A Promise to My Garden

A Promise to My Garden

I will appreciate at a distance & dare’n’t cut off the magic of your first & last blooms.

& of all the joy you bring me this season between blooms of first & last 

I swear to vase only halves of each bunch…so the bees will have food & your future blooms will multiply fast.


Willful Fearful Justice Blind


Willful Fearful Justice Blind

I’m afraid to know how many gay men & women are raped in prison as a reward for smoking a little pot.

A semblance of human dignity implied in Justice’s high held chin…still, what about the blind, the deaf, the disabled, the queer, the lot.

Another bit of knowledge I fear to know while struggling to follow her herstory, her duty, the interpretations of her plot.

Our “Justice” can no longer be blind when generations of shades of brown are lost & by a formula & boxed to rot.

Though Justice wasn’t born blind she was made so by the tying of a knot.

At courthouses from L.A to Alabama we see her statue clear as day while her scales blow in the political wind…unbalanced, they teeter & tot.

We The People are aware that blindfolds can be removed letting her finally see that her scales have been stripped of their counter-weight.

The counter coins were snatched by an epidemic I’ve heard my brother dare name…wealth addiction & it’s sad that those sickest-those junkies- call shots that we don’t belay.

They fear our realization of power, that we’ll take away their candy…They fear us writing our coin in code so accountability can finally be handy.

But We Are the Poeple, not subjects & serfs & the old paper that rules us is actually ours to enforce.

Not by militia or violence or war but by the “Power Invested” in Everyone’s Voice.

The Solitudinairian Candidate

The Solitudinarian Candidate 

Solitudinarian is currently my way but it’s not been solely by choice;

I can survive it without going mad because I’m kind to my own damned voice.

I enjoy my own company more than most but there are many people I like;

If only they’d stop to sit down with me, my solitudinarian ways could take a short hike.

Though we all need somebody, remember to look Big & Inward…everyone should tend their own gardens;

Some time to our Self…just a little each day & I’ll sing you all my pardons.

Though, nobody’s stopping ’cause the world’s disarrayed and our perspectives right along with it;

It doesn’t exist unless you like it & share it & follow no patter the pulpit.

From a world where ideas were indeed our cure for the ills that befall common men;

To Facebook, & Twitter & Instagram’s “Cheese!” where our soured minds Made SHIT Great…Again!

We spread corrupt data like a fiery disease because of who’s posting instead of the post…reading isn’t efficient with our spans;

That’s exactly what corpos wanted from us/from the jump…working the industrial lines of their data/their plans.

We buy data & time & bandwidth for our connection to freedom of hopefully, possibly, heard voices;

Because the whole world is lonely & when the internet came it gave us a chance to say our names & immortalize our choices.

Nowadays, we spin fool’s gold into pixels laundering our pain into hope, wishes & dreams;

So the whites come out whiter & the colors come out brighter on our screens, our posts & our memes.

The Corpos don’t care about our zodiac sign or what we get from a survey for “Find your Spirit Animal”;

Though, they love that you took it to collate the data & get a fair shot on your rPhone’s great camera.

I’m not preaching at y’all…I’m just telling the truth & callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em;

I’m holding a mirror & what’s there is just there & I’m caught in this churn right there with ya.

The Deccenial Census is taken each day as soon as we start to shake off sleep’s sands;

For what’s the first thing we do about that vexing sound in the morn but reach for that phone with both hands?

The remedy appears to me as an evolution of the soul where we’re open to connect but newly inoculated from corpo confections;

Though that evolution takes a minute or a millennium to occur so I remain a solitudinarian to reduce my risk of further infection.




You are water & I am sand

You are steam & I’m a wrinkle

You are ice & I am butter

You’re the wind against my shutter

I am silver & you are gold

I have secrets & you’ve been told

I am cracked & you the glue

You’re a path of only two

I was the student when you were the teacher

Now I’m the professor & you the apt pupil




Given my misanthropic ways & my circumscribed days…being sickly hasn’t really been that bad.

The only times I’m lonely & my soul weeps for escape…are the times I look back regretfully at my hale & hearty days.

Moving on is an illusion; it’s carrying on but it’s carrying weight…I sit dazzled at those that are able at all to still perambulate.

On these “soul weepy” days & I feel the bars of my cage…I’m a fucking coward for still hanging around.

When the floor show is over & you can no longer dance…one should know it’s past time to exit the stage.

But then a bird sings & I look through the glass at my side…that free flitting chanteuse becomes my flame’s point of pride.