Category: Poetry

Say…it really must be us, in fairness.
We’re turning the earth into a furnace.

It’s been raped of ore to make our metal.
We hunt new compounds in which to meddle.

Before we knew how to smelt there was wood.
Traditionally, we took all we could.

We’ve held for granted all of our water.
It’s no longer crisp or clean…just hotter.

All our parasitic line, we’ve had fire.
Burned wood for metal for soldering wire.

Try to “offset” what we take at a tie?
See?…that’s just another reductive lie.

I am the good that comes from bad.
I walked a path who seldom had.

I was born to a house afire.
I knew leather & I knew wire.

As I grew the cage got smaller.
I broke out & fled the holler.

I went from shadow to caster.
My shade heals & is no master.

Here, again, I reside today.
Outgrown what made me go away. 

To forge my path myself, I’m glad.
I am the good that comes from bad.

I step into a wall of awkward…like a jello fog.
Once I’m in, I’m just getting thru; it all goes in the log.

When I clear the sticky veil, I process all that occurred.
I sort out all the action had & every spoken word.

This is when I think you thru; good & bad motivation.
Afterwards, I make calls…character appreciation.

So few consider what’s gone by moreover than I do.
I only want to fathom where I stand with all of you.

I whittle the multiverse of possibilities down.
By the time I think of comebacks, you’ve already skipped town.

Now summiting my story’s arc.
It’s just me singing in the dark.

Tripping thru the light fantastic.
It’s stark, yet soft…smoothly drastic.

The tale’s design, on top, feckless.
Yet, deep within, all but reckless.

Love’s antagonist shape-shifter.
Family, friends, lovers, grifters.

Still wringing truth from all the lies.
Then rinse, repeat & poetize.

The narrative here became so fetid.
I leaned in, owned it & myself feted.

I’m out on furlough to places placid.
Refreshed as I was, the pulse was flaccid.

I’m quite sure footed in my life purpose.
A rare found stance, like Amazon porpoise.

My island’s naked & slightly hirsute.
A similar inlet is my pursuit.

I know better than to look for idols.
I’ll not find harbor in perfect idylls. 

I love being underestimated; it gifts me broader chances.
And, when I have the lesser hand, I’d not augment my circumstances.

Going stealth & near invisible, most bestow the barest glances.
When I am among the throngs…my anonymity it enhances.

Some say leaning into false perception is the weakest of stances.
Yet, who attacks civilians when there’s no shortage of foes with lances?

Then, there are the times when the day’s orders are preening brags & prances.
Those foolish means to draw a pool of fools into stupefied trances.

Underreckoning’s effective in dodging violent advances.
Though, the shields of false assumptions do not result in dates & dances.

Where to run under cover of dark.
Skirting neighborhoods, townships & parks.

Mass escape to all ports north & south.
Secret plans whispered & word of mouth.

Watching camps thrown up in bright of day.
Staying well hidden to get away.

Open season on progress’s march.
Powerful people becoming arch.

The marginalized under attack.
We may never get our homeland back.

Put my mind in a particle collider.
I want my consciousness wider & wilder.

Put my heart in a smelter for high speed rail.
I long to feel their loud & purposeful wail.

My innards on a spindle knit into thread.
I wanna house the support springs in your bed.

Take all my tendons & lace them in a bow.
I can secure you, wherever you may go.

Last…take my skin & fashion yourself luggage.
Carry me with you & let me be haulage. 

There was a girl whose tears were jeweled beetles.
Their carapaces tough & sharp like needles.

She cried no more or no less than any child.
But when she did, the scene people made was wild.

Full grown adults were shrieking in shocking fear.
They ran from the child who only needed comfort near.

For, she had no idea that her tears were strange.
They fell off of her cheeks & then they would change.

She had no friends, because they all ran away.
Like the grownups they’d been taught to be afraid.

Their overreaction, to her, was barmy.
If they hurt her, she’d cry herself an army.