Category: Poetry

Here we are again at hovel harvest time.
The right is now poised to commit every crime.

All this hot air for a pyramid swindle.
The worth of the dollar will further dwindle.

Folks deported to The Tropic of Torture?
Undecided last year; are you now more sure?

So, you voted for wealth because you are broke?
Put down the pipe & step away from the smoke.

The rich rarely bother to think of our class.
They’re no one’s bro & you ain’t getting that cash.

Here comes a trigger to derail your train of thought.
Triage & chase after that topic you had caught.

Re-catching a ribbon of logic proves too hard.
So, you give up on riffing & remain on-guard.

Soon, another chance will come to jump on back in.
Only, there are no breaks in the consistent din.

Here’s an incoming thread of familiar thinking.
You flail for its tail thru your fingertips slinking.

You’ve now lost, or have missed, the continuum twice.
If you or they can’t find room, you’ll strike-out at thrice. 

Why not a dance party lying on my back?
Would that really make me such a kooky-quack?

I was lying in bed & thought of a song.
The beat got a hold of my soul before long.

This guy has always had music inside him.
Grateful for my gifts & I’d never hide them.

So, tonight’s the night where the rythym gets me?
It’s the time when I fall prey to the boogie?

I lean into the magic; cause I’ve nothing to prove…
& surrender to sleep inside of my groove.

They’ll be at the age soon when my adults turned away.
Yes, there were witnesses of the abuse of this gay.

Past that point, my lived experience is so sparse.
Absent of family & lodged in a foster-care farce.

Suddenly, all my adult relationships were paid.
I was a ward of the state & just really afraid.

There’s much uncommon good that I can share of this world.
Yet, I have nought for these years; when my own life was furled.

I think I could be useful in the deeper felt strains…
Including hurdles that waylay & hang up our brains.

I can pay witness & shepherd the wanderers back.
Hard, not to worry…there’s so much they need that I lack.

Still, I know that I love them…so, I know it’ll wash.
I’ll try to remember it…when I have angst to squash.

How far are you willing to compromise?
Don stiff mannerisms, drop voice & hide?

How long are we patient to wait for change?
Wait on red-tapers leery of the strange?

How hard will individual lives get?
We’ve brief agency; but far longer debt?

How much can one do without burning-out?
Just with big pharma & old-monied clout?

How would one know if they’ve finished Life’s race?
Dead Dust has no need to think of its place.

I have seen him several times…
In vision quests for trips of minds.

Dropped into meditative state…
Where universes divulgate.

His look thru mists has changed a bit…
He’s ever hale, hearty & fit.

Bright glinting eyes; luminescence…
His energy strong quiescence.

The same dreamed soul who’d silence strife…
I hope, will find me in real life. 

They say, “Build from the bottom & out from the middle”.
Yet, “bigger, faster, better” played Rome & that fiddle.

That was intended for projects that humans complete.
Now, “bottom up, middle out’s” an impossible feat.

For, there is no middle around these parts anymore.
Not least, but last, the bottom’s just gradients of poor.

Then, there are miles of altitude to get to the top.
There’s not really many there… & it’s such a long drop.

Precariously high fortunes are hard to defend.
They’d rather burn it all down & start over again.

I’ve lost allegiance to the flag of the Divided States of America…
& to the republic for which it stood.
Several Nations & their gods.
So divisible, with liberty & justice for wealth.

Make me the Matron Saint of All Rotten Fruits.
Squeeze the softer berries for the sweeter juice.

Make of me medallions & put me on chains.
Give my like to new queers…blessing hearts & brains.

Write for me your hopes, kiss my coin & burn them.
Maybe ash lands in my lap…who can say for certain?

Keep on scribbling your wants & your needs for…me?
At the very least, you’ve made records to see.

As your lives wear on & dreams start to run real.
You can credit me…or to yourself thus deal.

Santa Claus gives me pause; a lie well & living.
Robs our kids & underbids the worth of giving.

Why the red herring to hide generosity?
They’d be best served passing out gifts from ‘neath the tree.

Wasting formative years on receipt from a lie.
Once they know the truth, they rightfully lie & buy.

Santa’s their very first lie, he’s Trust’s first crack.
Once that starts to slip, quite a fight to get it back.

Santa don’t have to die; pivot him to mascot.
A folksy tale tells kids to give & give a lot.