Category: Poetry

Do not wither, do not wilt; be gardens flush with rains.
I do not speak of flowers; I speak to thee of brains.

Water them, feed them & nurture them against all strife.
Minds can grow & bloom away throughout your entire life.

Graduating from anything cannot be the line.
Diplomas are not barrels fermenting knowledge wine.

Thru each role bestowed by life & all the love inside;
Experience is fractal…in facets we reside.

I’m a changeling, a brother, an uncle & a fag.
We can’t be all these things at once…that’s deity’s bag.

We are not omniscient, yet we still can ever learn. 
Emotional intellect’s a precious thing to earn.

Move determined & slow as a tortoise.
Be aware that evil rides towards us.

Take comfort in armor yourself has made.
Then, into the rising dust of the fray.

Nick a dead brother’s weapon as you pass.
Become crash & slash as comrades amass.

Make a field of death from enemy trees.
Take them down as they come; head, heart & knees.

The job is in front of your sword right there.
The slow steady tortoise always beats hare.

Fitting in while sticking out…my little lonely trait.
This thing that I do so well…it pays for its own freight.

The world outside lingers safe in my cerebellum.
My frontal lobe populates more than I could tell ‘em.

Fourth of July fireworks at every new reveal.
If you could glimpse what I see, you’d know that it is real.

Though my life is a revolution on the inside;
That’s just where it is…so, unwittingly, there I hide.

Mind-exhausting implosion flashes thru blood & gut.
I stir from my spell that no one noticed & say, “what?”.

There’s only one thing rude boys truly fear.
Just being near a glitter dusted queer.

Born on the same side of town that I was.
We could not be more than two strangers, cuz.

Am I wrong; have I miscalculated?
Did we raise high; did we demonstrate it?

Have we tended gardens…even the thorns?
Have we made music with sacrificed horns?

For, each faggot contains a multitude.
Did ya get that; you need some fresh air…dude?

There is no jewel in life that does not hold a stain.
If you stare at the sun, you’ll be blind in the rain.

So, sometimes…you just get sucker-punched in the neck.
Five seconds later come crocodile tears…ah feck!

Even destruction leaves materials behind.
Organize the jumble & use what you find.

Also, are the moments when good overwhelms you.
Conciertos fire hearts, minds…& waterworks too.

Cruel denial & high art all in one night’s campaign.
There are no jewels in life that do not hold a stain.

Our ego’s are stronger than our immune systems are.
So, we’re ailing & flailing whilst still drinking hard bar.

Oblivious to science, facts & plain common sense.
Running high fevers astride the vaccination fence.

A conspiracy dunce proffered to lead us in health?
How does so very much stupid infect those of wealth?

Inbreeding, outbreeding & husbandry of fortune;
Yet, clever overflows from your average urchin.

It’s genuinely amazing we’ve made it this far…
Our egos are stronger than our immune systems are.

On what might they blame my internment?
Surely, not a lack of discernment.

Not without its loneliness & tears…
Have been these fifteen celibate years.

It seems that I’m choosy to a fault…
To have found myself here in this vault.

Vulnerable; both soaking & wet…
Alone down here in my oubliette.

As Sun & Moon scrape my grill themed skies…
We’re to hang hope on dead rich white guys?

Satire is just a fancy word for teasing.
High-brow whit at power’s expense is pleasing.

Institutions, too, are overlap targets…
Ridiculous bureaucratic laugh markets.

Then, there’s people of archetype character.
Priest, politician, banker & actor.

The job of the satirist is to deride.
Expose the folly & corruption they’ve spied.

The work one must do requires a three pronged tool.
They’re irony, sarcasm & ridicule.

Why do we still have to come out & proclaim?
‘Cause parents have pre-telegraphed their disdain.

It is not for us to tell them who they are.
They will tell you when they’re sure their news won’t scar.

You can guess & hope; but keep it to yourselves.
Unless, you want them ever stuck in their shells.

Better, like the bud that unfolds in its bloom.
Their truth will out, if you’d just give time & room.

For, a parent should love whomever they get!
Yes, be patient support…so children don’t split.

I know there’s no such thing as perfect; only best.
It’s the enemy of all the good; & the rest.

Oh, we try & we practice; we sweat & we bleed.
Aiming to be exact & excel we must cede.

There is the best, the better, the good & so-so.
Personal achievements are the way you should go.

For, beating one’s self is an accurate metric.
Every time we beat time the feeling’s electric.

So, discard your ideas of perfect precision.
Owe only yourself when you make good decisions.