Author: lbstowe

This weekend was the litmus test of moral code.
Watch whether the national guard does what it’s told.

L.A. was a staging ground to test martial law.
D.C. against Los Angeles raging & raw.

The city is dependent on migrant labor.
Jackboots on our ground are never in our favor.

Hollywood now; but, angry town halls will be next.
All  violations of constitutional text.

Worry’s warranted…if you’re paying attention.
We can’t fight back once our towns are in detention.

Just underneath my flesh are bone tattoos.
No ink, just the needled etch of my muse.

Fables & memories sketched on my skull.
Time takes meat but my skeleton’s not dull.

Centuries hence, pull me from my garden.
Peruse tales writ on calcium hardened.

Yarns of adventure & tales of caution.
Even names & dates every so often.

From coccyx to collarbone, I am drawn.
When I’m long dead, there, my lore will live on.

Now, I can see the crack; I see the fault.
I maybe see the way out of this vault.

We’re all just humans of the planet earth.
We can’t live elsewhere than our globe of birth.

All this infighting cannot be sustained.
Fear’s fever pitch is ready to have waned.

The two “Big-Bads” are cannibalizing.
We people saw your bromance cap-sizing.

Light parts clouds & colors in the divide.
A key bump of hope just in time for Pride.

I feel emotionally precarious.
Currently, I am in between therapists.

It’s the second of air between trapeze hands.
If I fall, I’ve a net of tools where I’ll land.

Anxious yet confident I know my shit.
I know this transfer…where, when & how to hit.

Stick to routines & thrive a day at a time.
Speak up & push-back…you know I prefer rhyme.

I’d not shrink from leaning on those I respect.
I’ve asked to talk…& get indirect neglect.

I say all of this with a nod & a wink…
I’ve got therapy, if there’s paper & ink.

It’s not for you, or about you; it’s all for me.
It’s how I self-parent & process we.

Not “we” separate people; but the royal.
No, Queen…my hats are not made of tinfoil.

Each person I love gives me new perspective.
All still here, my dysfunctional collective.

It is good that I’ve loved abusers to saints.
My emotional palette; infinite paints.

I’ve poured ink over page, model & canvas.
I’d say I painted my way out of Kansas.

The current body politic grows ill & upset.
Sick innards dancing in time with our migraines, I’d bet.

Worrying ourselves sick is so precisely the goal.
Shake us up, down & side to side; disturbing our soul.

Still, never forget that we have our voices for life.
May we course correct…so none becomes an “Of-Blank” wife?

Is your life sleepwalking between benchmarks & birthdays?
Sleepy will be most surprised, when all the ports are razed.

I’ll be distilling my experience, whilst I’m here.
Let’s hope that hate can’t shorten the lives of all the queer. 

Syphilitic tyranny’s now thru our doors.
Yet still, proof of guilt, the base ignores.

Flouting federal judges orders.
Burning bridges over sovereign borders.

Subsidies disappeared from the fed to farms.
Poor voters unaware of their own self-harm.

How does one fool a majority of men?
Tell them they’re losers & promise them a win.

Why should we care about the margins & poor?
Syphilitic tyranny’s now thru our doors.

Tripping over my own early start.
My tangled laces that just won’t part.

I sort it out & push myself thru.
Now, this would be stumble “number two”.

Way too early, before gates open;
I walk the lot, my stride unbroken.

They let me in & I get it done.
Just in time for, yet, another one.

Skyward opens & the floods come down.
I pick up the pace so I don’t drown.

Soaked but back home…an unmelted mess.
Feels good beating the odds, I confess.