Author: lbstowe

Rolling eyes & turning away…
I see this every fucking day.

You project all your faults on me.
Because, mirrors, you cannot see.

You diagnose & prescribe solves.
Never asked if I want resolve.

Sometimes you have to sit in sad.
Work thru it so it leaves no bad.

Yet, you’d see all fall in one line.
Still unaware; that forks have tines.

My greatest lovers have been art & words.
I’ve migrated between the two like birds.

In turbulent times they bolstered my soul.
My loneliest times were absent their role.

They rush in harder & longer each time.
I get them down…while the getting is prime.

Here so much now, I must send them away…
Unplugging my cord for several days.

Still, rarely a day without planted seed.
I am lucky in these two loves, indeed.

Good girls gone bad & librarians with game.
Leave women alone…just stop being so lame.

They are half of the human population…
Yet, women are suppressed in many nations.

Even our shining hill hasn’t been equal.
For not just women; but so many people.

How does a margin swallow half of the page?
Where is our anger. Also, where is our rage?

They, soon, would revolt & all else would lay slain…
If men were so blessed by creation & pain.

We’ve made it thru one thing; we’ll make it thru this.
We fae are no strangers to death’s frigid kiss.

We are not the lucky ones to have survived.
We’ve had to bear witness &, in its face, thrive.

Staring down AIDs at the end of my tunnel.
No matter how hard gainst death’s chest I pummel.

He comes for us all; but he telegraphs how.
All that we can do is what’s preventable now.

Life’s a mad horse rode in fire at a gallup.
Yes we can…Fight AIDS, Fight Back, Fight Hate, ACT UP.

You, build it high & build it fast.
Build your whole fucking world of glass.

Only one stone takes out a pane.
Several more & houses wane.

On spindled legs, quake & buckle.
Hands on top deck go white knuckle.

Tops will teeter & threaten all.
Power topples; we’ll see it fall.

At last, not just their trash comes down.
It’s all slave labor in…Dumpster Town.

Today is lazy poet’s day.
Because today ends in day.

Last night was the same holiday.
Funnily so…so was Monday.

Maybe it’s lazy poet’s week.
No way, that would be very weak.

Still, points for showing up today.
As, everyday, I make my way.

Almost there with minimal snark.
Now, here we are…my finish mark.

The only thing some have in common is loves.
The mere transitive power of turtledoves.

All I know about you, is that you love true.
How else could you love another, as I do.

So, you, are granted a measure of my soul.
For, you love someone who is part of my whole.

They have earned their love beyond just bonded blood.
They stuck around with sandbags in every flood.

Yet, you are brand new with your grit untested.
Probationary love keeps hearts arrested.

So, you just hang in there, kid, you’re doing great!
These years…in their passing; will see us relate.

Sometimes, I would hide in green; grown into the wall.
Sometimes; I would become clear; hid in waterfall.

Often, I would slink away; without notice…gone.
Often, I would skive off work; open ended dawn.

Erstwhile, I have opened hearts…thoughts of self-divine.
Erstwhile, I have rubbed you wrong; two bottles of wine.

Today, I have written words; This…& one again.
Today, I have sung you songs; only sung to men.

Maybe, I will find my way…far down horizon.
Maybe, I find luck this day; create my own Zion.

We’ll try to remember their names…
Those about to start dying.
We’ll endeavor to douse the flames…
With the sweat & tears flying.

Clock set gainst the hour of death…
Well aware of what time is left.
Tick in time along with my breath…
Ticks & breaths leave me bereft.

Absent all that would heal a break…
Dressed in the night’s vacancy.
Engulfed by night & quick to quake…
Absent light our vagrancy.

Unknown folks fall across the globe…
Safety nets blink out at once.
Kids orphaned by a xenophobe…
Far-Right, Wing-nut Christian cunts.

We fight back, get loud & get past…
These draconian attacks.
We march, we vote & we change…
While watching each other’s backs.

From Funkytown to Joan of arc.
Funk soul brothers & funky art.

Funky spirits all haunting me.
Funky Brewster & Sunny D.

The funk of forty thousand years.
Funk & Wagnalls of yesteryears.

George Clinton & Parlaiment Funk.
Funky feeling crevices gunk.

All the hits worth keeping around.
Let’s all head down to funky town.