Do you remember the sorrowful way the sky looked on the day you lost yourself. How it glistened with starlight in the evening as the wind whisper awful and sweet nothings to the ears of the earth. When men and women alike laid together naked against the grass and admired the infinite of that infinite. There is a saying that no two fingerprints are alike, but that lie is told often and is lazily spoken, for no two fingerprints land in the same ways, thus no fingerprint is its twin when placed again, and no one thought to mention that only computers can give precision to document this phenomenon in order to right it into precision. Did you forget how the sky looked down at us with sorrow as we tossed stones at whores when the Lord Jesus said stay thy hand, and we would hang Judas when Jesus wept and told him he was destined to betray him, a villain for the ages, following the orders of a hero for all. The glistening blood that seeped out of a wound into the sweet crevices as cracks in the earth, in his skin, in that desert wind. How Sodom and how Gomorrah must have felt watching their sins be cleansed, and as the black boy places his hands in the sights of an officer who seldom wishes him safe passages. Oh how you forget it, the sorrowful looks that hollered abuse at the ground, and how Jesus, our Jesus wept for the poor and tired, and lost souls. How he tossed the tables of merchants inside the church, so that coins rolled upon the stone floors as though bleeding upon the temple steps, and how dare we force with guilt that the poor give mightily so that men on stage can fly first class to Hollywood and make propaganda films. Oh how ass backwards the sky has become. How unfit mothers are to teach their babies right from wrong when they cast a ballot for a serial murderer of American ideology. How simple it must be to accept the lie that they have no religion but the coin, the white, patriarchal coin. Do you remember the sorrowful way the sky looked on the day you lost yourself. I suspect not because you were too busy being unborn and undoing that which was set in motion. Recall how it felt when Jesus wept, when he was nailed to a cross, and punctured in the side. Do you remember that sky? Supposedly it was for us, but we still shed the blood of everything. We love only our children, and only our spouses, and only ourselves, and anything beyond that we claim love for, but we might cast it away into a fire and say, but at least its not my country, and at least its not my brother, and at least I am still God's son. The truth of that sorrowful sky is is that you are not, you are nothing, but a spec in his eye, but the gunk that accumulates on the corner of the eye as your Lord wakes from a night terror, when he returns to see how his experiment is going. He'll turn up the flame of the burner, and liquefy us and start over, because it is impossible to separate the poison from the blood for the blood is now the poison.

Well, Fit Debates of Digression - a nonsense poem

It seems fitting, well
is fitting, but often not
fitting to fit well at
the seems, but less often
than not its fit for
debate that which is well
and that which fits
well, but I digress
for I do not want a
fitting for this fitting
sort of debate as sorted
as well as it can be for sorted
things that digressions
can cause debates about,
but debating the digression
is not the sort of debate
that fits well, or makes well
the fitting of debates
for after all, is it not fitting
that not all are fitted, or that
that which fits, is a witch that
fits on a broom stick who
digresses often for debates
on fittings of sorted hats
of sorting hats, and thinking
longingly about which witches
are well fit to be well debated
on fittings of digression, this
digression has engaged a witch
which does not wish to debate
the well fitted fittings of fit
well wishers who wish wishfully
on witches which digress about
hats that fit in a fitting.

Message in a Bottle - A poem

A little bit of nothing goes a long way,
because with nothing, there is nothing to lose.
No love to lose, no money to lose, no pride to lose,
because you had nothing. Nothing goes a long way
but it also leaves everything to gain. Ever ounce of respect,
every minimal dollar saved, every moment of hard work savored,
rising up out of the ashes is nothing can take a long time,
it is the length road, with a noose at the end that you can
either slide around your neck or grab with a fist and climb
your way out using the walls of your life to push yourself up
as they enclose and encroach upon your life.
Do not fear that nothing will work out, because something
must come of it, and it means everything by how
you use those pieces, be they whole or broken,
the risk of doing nothing is minimal and may promise
piece mind but it is a zero sum game, a multiplication by
that always resorts in nothing. But who can blame the
nobodies for wanting to remain anonymous, since
everything in this of a life can catch them unawares,
when you strive for even the littlest something, so risk
versus reward is the question, the equation, the result
of all that nonsense, but lets stop a moment, breathe
bask in what we don't have by way of what we could have
but leave the envy out of it, because envy leads to spite
and spite is a sure way of gaining everything at the expense of
everyone and those of us who know the light guard it with our palms
even as the wax drips and wanes away. Let this be a message,
for messages can come in many ways, in bottles,
and in mailboxes, or on digital machines deposited in
spam folders to be ignored, because all of us have the power
to ignore a message, but few of us have the power to hold
the walls of defeat at bay.

Leaving the CD Player on Repeat - A Poem

Isn't it weird she said how easy it is to get lost in eyes,
as though eyes were a strip mall and I was a little boy who'd lost
his mother's hand. She said, look at me and see potential
but all I see is a past of my own, like mirrors in those pools
of ocular fluid, that show me a past that shouted at me
over minuscule things. I said isn't it weird that we should be so sure
of what tomorrow might bring, but she shook her head and said
don't think about that, time will give us the answers,
and to that I had to laugh.
And as a boy strolling down the sidewalk screaming for his
mother, I am seldom concerned with my conceit into
falling for someone, as if falling were the ideal way
one hurt oneself when love was on the table.
Nor do I take chances that something good will
arise from the sinking feeling in my gut, because even
though she was bold and beautiful the Titanic sunk
and rotted beneath the Atlantic Ocean. She said, isn't it weird
how overwrought with worry you are, and I said its smart
to be afraid, because I've experienced the expedited lovelorn
worship before and it sought only the ideal of forever
and took no chance to investigate whether this feast
were sustainable.
Isn't it weird she said, and I said, yes it is weird, and she
was happy to make her mistakes again, but I'd almost
died by my own hand for grasping at these straws,
and I was not ready to feel the barrel of a gun against the side
of my head. So, I disappeared like a ghost, because
that is what ghosts do best. I am a dead man,
as dead men suffer most, consumed by worms because
they were buried in the earth, in the hole,
that they dug.

Sequence - a poem

poor people starving in the street.

that's the scene,

just poor people starving in the street, being

blamed for their own starvation.

the rich people fat bellied and working out,

doing yoga, and pilates, and zumba,

owning up to their best selves in their own personal gyms.

Should have used a shake weight,

should have wasted their time,

should have used a million ideas that actually would have done

something. Should have could have, would have.

it's time to listen to the earth,

but the poor people are starving,

that's the scene.

that's the scene, only one in a sequence,

but the entire movie is broken into small pieces.

people starving themselves of food, compassion, life, understanding

because when the mind was a convenient thing

to waste.