Now please understand when I say
that I don’t want to get political
But when my life is threatened
due to a passage in a book, I have reason to worry
When my worth is questioned
due to homophobia, I have reason to protest
When I can’t openly walk outside with a partner
without being called slurs,
I have reason to believe there is a problem
Now I was always taught
to hate the sin, not the sinner
But when a large part of my identity,

The other day I saw
a man burning a
“Don’t Tread on Me” flag
in his front yard.
I was surprised by this
until I realized he
was only burning off
the word “Don’t” from the flag
and leaving the rest of it
to be unfurled and reflown from his house.
I guess he figured, “why not” or “who isn’t?”

The once familiar always convenient
and never too expensive supermarket
had its sliding glass doors slide
shut forever now the aisles
run in parallel course toward
the wrecking ball
while just across Osborn a letter
is missing from the SUPERST R sign
that survived the fire that took the store
including its stock of rental movies
from comedies along the east wall
to those in the screened off section set
aside for adults. Meanwhile,
the rehab building on Seventh Avenue
where a man once lay face down

For the white cloud turning blue, going yellow, changing red and fuming black, my heart skips.
For the deep blue sea turning green, and dying brown, my heart marvels.
For the blue mountains going purple and appearing black, my heart wonders.
For the green land growing fallow, becoming thick forest, my heart ponders.
For the little children dying before teen, my heart bleeds.
For the youths doing drugs, ending in the asylum, my heart breaks.
For the adults living above freedom, going crazy, my heart tears.

As ancient and instinctual
as sex.
It throbs and pulses
through the ages.
Wormhole-ing and devouring
important chunks
out of Destiny’s map.
From ‘Spider and Fly’,
schoolyard ‘Sticks and Stones’
through the explosive passions of Love,
to the language of War
in the name of God,
King, Country and… excuses.
It has no Master,
pity or mercy,
feeds and refuels
the same from both
weak and strong.
Dwells in Karma’s blindside,
there are no Heroes
in the face of its havoc,

within
the silent rooms
where we weep
tracing our fingers
our toes in the deep
finding the form
inch by inch
cautiously
touching
the rough boards
beneath
the light switch
too far
the blanket
too warm
our eyes
turned inward
avoiding
the scars
when finally
when firmly
we the distant
door reach
in our dreams
in cool streams
may we sleep.
when we cannot read
we must listen
not yearn to write
but learn to sing.

A man bleeds for mercy at the hands of fire,
a humble plea ascends from the concrete,
he whispered for water, but was tossed on the pyre.
The tax collectors came rabid and wired
like rats raging through the neighborhood street,
a man bleeds for mercy at the hands of fire.
Eric gasped with desert lungs that tired
from the choking of a breathless summer heat,
he whispered for water, but was tossed on the pyre.
The cry went up, but could not reach higher
than the hollow hearts of those cops on the beat,

Hunger
A hunger so deep it devours its host.
eating away at self-worth,
sucking out the spirit,
starving the mind.
A pain so intense that it defies explanation.
The want of food,
goes deeper than just the physical pangs.
It grows into an emotional hunger,
that wraps itself around its prey
strangling the life out of it,
leaving an empty shell.
A hollow aching is all that is left.

down these long dark tunnels
march the schizoid humans
some tall and erect others
eerily slumped and sluggish
stepping in tune to an avatar
intelligence branded within
boasting of their segregation
and blinded by the blackness
they move to the commands
closer toward an apocalyptic
false light resurrection display
shown in a sky-written deception
with breathed in microchips
nanobot swarms assemble
tiny interior drones of control
the illusion grand commences
as the natural loses its grip

There can never be
too many poems
written about
taking a deep breath.
There can never be
too many mornings
of waking up to say,
I love you.
There can never be
too many walks
up to the park
where the quiet woods await.
There can never be
too many stars
shining light from the sky
on the spot where we dance.
There can never be
too many ways
of simplifying life
back down to the basics.