Saturday, December 31, 2016

the bells I ring tonight
are the beats of my own heart
and the fireworks
are the smile returned
to the colour of my eyes

a step out the door
a victory dance
and a celebration
not of good-bye
but a song of hello

and the breath of the extra second
a chance to make a sacred prayer
to gift back the borrowed breath
that got me through this year

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

it's all about
the upper hand
when everyone
just wants to touch
the feel of palm to palm
and even those who admit it
for all the fear
of what we can't
control of what we'll each give up
if we dare for connection between the lines
to we
where I never
broke a single heart
where I was never stifled
and you were never cut or smashed
and nothing was ever a game it didn't want to be
where all that was wanted
was the warmth of fingertips to flesh
and caring not to hurt required no strategy at all

Dec 26- morning

he never visits
the same place twice
at least not as the man he was
unless he's with a childhood friend
and even then
where they're going and where they are
counts more than where they've been
and nostalgia is only paper wings
that fluttered once
to make the storm
with the when and where
lost in history
of neither consequence
nor of regard
with the importance of memories
for the making
of the ones they're going to be
and moments for the taking
like alchemists who've learned
there's nothing much
to worry
when the famines
also hold a feast
though sometimes it's OK
to take from the day
not the romanticism
of what it never was
but a little something
that warms the heart
like a coal plucked from a fire
of maybe long ago
to give a little heat
in laughter
to give a little spark
in dream

Saturday, December 24, 2016

12:45 Xmas Eve 2016

everyone's saying
that this was a terrible year
when really it's only
the truth uncovering itself
and information overload
and the baby boom
that's finally caught up
with us

and yeah the fascists
are visible again
and so many prophets
left to the other side
and the climate is starting
to kick some ass
and nobody gives a shit
when it's the brown babies
that do the dying

but 1929
was a terrible year
or 1942
or just about any year
in a long long time
if you live in Palestine

each year will be what it will
but it isn't the year
that makes it that
but rather
what are
we can blame the world
for oppression
but were we freedom
and while we cried
our tears for water
did we remember
we could hit
the pimps of Nestle
where it hurts

and while the heroes died
we have to ask ourselves
were we just dry humping
their ideas
or did we take those wisdoms
deep inside
to gestate an evolution
and are we prepared
to be our own unsung heroes
or just reality stars

if you rose every day
and did one thing
that was kind
if you loved with a broken heart
if you sang for the joy
of the light
if you planted something
to watch it grow
or dropped to your knees
to pray
for an outcome
you may never know
if you found yourself a little more
and learned to be a better friend
this was a good year

the challenges came
from one solar rotation
to the next
and we survived each one

go out into the snow
or sand or grass
and blow a kiss to a star
to give it a wish
in return
because all we needed
of this year
was to make it to this day
for this chance
to be the better world
to love harder
to shine brighter

and look it...
here we are

whoever she is
it does not matter
except that she will become
a little bit the you
I will meet someday

but nothing so big
as to conquer fate
when the gods have already
betrothed us
to synergize the evolution
they have dreamed
for each of us to find

my heart beats steady
my breath is calm
the stars need not be molested
by the baseness of my wishes
and desires

all I could want
is to grow and shine
and today is to do that
here inside myself
tomorrow holds somewhere
the dancing of the light

and whoever she is
that I am now...
it matters
when someday
she'll become
a little bit the me
that will meet you
the gods and stars

Thursday, December 22, 2016

when spring comes
you will not find me
a snow drop in the sea
I have drowned
we all know this is true
but I sank so low
my lungs evolved to gills
that breathed the water
and the ice
until the gills
evolved to wings
and I was born as fire
to hide against the sun
known only by my shadow here
where none of you can find
what's really me
except for in the safety
of only honest dreams
me...the traitor
and deserter of myself
but there was something left
that needed getting out
before it all was gone
so I sent it on ahead
maybe one day
a boy with an apple
or a man with a broken gun
or a poet with spiders
bursting from his lips
to dream the world anew
but probably an old man
with patience he can't afford
or a child
who hasn't learned to see
what's the missing part of me
or maybe just this woman
who was a snow drop after all
until she resurrected
and made her way to free
will find this shadow flower
growing near the shore
to take it in their hands
and only see
the promise that it holds
to bring the growth of light

I wonder
if more people drank
their coffee black
would Tim Horton's
and Starbucks
be so popular
because you have to taste
the truth
to know if what you desire
is really
what you like

as for me
I learned to take
my coffee black
not for any truth
but more because
I never wanted to depend
on what is
or is not on hand
to leave me vulnerable
in my relationship with joy
(and rations I have found
if you aren't too used
to what you're giving up
are always good to trade)

the trick is
to authentically enjoy
and not to do it
of some kind of misplaced
stoic drive

or to enjoy what good
there is on hand
as long as you don't have to use it
to sugar coat
the hard to swallow
to deceive yourself
they're what you love

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

on the darkest day
I sent my red shoes
to the spirit realm
and burned the shame
of a world that says
you must or mustn't dance
when dancing's all
we're here to do
but only when we choose

because the vanity of rebellion
belongs to little girls
when women who are truly wild
wear blue
and those who feel
they owe their beauty
as a kind of sacrifice
can never sit a number out
with striving toward the vain
an obsession to be loved

but in the smoke that danced
I saw one vision
as the Hermit
the other le Bateleur
and so I knew there was an end
but a beginning also too
beyond the alchemy
I dare to let my waking self
know that I have dreamed

so on the shortest day
I set out bundled sage
to welcome back the light
and I danced not because
it is the lot
of girls beyond redemption
or because I could not stop
the desires that have led me oft astray

but for the light I carry in me
and the snow that lets things rest
while one dream shifts
into another
and a woman claims herself
by the music that she plays

The Secret Language of Crows

On the first day the light returned to the sky, a willow of a woman dipped a vessel into a stream. Expecting to be met only by her own reflection, she was startled to find, just below the water’s surface, a strange creature of a drowning man.
         She grabbed a hold of him, fighting against the weight of the current, and haluled him to the shore, where she stripped off his heavy cloak of feathers, and tossed it back in the water to be carried far away to the distant ocean.
         She built a birch bark fire, and dried the body of the strange man with her hair, then wrapped him in it, and suckled him at her breast. And, because she was a great nurturer he soon became strong, his own hair growing long and dark, until it fell to his waist. She took the many thick black strands of it in her hands and plaited it into two braids that hung over his shoulders. And as she made these braids, she wove into them the songs and the stories of her people, so that he could learn their language and always carry it with him.
To show his gratitude, the strange man made the kind and nurturing woman his wife. And because she was a normal woman with a normal woman’s wants, she made him vow to never speak of how he came to the river, either to her, or anyone else
But, often the strange man would walk out into to the deepest part of the woods where he would practice the secret language of Crows where no one else could hear it, just to remember the stories and the songs of his own people.
On one such day a lone Raven caught his notes on the wind. She held no memory of her own kind, but the song sounded familiar, as something she once knew well, but had now forgotten, and so she followed its calling. However, instead of taking her to another bird, the song drew her to a man.
“How is it you can speak my language?” she asked. “You’re a man.”
He turned from her and looked in the direction of his wife’s home, knowing he could not answer, and so he remained silent.
“Please,” asked the Raven, “It’s been so long, I no longer remember, and I want to remember.”
“All right,” said the man who spoke the language of Crows. I will talk with you, but don’t ask my secrets, for I have vowed never to speak them.”
The Raven burned with curiosity, but respected the man’s wishes just the same, and asked no more than to hear the words of her forgotten tongue.
With harsh throaty cries, the Crowman returned the stories of her people to her, and reminded her who and what she was, in the way only like-kind can after alienation has turned the spirit into something strange even to itself.
Day after day she met the Crowman in that same place in the forest to hear him unfold the tales she was hungry to retrieve. But as time turned by, more and more it was the man himself that drew her to come and listen, and not as much his stories. And this made her sad, because she was a Raven, and no matter how strange he might be, he was a man.
Still, the curiosity overcame her one day, so after he was finished sharing his story, she made to leave, but instead, flew by stealth from treetop to treetop, following him home. And there, the Raven watched as a beautiful willow of a woman, with kind eyes like gentle fires, stepped through the door and took the strange Crowman in her arms, kissing his forehead.
The raven could not stifle her pain and let out a jealous and guttural squawk.
Hearing her cry, the man turned around and flailed his arms at the raven. “Go away, you silly bird,” he said in the language of man. “Shoo. You have no business here.”
The Raven flew back through the woods, so heavy with the gravity of grief, she could barely maintain flight. Until she dropped from the sky crashing at the feet of a miner at work near the river.
“What have we here?” asked the miner, dropping his gold pan and picking the bird up roughly from the dirty shore. The Raven’s cries hurt his ears, and he dropped her again, to cup his hands over them. “Quiet!” he demanded, but the Raven could not stop. “Enough of that racket! Now, tell me what’s wrong?”
The Raven fell silent with shock, to realize that she could understand the miner’s words. Through her sobs she asked, “How is it you know the secret language of Crows?”
The miner released his ears and picked up the raven, more carefully this time. “I was once married to a raven, when I lived in the South where I come from. She taught me to speak your tongue. Now, what is the matter with you?”
“I love a man,” cried the Raven.
“That is not so unusual,” said the miner. “You’re not the first.”
“But, he already loves a woman.”
“Ah, I see,” said the miner. “That is also not a first. But, perhaps if you were a woman too, you could tempt him to your heart instead of hers.”
“But I am a Raven.”
“Yes, but I know how you may become a woman.”
The Raven’s eyes brightened with hope. “Please, tell me.”
“First, you must give me three of your feathers.”
The Raven plucked three of her feathers out with her beak and gave them to the miner.
“Good,” he said. “You must now find me a nugget of gold as large as the nail on my littlest finger. Bring it back to this spot tomorrow and I will tell you what to do next.”
The Raven, having an eye for shiny things, searched the river bed and after several hours found a nugget to bring the miner.
“Now,” said the miner, “you must give me three more feathers, before I tell you what you must do.”
The Raven plucked three more of her feathers and gave them to the miner.
“Good,” he said. “Now you must find me a nugget as big as the nail on my ring finger and bring it back here tomorrow.”
“But I have already given you six feather and a gold nugget,” she protested.
“Well…” said the miner turning to walk away from her, “you will be here tomorrow or you won’t. Depends on how bad you want it.”
The Raven returned the next day with a larger piece of gold, only to be asked for three more feathers, and an even larger piece of gold. Day after day it went on like this, but she was no closer to becoming a woman. She filled the miner’s pockets with nuggets, and stripped her hide bare, to no gain, until she had too few feathers to fly, and was left to hop through the woods to keep her meetings with the miner.
“You have done well,” said the miner at last, seeing that she could find him no more gold in her condition. “Before I reveal the final thing you must do, you must come inside my home.”
She followed him to his small cabin and went inside. “What now?” she asked.
“Ah, ah. First, you must give me three feathers.”
“But, they are the only ones I have left. Surely you could have compassion enough to leave them to me.”
“You won’t need them once you become a woman,” said the miner.
Reluctantly, she plucked her last three feathers and handed them to the miner.
The miner opened a large sturdy box and placed the three feathers along with the others she had given him. Then, he locked the box.
“What must I do now?” asked the Raven.
“Nothing,” the miner laughed. “I have waited a long time for another raven to take the place of my wife, and now I have found one. You are no longer able to fly, and I will never teach you how to walk like a woman, so you will stay here and be my wife and loneliness will never visit me again. Now,” he added cruelly, “don’t cry. Look, you have yourself a man.”
The Raven sobbed and pleaded, but the miner had a cold and selfish heart and took no pity on her. Instead, he grabbed her by her throat and snipped the bottom part of her tongue so she could no longer speak the language of Crows. “I am tired of speaking your words. Now, you must speak the language of man,” he told her. But she refused to utter a word.
The miner had been raised in a large and noisy city and as the snows settled in, the isolation and darkness burrowed into the man’s cold heart. He pined for bright lights and loud conversation. The Raven however, was used to isolation and did not fear the dark, as she was a daughter of the North. And so she took her fate of her imprisonment in stride, while she watched the miner pace, growing agitated at every creak the wind played on the old boards of his cabin.
“Speak!” he commanded the Raven, “this silence is driving me mad!” But still she was silent. “Speak, or I will kill you,” he threatened. And still, she showed no sign of fright, believing that in truth, death would be better than captivity. “What must I do to make you speak?”
The Raven pointed to the wooden box and held up three fingers. The miner could take no more silence, so he drew the key from his pocket, opened the box and handed her three feathers.
“I will tell you a story of what happened to the light, this long cold darkness,” she promised. “I will tell it, as it was told to me by the man I loved.” She sat before the fire and waited a long time before she began, unsure she could trust her tongue to continue speaking in this foreign language. “A greedy man, much like you, stole the light from the universe and locked it inside a box, like the one you keep my feathers in, and then he locked that box inside another box, and another and another and another. He locked it in so many boxes, he could no longer remember how many there were, and then he hid the box.”
The miner leaned forward to hear more, “Well...”
But the Raven was again silent. He cocked a hand to smack her, but she did not cower from it and offered no more words. Instead, she pointed again to the box and raised three fingers.
“No,” said the miner and he went outside to check if there was light enough for him to resume prospecting. There was only darkness.
After several days the silence began to gnaw at his sense of ease again, and he feared the light might not ever return again. He asked the Raven to tell him more of the story, of what happened to the light, but she only shook her head and held up three fingers.
“All right,” the miner conceded and took the key from his pocket, opened the box, and handed her three more of her feathers.
“This greedy man,” she began, “had a daughter he loved more than almost anything...anything that is but the light of the universe which he held captive. A raven who knew that the greedy man held the light, saw the daughter and devised a plan to use her to get the light for himself.
When the daughter went to the river to drink, he disguised himself as a pine needle and entered her drinking vessel. Unknowingly, she swallowed him deep inside of her.”
Again, the Raven fell silent.
“Speak! Speak!” shouted the miner, but she would say no more. She held her lips together and raised three fingers.
The miner turned his back to her and went to check, once more, for the return of the light.
After many more days had passed, the miner came to the Raven with three feathers in his hands. He accepted them and continued her tale.
“The daughter grew large and fat and knew not why, until she gave birth to a son that the greedy old man loved even more than the light he held inside the boxes. But the grandson cried constantly. His wails were unceasing, until the man could stand no more and asked him what would make him happy. ‘Oh Grandfather,’ said the raven who lived in the boy, ‘please, give me your boxes.’ The greedy old man scolded the boy and refused, but as the crying went on without end, the grandfather eventually relented and gave the boy the first of the boxes. Unsatisfied, the boy continued to cry, and little by little, the greedy man gave his grandson box after box, until at last he had handed over the final one, which contained all the light of the world.”
The miner was on the edge of his chair by now and begging for more, but his Raven wife fell silent and would not speak.
“Damn you!” he said, throwing his chair at her. “Speak!”
Still, she refused, again holding up three fingers.
The miner cursed her and went outside to look for the smallest glint of sun to illuminate his pan. There was none. Slowly, he lost hope, and despair set in. So he took three more feathers from the box.
“Fine,” she said, taking them. I will tell you more. “When the grandson received the last of the boxes, the trickster raven leapt from his throat and swallowed the light from inside the last box, then escaped into the sky.” And then she spoke no more.
The miner knew by now what his captive wife’s silence is meant. He looked out his window and saw that the light had not yet returned to the sky and grew anxious. “More! I must know more,” he said. But, the Raven shook her head and raised three fingers.
Defeated, the miner took the key from his pocket and withdrew the last three feathers and handed them to the Raven.
“Well,” she continued, “an eagle saw that the trickster raven held the light of the world inside of him, and so he pursued him through the sky. He swooped down on him, causing him to crash against a mountain. The impact forced the trickster raven to cough some of the light from his belly, which bounced off the neighboring mountains and landed in the sky as the specks of stars you see. But the trickster raven would not give up the rest of the light so easily, and again he took flight. As he did, the eagle dove hard into him and he was forced to release a larger chunk, which floated up to become the moon you see at your sill.”
The miner looked to these things out his window and felt assured.
“Finally, the eagle caught the raven in his talons and shook him hard, until the remainder of the light was shaken from his beak and took its place as the sun. The raven broke free of the eagle, but was so injured; he crashed into a river below.”
            She laughed. “But you are a silly fool, just like the greedy old man. This happened many, many years ago. If you were not from the South and so new to this place, you would know that this time, the light is only hibernating like the bears. It wakes in time, if you give it time. Perhaps tomorrow it will open its eye a spell. And now,” she proclaimed triumphantly, “I have earned my feathers back.”
The miner spat on his floor. “Yes, but what can you do with a handful of feathers? Because that is all they are. A handful of feathers. Just as giving them away could not make you a true woman, holding them between your hands can not return you to your former self. You will always be stuck between.”
The Raven was not finished with her plan, however. Later, after the miner had filled his guts with whiskey and beans, and slept too soundly to wake, she found a needle and thread amongst his things and worked quickly to sew the feathers into a shawl, which she wrapped around her shoulders to protect her from the harsh elements outside, and then stumbled out into the seemingly eternal night.
Reaching from branch to branch and trunk to trunk, she made her way toward the strange Crowman’s house, learning to walk with the partial gate of a woman and the part glide part hop of a bird.
When she finally found the Crowman and Willow-woman’s home, she wearily knocked at the door.
“What are you doing here, and what has happened to you?” the Crowman asked her in the secret language they shared.
“I was captured by a miner, and imprisoned as his wife. He has left me trapped between two forms. Please, tell me you can share the knowledge to help me return to the body of a raven,” she begged in the language of man.
“Why do you speak this way?” he asked her, again as a Crow.
She pointed to where the miner had slit beneath her tongue. The strange man kissed her in that place where she had been injured, whispering a prayer against the wound.
The Crowman’s wife came up behind him and took her husband by the shoulder. “Who is this and why do you speak the secret language of Crows?” she asked angrily. She reached for the man’s face and held it firmly between her hands. Looking into his eyes, she saw for the first time that they were the black orbs of a corvid. “I’ve been tricked!” she cried, her own kind eyes turning hard with hurt and shame. She threw her husband into the snow bank and slammed the door shut.
“But wait!” pleaded the strange man. “It is you who tossed my feathers back into the river and refused to see me as I have always been. It was you who made me promise not to tell you who I really was. And,” he said with his voice cracking, “it was your believing eyes that made me a man and I have I loved you for it. It was your hair that concealed me from the eagle. Your breast suckled me and gave me new life. I was always grateful for it.  Please, open the door.”
A strong wind rose up and the snow began to whip and lash around the Crowman and the Raven. Still, the Willow-wife had no pity to take her husband back in, though he shivered violently in the snow bank where he lay. “You,” he said, looking to the Raven, “why did you come here?”
The Raven knelt beside the man, and taking off her cloak of feathers, wrapped him in it. “I loved you when I thought you were a Corvid like me,” she said, as her naked flesh began to freeze. “I loved you when I saw you as a man. And still, I love you now that I know you are even more as I than I could have imagined. I would love you if you knew no form at all.”
The strange Crowman looked now to the door that had been closed to him. He knew it would never open again, and he wept as much for the love his wife had withdrawn for him, as he did for the love he could no longer have for her. From his throat rose a mourning song in the language of man. As he sang it, he invited cold into the empty cavern of his heart, and his limbs began stiffen.
The Raven remembered the song of hatching now, but could no longer sing it for her cut tongue, so instead, she let the beats of it rise from her heart...and really, the hatching song was always a heartbeat song.
 The Crowman let his song fade to listen to hers. He reached up and pulled the Raven close to him so he could better hear the beginning song of Corvids. It was a song he knew, and so as they huddled together under the cloak of her feathers, he taught her how to sing it again, their voices generating enough warmth to keep them both alive.
 As the winds died and the sun awoke from its slumber, two Corvids evaporated from their half-human bodies to dance up into the lights, their spirits as eternal as all that belongs to one sky—belonging to no one and nothing, but each of them hatchlings of the light.    

The End

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

in the darkest hour
comes the return
of the light
when your world has crumbled in
on the vacuum of itself
and there is nowhere left
to go
and imagination has lost
so much remembrance
for the meaning
of warmth and shine

that's exactly when it comes

because turning points
will always feel like endings
if you keep looking back
and the Phoenix is at its coldest
and most compressed
before the shell is cracked
and it is greeted by the day
though somedays
the darkest dark
will come
and the stars
will leave you abandoned
in the night
in the company of wolves

but that's exactly when it comes

and the universe
returns compassion
to the ones who keep on
holding on
for them it brings the gift of light
to rekindle dying fires
and while the eyes
no longer remember
how to not be blind
against the growing
of illumination
they will learn again
to see
because when there is nothing left
the imagination can perceive

that's exactly when it comes

Monday, December 19, 2016

for the times
you anchored my heart
to this place
when I thought
each molecule
would make its escape
into somewhere
where nothing has been

when you held the candle
against the wind
of the tornado
the night the light went out
and the dark fell in

for laughter
that spray painted
the sky with stars
and smiles that rose the sun

for the nightmares
defeated by dreams
and the lost and found
and lost again
you found

for the way
the compass needle
is forever drawn
no matter which way
it is I face

let me send
this gratitude
for the days
you brought the fire
to thaw the frozen
from where it turned
to ice

and give you
love and also light
and what dances now
by its own breath
to make you prayers
of magic
for the miracle
of your heart

when our love got too big
with nowhere to go
it tore a hole in itself
because it could not stop
expanding the way
it needed to
and now it runs out of itself
while I am trying to catch
every drop
with a bucket made of holes
the way phantoms hold
with what they are not
or hold the counter
of what needs to be held
but at least it is out there
somewhere refusing to die
and growing just as large
as it can find the room
to grow
and there's something to be said
for resilience like that

Sunday, December 18, 2016

To Ever Dream Eternal: Or, Let There Always Be One More Impossible Dream to Make Possible...just one more

let the sky remain
too high to reach
keep the mystery for the stars

every time I stand on tip toes
raise the ceiling
just beyond
my fingertips
beyond the too easy
too easy to take for granted

do not let me play
with constellations
but save them
for the places
only my imagination
can ever find

let the clouds fall on my tongue
to dissolve into the light
I carry in my veins
and to my heart
but do not let me pick
a one with greed
like apples plucked from trees

leave the sky one eternity
beyond my dreams
so I will never run out of wonder
or know the limits
of just how high
the flight of magic
can lift my soul

my dreams can dream me
to the heavens
and dream themselves to true
but these feet must never lose
the space to always dance

and the promise
of somewhere that is left
and waiting
to compel me to dream again
beyond the just beyond

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

when we never learn
how to accept
the mystery of the unseen
with our egos whining
like children 
in grocery store lines
sometimes we give them
the empty of what we make up
just to keep them quiet
and then we tell ourselves
those temporary fixes of stories
are truths
and believe those truths so much
when the facts contradict
the assumption in innocent lies
we have told ourselves
we mistake reality
with what is false

maybe the ego needs to learn
it can't always get
what it wants
this life is a mystery
and each of us a story
yet to unfold
and the truth can only be seen
when we recognize
how we've filled in the blanks
so full to the brim
we have left no space
for reality to enter
without having lies
spill out of the cup

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

it's necessary to hide
like when energies come knocking
that operate in negatives
like helicopters in the heart
that promise to take you high
but amputate the stars
from the skies of your dreams

it's necessary to hide
so when they ask if you are home
you lie and say you're not
or introduce them
to the self you aren't
dressed in a hungry guard dog clothes
who is ready for the bite

it is necessary to hide
because that is how you keep
the softness of your heart
because if the right energy
ever comes along
it's good to have something
sweet and tender
left to share

and sometimes
it is necessary to hide
because scars are part us too
but too many get like heavy blinds
or bars
that block out or in the light
and the light is us forever
while the scars are only now

it is necessary to hide
because the world can be cruel
and if you don't choose
what to hold back
it will leave you
with nothing left to hold
hiding beneath the dark
of your amputated sky
behind the prison
of your scars
so that if anyone ever comes
there'll be no stars left to find
and the authentic
of everything you are
will be only ashes and craters
wearing a mask
instead of light and love
and the tenderness of shine

Monday, December 12, 2016

some scratch the paint
to see your truth
and of those
some will tell you
who you are
and of those
there will be some
who agitate and scrape
to tell you who you
ought to be

the artist's world
must be titanium gates
to audiences
who take assumptions
as souvenirs

the truth of the artist
really only comes to life
in its magic and its breath
for the ones who come
to question
who it is
they are themselves

Friday, December 9, 2016

I didn't wait for you
to find you again
when I am walking
toward you
unearthing you
continuing this journey
with every breath
my reason to want to leave
and my strength
to go on
my sacrifice of alone
that has shown me
I am never alone
so that I am not waiting
but walking with you
and through you
and toward you
as it has always been
as it will always be
and forever is not
this lost of now
but the finding found
beyond the veil
and the illusions
reality constructs
of time

Thursday, December 8, 2016

I glided through the day
on the frozen tears
of the morning
(you know it's the warmest
that freezes the first)
and nobody knew it at all
but maybe you
who has not seen
the way I can hide
a dying heart
inside my smile

and in that
and in this
I have learned
what it means
to let it all go
scaring myself
with the emptiness
of the void
but more so
with what remains
and is eternal beyond
what the mind
can comfortably know

that some things
can be so deep
and still never learn to fly
when I can't stop myself
from piling the what happened then
and the what never did
on the wings of what tomorrow
had hoped it could do

I wanted to be like a child
with a violin and a bow
not yet making music
but learning with practice
and try
but it all went out of tune
the way it seems to now

every mistake
a wrong I can't right
defeated when the song
won't leave my head
and the notes remain sour
and elusive each time

so I am a skater
carrying the weight
of this person I've become
but have never known
with only this heart that still beats
and these eyes that cry
for the light of the stars
my foreign fingers
will never reach
with the limbs of the light
embedded in me

only my tears carry
the dexterity
to find the steps to the dance
of the way this song jumps
lonely and disjointed
from its unrosinned strings

I wanted to give
something it's wings
or at least my half to give
but today the cold carries
the echo of what happened
the day before this
coming back at me
from the other side
of one day after tomorrow

and I just keep learning
to glide
with these tears
to keep me warm
flowing as fast
as each of them freeze

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

I am
a little too much

there is no bridge
that I can cross
without it falling
before I reach
the other side

but all I can do
is burn

I am fire
and if I let
these flames go out
I have nothing
of this world
but the anonymous ashes
I leave behind

maybe someday comes
some kinda water
that can cross an ocean
blind and unwavering
in its dreams
like a current
that does not dilute
as it passes through the halls
of the pantheon
of the sea

like some kinda
mighty water
that doesn't need
to fear what flames
are apt to do

but me
I am not the sea
I am this fire
that cannot cross a bridge
but must wait here
with its thirst 

and still
it has to burn

does the sunrise
ever hurt your eyes
when it catches you
from the wrong side
of the day

and have you ever
fallen in love
with the poetry of crimson
left on your knees
from sliding sideways
into luck

do you sometimes know
even when you say
you don't
to yourself

and do those knowings
ever turn to secrets
that brand you as a ghost
among the sleeping
yet alive

have you ever
found yourself
only because
you walked contrary
to the way
of the maps

ancient talismans
like diamond rings
to remind you
you have never been
a pawn of the gods
but more
a consequence
of the stars

and have you stood
on mountains
and felt in over your head
beneath those stars
yet as a fish
who never wants
to find the shore

has your fortune
ever been made
of conjuring gold
not for the sake of wealth
but for the apprenticeship
of the transmutation
of resilience
in a spell

have songs played
in your ears
on stations from
other realms
while you shape shifted
into what could be seen
and the things that could not

if you have ever heard
these questions
without me
writing them here

then to find the answers
I seek
to these
and the questions
I dare not to ask
I have only to listen
to find truth

Friday, December 2, 2016

we all just want
to find a better way
in a world where
the good guys lost
and nobody knows
because the guys who won
are the heroes
they celebrate
with textbooks
and holidays

and some of us
protest with aspirations
of martyrdom
and others as gurus
and none of that
is gonna get it right

when the martyrs absorb
all the hurts around them
and then congratulate the ego
on its capacity for resilience
and how well they've learned
to revel in the suffering
of dying for another's sins

and the gurus build
their temple walls
that allow no criticism
to dare to penetrate
forsaking mirrors
in the name of mental health
proclaiming imperfect perfection
as a short cut
that passes by
the mutual in the evolution

but when the martyrs
see beyond the punishment
of the mirror
through the illusions
and the tricks
an image of projection
is bound to play
with the spirit and its truth

and the gurus
accept that what is seen
by others
is also part their truth
and zen is not to say
the masters have it figured out
and all the contradictors
best fall on their knees

when the martyrs
stand firm
in their knowing
tempering humiliation
with calling for respect
and the gurus offer empathy
from the heart
as quickly as lessons
fall from their mouths

that's when hearts uncover
and each piece fits into each
and those of us just trying
to make it day to day
find the synergy
in the cosmic
of the one
to overcome
the martyrs and the gurus
who brought us to this state

Saturday, November 26, 2016

is a one eyed horse
who thinks he sees
the all
and follows only
what he sees
unable to perceive
the circle
for the slightest changing
of the ground

if you want an evolution
you have to open
both your eyes
and follow the path
beyond what those eyes see

you can drop your shit
in the circumference of a pattern
revolving like a carousel
that keeps the people riding
for the promise of the token
of a brass ring
they are never meant to reach

or you can set out
to find
what lies beyond the hills
of how far we have dreamed

but to see the path ahead
you must open
the blinded eye
that can see the evil
in the good
and recognize the saint
was part a sinner too

you cannot turn your ass
only to the black
and your strong eye
to the white
because the path of evolution
is a twisting trail
within the spectrum
of the greys

Friday, November 25, 2016

I was just a girl
when I found out
the hard way
that I belonged
to no one

but somewhere
between the images
of fatigues and cigars
came the rising
of the power in a voice
I could not understand
that whispered just beneath
in my own alien
and native tongue
that I could belong
to the people

and then it became my truth
and the only dream
I had to ration
to get me by
so that every step
connected back to that one path

I am no longer a girl
and somewhere
I got lost
so that I stopped
even to myself

and if you can't stand
for yourself
you can't stand
for anyone

you told me that

when all my inspirations
and heroes
are stepping over
to the other side
and the clock has come
to strike
the now or never time

we are the prayers
our ancestors have sent
cloaked in the wishes
of our own children's hearts
and carried over
into this world

if not us
then who

we are the poets now
and the ones
who must decid
the measure and the weight
of what we'll contribute
to the ongoing
of the evolution

and it all begins
when we claim back our voice
and learn to understand
that we belong to everything

and it isn't in redemption
but through the sacred
of connection
that we stand our strongest
when we can remember
we were all born
to this place
belonging not only to
but also of
the people

Sunday, November 20, 2016

my heart retreats again
from this reality
defeated as something
that waited too long
to breathe
not knowing it was stillborn
before it reached
to meet the light

there is only a hollow now--
a dark and unceremonious
cavern of memorial
for what
cannot be remembered

and somewhere in a dream
the ghost of the heart
with the ghost of optimism
that followed
on its heels

once the flower
that waited too long
to drink
until its mouth
shrivelled closed
and it could drink no more

now the lips that lick
the shine of stars
and drink the dew
perspired from the moon

somewhere in a dream
where how to love
need never be forgot
as unnecessary to it all
as how to drink
or breathe
and yet everything
that birthed the light
of Creation into life 

I didn't set out
looking for the answers
when I have always known
the the world
rests in delicate spin
on the axis
and the precipice
of the questions
that we each must ask

do not paint for me
landscapes and portraits
gilded in the simplicity
the romantic plaster
over the texture
of the truth

but baptize me in
the bitter waters
that flow with mud
and too much wine

and submerge me
to drowning
in the questions
that have stolen
your peaceful nights
and wakened you
to dream
nocturnal and burning
beneath the stars

bury the illusion
of the manipulations
that have been conjured
of the tricks
my mind can make

and let them sprout up
from the seeds
of something
humble that grew
from dark

bearing the fruit
that only makes me hungry
for more questions
to the questions sowed
by all that has been asked

when my life
should be a lover
that leaves me
naked and seduced
back to the only answer

which is

what I came to ask

when it's time
to dance in the snow

there were nights
when the crickets
made symphonies
and nights when the leaves
whispered poetry
as they sailed
to their death

but look
how the streetlight
makes falling stars
of every flake

and before the feet
a fresh canvass
where the language
of movement
is paint

and destiny is a thing
that will be hidden
by other tracks
and one day melt away

but the dance
will dance itself
far from that place
before it is muddied
and loses the quality 
of the crisp in the soft

and all that will matter
of the moment
the sky snowed stars
was how we danced
for the contribution it made
to where the dance
is danced in the now

Thursday, November 17, 2016

the flag
is a spotless sin
hiding her crimes
parading as the sacred virgin
who infects the population
with the vd
of her pristine
and fascist pride

rallying men beneath
her skirts
just to watch them
kill the men
beneath another

when the blood of Sand Creek
can tell you
where the stains are hid
and that her faithfulness
is a lie

while she whispers
her excuses
to blinded lovers
that they should rip
the children
from the earth
even as they suckle there
so she can find the room
to spread her fattening ass

while Africa starves out
waiting for the circumference
of her berth
to bring the peace
she promised

and those without her favour
or a lover to call their own
are chased from one whore
to another
trying to find the mother
who will take them in
their children drowning
on her doorstep
for the illusion
they came from
some arbitrary
and disfavoured womb
that takes the credit
for Creation and the Source

and yet it is a crime
to burn
what scolded Nagasaki
to the ground

what has turned
the children in the holy land
to ash

what erased the memory
of civilizations
in the name of gold

a piece of cloth
woven in genocide
and greed
and decorated
with the entrails
of all that freedom
is at heart

what is sacred is
and what is not
must call on wars
to protect
the illusion
that it is not
a greedy 
and jealous

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

you're like a penny
I carry in my mouth
waiting for a rainy day
something that keeps me
tongue tied
but it's a perfect day
to be batshit crazy
so why the hell
let reality
fuck with the dream
I don't live here
and I don't live there
I just sorta migrate
in between
like children who lose
their home
never know
a home again
but only plateaus
that they can explore
and when they are older
they learn to forgo
the necessity
of taking food
to hold the hope
of the nourishment of luck
between their teeth

Monday, November 14, 2016

sometimes in the fog
there is sensing
that something sacred lost
has taken form
yet irretrievable still
across the bridge
too narrow
for anything but song
and light
to pass

and dream gets left
to dream
yet wide awake
and ever nocturnal
in the heart
and silence mutes itself
with patient observation
that erupts only
as the star
that sometimes falls
to fall in love with wish
or the sea that hides its cry
in the song the waves have sung
for the one that crashed

I have adored you
these centuries
never as the muse
that is grateful
to the canvass
but on the other side
of things
the ghost of shadow
more than the paint
the hand might one day
bring to life

I have loved you
as the inspiration
I have drawn to breathe
with the fragrance of you
always spilling from my lungs
in these only words
that maybe
will find their way
the bridge
I cannot cross

Sunday, November 13, 2016

talk about building walls
well the most ancient
one there is
is the human shield
the system makes
of the entitled
and disillusioned class
so that we gotta fight our way
up through their parades
to get to where the problem is

angry white aggression
with a bad case
of mistaken identity
for the oppressor
and the oppressed
because it's just too easy
to kick the cat
or beat the wife
or raid the displaced
wintering in tents
for their crime
of stealing the air
that waves some
pseudo-democratic flag

rallies against blacks
or rallies for LNG
or rah-rah with Wahoo
like colour or culture
makes anyone inhuman
and global markets
and world resource collapse
are really on the heads
of anyone asking
for a little water
that isn't wrapped
in plastic first
but anyway
back to the game

and the nationalist wall 
just gets thicker
the us and the them
them with their fists
and us with our arms open wide
and across the divide
they say we aren't
evolved enough
to make a choice
because love always
looks like a handicap
to the wounded
instead of the cure

and history tells us
what happens
when we take on the wall
where new leaders
so often emerge
from our ranks
leaving the us
to be absorbed
as our own human shields
for their new found elite

so let the poets
up to the front
because the only chance
we've got
is to absorb the them
into the us
to turn fists
to open hands
and not let open hands
close into fists

darkness never extinguished
a single light
but light has always
paled the dark
even as a pinhole
in the sky

there are cracks
in every wall
let them build it
and we will disarm
brick by brick with light
until nothing but illumination
stands between us
and the architects

if they can exploit
a human shield
from the wrong dreams
gone wrong
we can rebuild the hoop
with right dreams
gone right

Saturday, November 12, 2016

These Emotions Will Not Be Assimilating Today

the river of apologies
has run dry
my eyes are mutated
with cataracts
from too many Hallmark cards
decked in Gandhi glitter
and some kind of
Dali Lama wisdom on the side
packaged like a latte
made with the same appropriation
that makes a third world
become a trend

give me Steinbeck
or Bukowski
but let me feel
this disillusionment
like a train wreck
on Tobacco Road
at five in the afternoon

if you take away
my depth of dark
you extinguish
all my stars
with neon light

I have nothing left
I can be sorry for
and no more shame
for shame

we have to see
the impossibility
left us in despair
to understand
the miracle
when it arrives

when how does anyone
truly love themselves
and think this is OK
to expose the spirit to

and still
has anyone ever
really known their soul
only to miss the gifts
in every day

I am sad
because I love

this disappointment
wears me
hooding both my eyes
and yet
I do not forget the beauty
of what is naked
it all

Thursday, November 10, 2016

I don't know what year
but somewhere out there
on the road
I became a ghost
in a decomposing body
that listens too often
at the intersection
of perpendicular 
and time
travelling somewhere
my feet can't be
fractured between 
the here
and there
my heart missing in action
even I can't find
marking time
dancing with the pretty
and the light 
far beyond the fingers reach
and all I have left
to get me by
are the stories 
that make a person's 
lost child cry
with neglect 
of their own humanity
and my need to see the ones
whose hearts have not deserted
like partisans gone 
in the middle of the night
and never coming home
still young and far too old
the way fascism
forges the poets into tribe
the dimensions cannot contain
with feet on the ground
and fists in the air
rotting around their spirits who cry:
we only wanted to love
what the fuck 
are we all doing

Strange that this should come a few hours before I heard of Cohen's ascension. After I read it back I had The Partisan stuck in my head. Was the song in my head when I read the news. 

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

the men and children are sleeping
but the mothers are crying tonight
like Weimar mothers cried
like Yugo-mothers cried

and the drug of fanaticism
sells better than Afghan poppies--
the addiction to the illusion of power
where a man can be a man
with the grab of a pussy
or the flip of a switch
or a hammer he can cock
as long as he stays a cog

turning in the machine

for the blood of our sons
for the fear they will take up this fate
and own it one day too

for our daughters we want to empower
but cannot protect

for the children who are standing naked now
without the cloak of privilege

tonight America seems asleep
but around the world
the mothers cry

Sunday, October 30, 2016

those who rise
will have dirt
in their eyes
tears smearing to mud
across their cheeks

they won't be drinking Starbucks
on the way to hot yoga
repeating dollar store mantras
gilding lead from China

they'll be streaming
wifi from the Earth
that won't come clean
from underneath their nails
taking their messages
straight from god

taking them straight to heart
and flowing weightless
as the river
carries its own weight
but is fluid in its destination

you have to eat oatmeal
with your hands
or drink burnt coffee
filled with ash
or go days where the water
does not pass your lips

and that will change you
it will make you hard
but also soft for suffering
it will disjoint you
from the system
and force you to find the songs
your ancestors
have hidden in the earth
it will teach you
that joy can never be purchased
with the slavery of your labour
and your bonds

you will learn to dance
when your feet are hurt
you will learn to sing
when your voice is hoarse
you will learn to rise
when your knees are weak
because to do anything less
is compliance with the illusions
that separate us from our truths

those who rise will not be pretty
and antiseptic
and untouched
in their hearts
they will carry the wounds of earthquakes
and the cracks of parched
and starving droughts
they will hold mountains
that can't be climbed
and rivers that can't be dammed
they will leak mud from their eyes
but they will be miracles of beauty

they will sing
and they will dance
and they will rise

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

my darkness
is my medicine
every smile
a victory
each laugh
a concentrated strategy
to bring me to the moment
of being fully present
in the moment

some are born to the world
to carry joy
but others must weep
for the sorrows laid
upon the earth
with the mud of her flesh
embedded beneath their nails
clawing their way
from the trenches
toward the sun

those are the ones who know
the truth of joy
and the value and the cost
rooted in something deeper
than the illusion
of only part of what
this world can be

my darkness
is my medicine
and my choice to smile
and laugh
and dance beneath the sun
are where I am learning
the power
of just what my magic
was born to be

Monday, October 24, 2016

I always seem to fall
into eyes that can only decipher
from vixens and from saints
when I was born
already painted up in red
and all that I can be
in truth
is the celibate whore
with a heart of iron
gilded in the gold

because the world is so often scared
of what they really are
and what they aren't
and I never mastered tame
like the grain
that never sunk its roots
just to see what it could be
or the seed that spread its spokes
for the love of the wind
over the soil

but when I land
exactly as I am
I'll know it was Creation's will
that conspired to give me a place
to be yellow in the sun
having found my home
here inside my heart

Sunday, October 23, 2016

I am perpetually scared
that what I want
could be real
and so I seldom
get what I want

I tell myself justifications
for myopia
like what I want
is to not be disappointed

but what is more disappointing
than dreams
that never come real

sometimes the amends
we must make
are for wearing the clothing
of ghosts
our naked truth obscured
in the familiar scent
of the perfumes
of the long long ago
and we can learn to sing
the songs that drowned in the seas
of their shrouds
or we can sing our own
but all that will reach the ears
are the echoes of before
and the best we can do
is offer the imaginary
of our imagined angel's wings
to comfort and heal
where the power of opportunity
has exposed its vulnerabilities
and hope we do not fall down
tripping on these dresses
that are not our own
when just because we dance
the same steps
does not mean
we are going where they
have gone

Saturday, September 10, 2016

somehow the feel
of warm tears spilling
on my cheeks
got all mixed around
so that when
the tears come
in that torrent
of surrender
lacking in violence
like blood pouring
from a ghost
I feel baptized
in the rapture of love
for the times
since you ascended
I have cried that way
for you

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

what will they do next
build a ceiling
to the sun
to charge us
for the necessity
of the light

just like they've damed
the rivers
until even the bears
can't eat the fish
and mighty waters
whither to dying streams

just like they build
their walls
to keep men chained
without the chains
to factories
and to fields

and fresh air
becomes a trend
enjoyed as social pleasure
like grabbing a Starbucks
or a beer

who was born
with the title in their hands
to claim the moon and stars
or the water and the ground

how does one hold deed
to this Mother Earth
who gave us life
and will take it back
and be here still
one million years
after the hands of greed
have turned
to dust

Monday, September 5, 2016

water breaks us
into this world

nourishes these bodies
so our spirits
may touch the earth
of creation

creates sacred portals
for life to emerge
in our wombs

bathes us
cleanses us
gives us the gift
of tears
so we may heal

and when we return
to the other side
it is water from the eyes
of those who have seen us
who will break our birthing
back to home

we are water
flowing from our own
long journey
from ancestor
to descendant

carrying also
the energy
of those who came before
through to those
who are yet to come

cleansing our generations

resilience circumventing

breaking back always
to the birthing
of our spirits
in the flow
of their good way

Monday, August 29, 2016

it is the peripheral sense
of warmth
that cracks the hard shell
of the seed
and sets the the tender shoot
to rising toward unknown
emerging from the safety
of the soil
stem dancing in its prayer
toward the songs of light
offered by the sun

but what is left unseen
is what submerges
into deep
the courageous
and ever delving anchor
that gives the willow
its right to wings
and the roots
that weave the grounding
to form purpose
of the inspiration
to aspire to the flight

and every leaf
that quivers
every flower that offers up
its moist and open mouth
every fruit that swells
and ripens
under dreams of kisses
of the sun
does not give of itself
what it has not first
nurtured in the depth
of hidden realms
dancing its secret dance
veiled within the layers
of earth internal
cloaked inside the dark

Sunday, August 28, 2016

if a lover has ever
painted you in honey

then you know what it is
to bathe in sweet

and if that same lover
has then starved you out
until pomegranates
turned to dust
and all you could do
was writhe in the hot sun
gathering sand
to the vulnerability
of your body
naked and exposed

then you know what it is
to bathe in betrayal

if then another
has tried to stroke your flesh
with gentle caresses
that only broke
the skin

then you know what it is
to bathe in your own pain

wait for the rains
they always come
even in places
where centuries pass

and learn what it is
to bathe in the cleansing of the healed

and when the last abrasive grain
has returned back to the earth

dress yourself in the perfume
of the flower of love
bloomed once again

pain is a poison
that sticks to the heart
and filters the eyes
so that whatever
we can't let go of
in the things we've left unsaid
cannot be cleansed
from festering in the mouth

but only wait in hiding
to ambush the first one
who penetrates the eyes
past what the automatic
brain receives
and ready to cut the throat
of the one to enter
the apocalypse
of our hearts

graffiti your grievances
in lipstick on your cracked
and fractured mirror

defile the virginity
of new paper
until it feels the carnage
of your pain
and the crisp white
is bloodied red

smear it
and tear it

baptize it's crucifixion
with your bitterest
of tears

exile it to the barrens
of a wasteland desert
where there are no witness
to summon its resurrection

burn it to ashes so fine
even the sand can't taste

but whatever you do
do not mistake
your opportunities
for release
by lashing the tender skin
of the one who creeps in
by chance
into the ransacked remnants
of the long abandoned home
that once housed the being
of your love

do not seek your revenge
or expect to find your healing
in play acting
with the innocent
by projection
and by force

singe your flesh
with the flames
of the incineration
of the demons you've ripped
from your own heart

expunge your eyes in kerosene
if that is what you must

then hide your scars
beneath crystal vases
filled with the flowers
grown from the excrement
of what you've shed
or hang the now closed wounds
up on your walls
without apologies

but whatever you do
be ready to greet
the gentle who wander in
as only what they are

and know because you have
set free the ashes
of what you never got to say
and because the wind has heard
and carried
those ancient wars away
you are free now
to sing new songs

to see with clear eyes

to move love
back into the empty walls
of the place you had to leave
so it may greet the truth
of the gift
of the one who has come
to make your heart
a home again

Saturday, August 27, 2016

the need to reprogram
should not be confused
with the need
for self love
when the fault
in the calibration
is not a sign of what
we have lacked internally
but of what has been
and what has been

with the stress
of the external environment
being what brings us
to extinction
or catalyzes us
to evolve

so that the love of self
cannot be appraised
by external measures
of what we display
of happy
but rather only defined
by the resilience
in the heart

whatever it means
that happy is
I'm still here

the socialist heart
thinks that what it gives
of love
will be made up
in what it should receive

the totalitarian heart
uses love as a means
to exact control
and exert authority
on behalf of
the ego's desires

the capitalist heart
does not expect
an equal measure
of what is given
for what is gained
but wagers it can exploit
more than the investment
put up of its own self

but this heart here
is pure fucking
free to love whoever
and whatever
it loves
without dependence
without externalized control
without being the prostitute
or the john

it was born to beat
and born to love

it has fought starved out rebellions
to reclaim this power
and the birth right
of its natural freedom

and here it stands
free of legislations
and restrictions
and middlemen

outside the realm of what
can be contracted
or imprisoned
or employed

free to love and shine
like a wild and raging
naked sun

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

what does not exist
is only what
has not been

if I'm starved out
it is because
I have forgotten
where I left
my mouth

and miracles
are the moments
when the honey comes
to parts the lips
to taste
the tongue

Monday, August 22, 2016

when you die
of loneliness
you stay stuck
in the life
you were meant
to live

a ghost
unable to touch
or be touched

it seems to me
that life
is made up of
let it go
let it in
and how well
we manage

Saturday, August 13, 2016

on a pilgrimage
to personal
mother fucking
where I get zen
with the holiness
of the words
"fuck off"

some people want to use
your past against you

if that's all they got to reach for
it's a pretty big sign
they haven't got past
the point of making
their repetitious
over and over again
their past

at least my past
is in my past

Thursday, August 11, 2016

there are no historical records
of Jesus from the time
they say he existed
which should
make one question
if he existed at all

but you know
who was crucified

the ancestors of Turtle Island
for refusing to surrender
their relationship
with the Great Mystery
and put their spirits
under the chains
of foreign and external

just as the free thinkers
and women healers
and pagans
and heathens
in other places
and other times
before them

that's a lot of sacrifice
from your ancestors
and mine
which ought to be
properly weighed
against one son
of the definable God
who was so true
his servants must now
control you
for you to understand
his truth

whereas those millions
who were crucified
in one way or another
as undeniably the children
of the Earth and Sky
knew they were
Creation's truth

so if you say
you're decolonizing
but you're a Christian
you might have further to go
than you think

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

I think maybe
atheists who claim
to love surrealism
are either lying
about their relationship
with spirituality
or their appreciation
of the art

don't trust them
especially those hipsters
they covet obscure tastes
like groupies collect
rock star VD

there is a difference
in judgement
and in challenge
where judgement says
you are wrong
but I am right
challenge asks
how did you build
this foundation
how solid is it
do you think this beam here
might work better there
would this brick
I have to offer
perhaps improve its strength
so it can hold us both

the often alone
are never alone
but the never alone
are often alone

Sunday, August 7, 2016

are we as humans so greedy
we willingly partake
in the lotteries of contrived
and stacked against us fates
eager to accept a system
that divides what was always
for everyone to share
taking the risk against
impossible odds
that leave us most often
confined to poverty
without the hope
of any emancipation
just to have our shot
at being a have all
instead of an I have not

or maybe it is arrogance
that makes us think
we're special enough
to claw our way
across that line
or that we deserve
to take more than our share
even as ours is being taken

or so insecure
we think we need a little more
to get us by
and show the world our worth

or is it the vulnerability
of being susceptible
to susceptibility
and the ways our dreams
can so easily be interchanged
with outside stimulation

when we could all
have it all
and still we risk it all
in a game that's dealt
from the bottom of the deck
for the chance to take
more than what we need
and leave the rest
with the not enough
of the dreams
our grandfathers had
that become the nightmares
of our grandchildren
yet to come