Help - a poem

 my head is pounding for solutions but I am lost in thought, lost in lethargy,

I don't know how to move forward without falling apart,

where is the answer to this question I am asking, and how do I go about motivating myself

to do something.

I am lost in my own discretions, I do not know where to go

my brain matter floats in a plastic bubble easily torn and popped,

and I do not know what to do.

Stagnation,

I am supposed to change minds, be effective.

But I keep going into this place,

that I am not good enough.

I dream of reprieve,

but dig my nails in the dirt,

I am lost, my brain is pained,

I am curiously hopeless.

Our Nation Tis of Violence - a poem

 Do you imagine the sound of revolution, coming out of the mouths of those who cause revolution to occur, sounding much like battle cries. Or, are they the tendency of irritated men to see fit to change circumstances. For what is America, but the entitlement that this all belongs to us. That which we stole, and worked on with other hands, that it belongs to us out of sheer might and violence. So much violence.

It wouldn't surprise me to see the Declaration written in the blood of the poor, of indigenous, slaves. It would not be shocking to me to see the eyes roll of submissive housewives, and daughters as all-men shouted great hoorays. What a wonder it is then, that we pretend we were ever great, yet great at causing great violence.

That great exploitation of promising the working class the world and stripping it from them, or that's the illusion for how much of it actually was there's to begin with. How ingenious to turn the poor man against his African neighbor, to ensure that the lower class didn't form its own force to smite the elite with gods holy-fist. To make a middle class feel superior, while still holding back a majority of savory crumbs. What an ingenious exploitation.

But see it too, the way some of that promise came true. How rich the nation was, and how fortunate it that it had an ocean to shield it from the brunt of World Wars, and to come out super powered more than it could have imagined it would be, by the good fortune that the world burned. The promises though, came true for some, but only after much violence. After civil wars, after lynching's, after economic collapses and starvation, after pandemics.

How the carrot is dangled in the face of a poor boy, like me, to go out, get an education, become anything you want to be. How the higher classes look down on the poor boys, like me, and see only social climbers. I was told to climb that ladder, but what they don't tell you is they don't truly want you there, then they may have to admit, maybe the working-poor aren't all lazy, aren't all stupid, aren't all Neanderthals.

It's a wonder, in our pursuit of life and liberty we justify so much murder, shootings, stabbings. America loves violence, in our media, and on our lawns, but especially on our lawns. Our streets lined with sovereign citizens, and the rubber bullets bouncing off heads, and AR-15's shooting rounds from would be vigilante-wannabe-punks that penetrate faces. Silence lives, stop hearts. 

What a twisted place this country is, has been, how much they spruced up the more unseemly branches of our history, to make us toe tap in time to the rhythms of that old state song, that old Star Spangled Banner song. How kneeling in prayer is virtuous and good, but kneeling in solidarity is an affront to a flag. To mourn the promise of what that flag is to represent, and test that freedom of speech bubble, and whoa, see how fast it bursts with a thousand pin pricks, of people who'd like to string 'em up, dead.

America is violence. Kids stuffed in cages. People stuffed on reservations. In interment camps. As they tell us we are good. And those planes, like missiles exploding up our towers, and we ignore the savagery we perpetrated on their grounds, and how if it was us, and has been us we retaliate on their ground just the same. No justification for murder, but it is a hypocritical people who vote for blatant sexist-liar prince who is responsible for hundreds of thousands dead. Base voting on economic turn around, at the expense of lives, of the poor.

What a bloodied soil we stand on. It is not fashionable to hold your country accountable, it is more fashionable to let it bend you over and rape you, and to be so abused by it, that you have to say that yes, you like being used, no matter how much it hurts you, and you hurt others by your lack of introspection. America is violence.

When the Ferris Wheel Breaks Down - a prose poem

 

A view from up on top is preferable. If the Ferris Wheel breaks down, that is. Middling pods give little in way of refreshing vantage points. But if the pod gets to tip-tip top can scan horizon, palm to forehead in faux salute, and a squint will grant you a fuzzy far off look-see at a hazy light show of skyscraper lights and festival blinking. There’s much to see there, when the Ferris Wheel breaks down, that you can distract yourself from the chaos and misery that infects those lined up to ride the Ferris Wheel. Like you they waited for hours, but unlike you they’ll never get to get stuck at the top, when the Ferris Wheel breaks down.

Still on earth, they fuss and kick, watching in disastrous dissatisfaction as once spinning Ferris Wheel comes to a completely, and abrupt halt. Stopping as it were, some near the top, some middling, and some just off the ground, but those in line will never get to know. Departing the ride just moments ago, those that got the whole show. Children laughing with cotton candy grins, sugary highs, filled to the brim with life, and those in the line will never get to know how it felt to be on the Ferris Wheel, before the Ferris Wheel broke down.

When the Ferris Wheel broke down there was some careful contemplation, some minor hoping as the fixers took to fixing, and repairmen repaired. There was a twist of a ratchet, the cursing of frustrated man, but eventually they had to call it. And as the chain went in the way of the entrance ramp to announce: Ferris Wheel Closed, a hundred or more people, what seemed like millions bitched and they moaned for they had waited all day to take their turn in a pod, to see the hazy skyline, to view like gods down on mortal men, but now, the Ferris Wheel had broken down. They would have wasted a better part of the afternoon staring at the backsides of strangers, or friends, or family who were as good as strangers. Having ached and pained their way from lesser attractions, and wasted their money away on gimmicky games, for shittier prizes, they would feel rageful, justifiably rageful that they never got the chance to know what it was like.

Carnival men, are tired though, worked for days, set the whole thing up, kept it oiled and going. Kept the gears turning, the pods bobbing as the Ferris Wheel circled around. Opened up the gate for next batch of ticket carrying consumers, and never intended to squander on their promise, that everyone would get a chance to ride on the Ferris Wheel, as long as the Ferris Wheel didn’t break down. And for a moment, when it did, when the Ferris Wheel broke down, they wanted very much to keep good on what they said. For years their reputation was staked on the promise of that view. Their modern machine was built on the back of other failed models, that were looked at and conjugated with other designs, for years, since way back when, when there was a rope and pulley system, and the Ferris Wheel was harder to operate, but now it should have been spinning slow, smooth like buttered silk, but it was halted and jammed, and for all that they could figure, it was an act of God that brought it to heel, and for all their intents and all their purposes the Ferris Wheel was broken down, the Ferris Wheel was closed.

You don’t see most of this. You don’t hear the promises broken down below. Your view is pure, your company beautiful, you are feeling serene. When you peek over the side you do not gather up psychically the internal machinations of the people below. You were once them, waiting in line, but you now have your view. And though getting down is on your mind, to get on with your life, you do not fret too much, for you are filled fully with roasted peanuts, and elephant ears. The taste of cinnamon and sugar clinging to your teeth like memory treats of the bigger meal. So, when you look down at the raging voices, you do not hear the anger, only the whispered shouts as though your miles away.

Those in line begin to play telephone, ear to ear, saying the breakage is a scandal, a lie. That the operator is tired, the repairmen careless, the owner of the show is ignorant. Bastards, they think, as the stamp their feet, the ground abused and imprinted from hours of waiting, of walking. That same line, marching forward in baby steps as the Ferris Wheel line whittled forward, but continued to grow, never ending.

The carnival workers are dismayed. It was almost time for their shifts to end, it was almost time for the end of the day, but the red eyed anger sinks teeth into them, and their fears feel the bite, their anxiety is realized as a hundred, seems like millions of angry men, women and children scream on at them. The come at them with torches, and clubs, pitchforks brought by those nearby who heard that the damn commies were taking over the community. It isn’t long before those on the bottom ring of the ride, in those pods closest to the ground, are forcibly removed, even though they never got even a little higher. They are bludgeoned.

You don’t see this. The sweet air, free up there, that sweet air tastes like blissful ignorance. You don’t see the mob scaling the side, you don’t see the Ferris Wheel covered in blood, the broken Ferris Wheel drip dropping red crimson tears down onto foundations of that machine. And as the Ferris Wheel tips over, only then do you feel the rush of wind meet you as your head collides with rock, and Ferris Wheel collides with the rest of you. It happens so fast, and you wonder just as it ends, as your brain spills on community grass, if it was worth it  to sabotage contraptions for the benefit of you and yours, unaware of anarchy stewing among the masses below.

Second Star to the Right Straight on Till Morning or 1 Month to Go for First Year - a poem

 Platitudes are numerous.

Wind beneath my wings, lift me up to stand

on mountain tops, completing me.

We know them. You and I. They know them,

out there in world-land sipping on morning

coffee, finishing off an evening night

cap. The platitudes are many. Terms

of endearment are etched on my chest

cavity, a cheat sheet for my pumping heart

to remember them. To always know them. A positive

torture, holding my fist of red fleshes eyes wide

open, but not forcefully, in fact, my heart

has asked to be overwhelmed with: sweetheart,

baby, love, honey, sweet. These are many.

And my heart has taken to insomnia,

trying to fill in a note card with finest

print, but I've left markings on the board,

saw how desperately it wanted to get one-

hundred-percent on this pop quiz, test, short answer,

paragraphed exam. For the platitudes are many,

what we can have, build, what family will grow

within us, between us, of us. Moments of levity

throwing red shells into banana peels, laughing

over grapefruit flavored German beer, how "sloshed"

you get with one 3.4% contended bottle. But not really,

we laugh and joke, and even ones you don't like, like

cold La Croix can against exposed arm or leg. Irritation,

but then you go and do same to me. See, my platitudes

are not grand, in the crudest sense of the words,

they consist of promises to be present, to be near,

to let our hearts whisper solutions to problems to one

to other, and to figure out long-form how to solve

for X and Y. My platitudes are many, that I will never

let you purposely win at Mario Kart because you in fact

are perhaps better than I am now. My platitudes are many,

how I'll guard your heart but not possess it, not restrain it,

or control it. These many promises, of children, of puppies,

and kitties, growing up as one big family. Not nuclear,

but modern, here, and now. Not holding on to subjugations

of old timey books, and themes, old timey patriarchal tradition,

for you are human, not woman, as I am human, not man,

and as humans we are capable both of getting to mountain peaks,

lifted up on one another shoulders, strapped in to one anothers

restrains, heaving and crawling, with footholds, or by digging

deep our fingernails into jagged rock, willing to bleed and be pained

for you, but typically refusing such pathways. My platitudes

are many, are numerous, are legion, my platitude is to ensure

to you that our climb will be carefully chosen, resisting roughest

ways unless weather pushes us toward them, we will together

contemplate, and discuss, map out and plan, welcome suggestions

and decide together which routes to take, always tethered, always.

The platitudes are many, my endearments clear, oh sweet honey baby,

we've co-opted this kart to suit two.

Pro-Life - a poem

 Save our children, is a good sentiment,

we should indeed save them, for they are in need

of saving. But, in what universe do you imagine

that children are not seen as important, or classical

pawns in our day to day. Of course we beg to save

the children. For people to take notice of babes

lost from their families, ripped from them and locked

away. Used in ways that they should not be used,

and those abuses go on and on, and day in and day out. Remember

local news stories, broadcasting windowless white vans

in vicinity of missing children, last seen near white

van with no windows, that was message that spread

on broadcasts so that people looked on suspiciously

for any such workers van, even if workers were 

just what they were. This 90's epidemic of unmarked vehicles

picking up and snatching kids, and very real threats

that persisted so that Liam Neeson took to threatening,

and making good on threats of finding, and killing,

using skills to attack sex traffickers who'd kidnapped

his daughter. These are stories that existed already. Without

aid of viral campaign, and task forces put together

to battle these forces of evil, and social media always busy

with preemptive tactics on how to protect yourself in Wal-

Mart parking lots at ten o'clock in the evenings, or in broad

daylight. This isn't news, or hidden, always constantly sharing,

me and you, always.

Save our children, trends in hashtag form, sinks teeth into an algorithm,

taking advantage of national spotlight on trafficking, to sneak in a Qanon

theory, theorizing a pizzagate message even when that was proven

to be false, and laughably reaching coded messaging, but not funny,

and deftly heartbreaking that people could have been killed with self-

possessed liberator of not-even-there sex dungeon in local pizza parlor.

These, are the fingertips behind pushing this message, trying to shut

up mouths of more important matters, because they know no one will challenge

protecting our children without risk of sounding repugnant to average

people who don't give half a thought to sharing things on the internet.

Save our children, its simplicity at its finest, and finely hijacked

to bring about rabbit holes, and deep dives into internet spaces, sprouting

friends, and searches, with a click to further clicks, until you're teleported into sharing

everything by faceless creature on other end of computer screen who is eager

for chaos, and world burning. Hardest thing? It works, and while you save your children,

with your share, true forces of change, with the means to help are deprived of resources

are sent on wild goose chases, and very soon people will die.

Save our children,

But they don't mean children in cages, five years old or younger

forced to represent themselves in immigration courts, timidly

speaking broken english, nodding for understanding, but not truly

understanding. Or young boys on lawns playing with toy guns,

with brown skin, because that's the story that often is told, and shot dead,

and we say save our children. As our nation bombs other nations

and dead babies lay in grieved mothers arms, and dead children

wash up on shore. But we are here, they are there, and save our children,

only our children, but only a certain type of children.

And the propaganda of late-term abortions, that paint the image of cooing

babies being ripped limb from limb, and if that were truth, I too would be

outraged to know it, but that is not truth, and often we subject pregnant children

unable to mentally cope to have children, and destroy what they could have had,

though some turn out fine, and what of those children overwhelmed to eat,

and we say no don't feed them, no handouts for those freeloaders,

we forget these children.

Save our children? Save yourself, and the hell you may find yourself

in for your hypocrisy for even Christ made no differentiation for smallest

on our mother Earth.

A Forest Story - a poem

Yester-year, 

they planted seeds deep in garden for safety flowers to take root.

More as grass than beautiful tapestries, roots were many 

and multiplied, and they took to planting trees. Trees grew up

in awe of patches of flowered grass, to them kingmakers

all of them, knighting the saplings but when adulthood came

and hearty bark made muscular armed, and hardheaded wood

the revelry seen of common ground lurkers dissipated, evaporated

into clouded sky. Trees were mighty, god-like, powerful spirits

able to ordain their way.

Tomorrow-eve,

the forest is plentiful full of towering trees, barked

devils barking orders, changing clothes and trashing

floor with their unmentionables. Layers of shedded skin,

dead, smothering floor, and what was promised lurks

and suffocates forgetting the sun. The garden promised,

in this garden, has forgotten its humbled beginnings,

forgotten fables telling hard-truths that trees forget were needed.

Through gaps in foliage, passed star-fished bodies of browned

leaved, speckles of sun-rays hit flowered-grass, and sustains them,

on occasion man comes along, or catastrophe strikes,

and lumbering arrogant trunks cut sawed, cut, struck, snapped in half

collapsing like dominoes on one another.

Today-now,

flowers are thankful for simple aspirations, wind no cares,

saws pay no to little mind of grass blades, but on occasion

they miss very much full-embrace of sun stolen from them

by the children they nurtured.

Slumber Song - a poem

 you start to wonder,

if wondering is it all,

that things are different now

that once big becomes small.

how the starlight shines infinite in eyes,

and thoughts of babes and pets

and two-bedroom upgrades

are in regular supply. How it feels

to partner up, to furnish, clean, 

arrange the setup of spaces shared,

that everlasting bond, strong,

no matter how emotions play fickle

while you dodge and maneuver

between medications, and treatments.

as kitty climbs castle-high tower

and purchases like a bird all sharp-toothed

and eagerly lazy, you think you could sleep

soundly forever, even as your country burns

itself down all around you. 

there's still time to cozy up and dream,

still whispers of everything's

and we who tiptoe through along creaky

foundations of our brother land

it seems quite possible,

as if hoping were all it took to be possible

that there is a light at the edge of the shadows

and pursuing that has never been a waste

of time.

Maelstrom - a poem

 In Georgia the summer storms play multiple-choice, ninety-degree weather flirting with one-hundred degree weather, decides it wants to soak baking pavement to make constant smell of hot asphalt rising. That cooling that rapidly sets torch like parking lot to glacier cold from a blistering intensity. That kind of hush of the loud heat that silences the baking. But only in torrential downpours that beat rain drops on rooftops as if angry fisted policemen on unsuspecting doors. And a crack of thunder, even before the first mist of rain mystifies, before the sprinkle ever sprinkled before even a puddle was produced, rumbling as though hurricanes were just unruly neighbors that bothered the coast. Just before, during, just after, sunshine resumes its occupancy, evaporating mightly little rain rivers, giving the earth no vacancy for moisture, evaporated, and people believing they are able to go back to normal, put back umbrellas about to be purchased because they were either tourists or forgot the seasonal micro storms that spring up in summertimes.

On Facebook, the political deluge is constant folly, a team of under bridge monsters, trolls, type out speedily at shotgun blasted speeds, and spread shot across emotional dynamics that can cascade, ricochet and penetrate into the hearts of good, indifferent, and bad peoples. For purest of purposes a storm can brew, be hijacked, poisoned and redistributed, packaged in good intentions to be swallowed down, ingested, absorbed, till paranoia, and fear fight like mongers, demanding attention, granting the wishes of a ruling party, a ruling class. This perfect storm hits intensities most dire in election years, in those cycles when leaders are crowned, or dethroned, when the fate of tomorrow is decided. But the storm isn't new, the damage has created efficiency, the levees are cracking faster, the sandbags useless as coded messages are sent out and streamed, downloaded, uploaded, tagged, shared, and screened. Human error leaving gaps, false information overtaking this stream like invasive species.

In my head, a swirl of emotions, dread, panic, hope. Something that meshes together like boxed macaroni and cheese, the nutrients keep me going, but not much of it is useful, its bagged in a flavor pouch of baby powder substance, adding milk for fattening, my pores are bloated, my mind is jumbled. Not even exercise can exorcise the excess from my mind. Thoughts are never spared, my mind rapidly jumbling messages of importance, what's the biggest danger of the moment, disinformation, confusion, lack-of human decency. When the storm came I was bowled over, but I dug heels in hard to push against man-made wind machine, cheeks rippling at miles per hour that most of us will never be able to calculate on this cyber super highway mess, collision, bumper to bumper, moment to moment conspiracy, news, lies, and half-truths. Trying to lay bare some information, but the message is misconstrued. How long do you row, who do you know to throw life lines too as the world is flooding, does it matter. Keep my mind on me and mine, that's what some say to do, but I know we're connected, a line of dominoes, teetering on collapsing and taking it all down.

No Surprises - a poem

Heathens dress in all black spectacle in contemplation
of the end of the world. A cold sweat beads pearls down
foreheads, and commiserates with chills, and goose flesh
to ponder the soulless task of saving the soulless. Granted
that they rebuked the claims of archangels, and wise men
they do not do so with a sense of pride, but of pained realization
that that which they rallied behind was awash in a long history
of exploitation. As eclipse determines the blood moons strength
savage people beat their children senseless, into senseless adults
who continue the cycles of violence, and we are still in shock
that bullets riddle us into stupors rather than rise us into action
taking.

What is it the savior complex wielding police men do when their blue
garments are coated in animal feces, and human remains, when the bludgeoning
tools are turned on the innocent, and the criminals are denizen in authoritarian
garb. Is it no wonder that heathens are born, when the church trivializes
how one sin counts as others, and turn their backs on what was supposed to be just
and so. Is it no wonder, that rivers run in reversal, and the visual
acuity of every so-and-so is damaged because of sprays of mace,
peppered and sauted like they are scalding on frying pan oil, bacon grease,
and the pigs rolling in mud, wise to their demise, but decidedly ready
to bask in the soup, unable to stage a coup because they lack the disposable thumbs,
just as stars and stripes waving patriots, are too dick-less to stand up
for the things they said they stood up for.

Heathens, are in a mind-fuck, looking in mirrors, and wondering if its true
that they, you, and them are the same as her and him, that they
who smile, in sync with the image reflected are all but one in the same.
That you can be a true-patriot, born red, white, blue in the same baptism,
but somehow less than zero if affiliations are opposing. Is it no wonder
that all of the contradictions, and the hypocrites spit puts off masses
to conduct themselves in our processes. It is no wonder, and we should stop
being surprised that it has come to this when we designed it this way at the start.

Patriarchal Predicaments in Present Tense - a poem

Growth comes gradually in minds of grown
adults surrendering to knowledge that their knowledge
isn't strengthened every which way with advances
in aging. Depending on circumstance harder still
to circumvents global parameters of mind-matter
that grays like coral reefs, on descent into dying,
and whispers of learning are hard-won to enter
ear canal and dominate synaptic passage from one
mass to other. In due time, course can be righted,
and mission resumed, as long as one presumes
to want to continue trek from sloping passage
to dangerous and damming ravines, but to forget
what was learned is another gamble altogether.

Patriarchal conundrums plague populations
of almost-all particular world orders, and demand
subjugation, if that is what was stated, then learned
men cement it so, given credence to heeding words
spoken by long-dead philosophers in far off lands,
mine to think them inter-dimension, not of this plane,
but in further investigation it is quite clearly now,
and here, and further more demonstrated that history
repeats its wash cycle despite decrying contrary notions
by long understood dominators of dominions ordained
by gods, and men. Let record reflect feeble entreaties
to growth, as boss men drag feet in unchaining burden
of being born with ovaries and vaginal walls, being
grown to bear children, and seeming to believe
this to mean only worth is bearing children.

Scholars be contradicted constantly, as passages of time
instruct people towards new directions, but erections
point directions of history, as collectively authoritarian
boss men grab their dicks in fists, and demonstrated ape-like
domination over non-ape peoples. Beating their chests as though
gorilla bred, but having not a speck of simian instinct,
for even close relation does not make us monkey or ape,
and what bonobos do is fine and dandy, but here and now human
beings are a uniquely antiquities species, harvesting wheat by hand
when automation makes work easier, arms weaker, and bonobos
and gorillas, and ape continue with lizard brain mandates.
They speak us alike, but clearly separate our higher brain
functions, and still so many persists to name their penises
president of all. When men stop measuring dicks we may have peace
in our time, but as long as men keep measuring dicks do
we continue to demonstrate our ineptitude to escape mandates
by old dead white men, who wrote laws, and enslaved people.

In what direction does history demand we move, than towards
a direction opposite our genitalia, and into a realm where strengths
are demonstrated on mindful matters, than what I was born as.

Rotations - a poem

She worked for pennies on the dollar, and stood less than three feet tall,
her mother kept a hint of her spirit in her pillowcase, uncleaned,
resting comfortably upon the bed where it had lain for days on end.

Through the torturous taboo of what was done, the heavens quaked and locked
their gates, and hadn't permitted a soul in since, and the girl has been sheltered
along with others on the outside of heavenly gates, camped out on clouds an observer

of chaos that ensues on end. After a certain rain fall, flood waters washed upon
tsunami-like, until the ends of the earth were found, and water merged with water
and land masses every which place were dispersed and disappeared beneath

the forming matter of liquid life. Thus ended the tale of people, here one day bickering
about opinions, and demanding change, and so began the necessary cleansing of age
old conditions now polluted with remnants of human lunacy. As colossal mistakes

were swept under carpet as though they were dust mites needed to be hidden
from eyes of guests, and the song continued on, blown out of proportion from calls
of wild birds, who died from stress, diving suicidal into infinite ocean and being

consumed by smartest among us, fish. There came a time then, when some billions
of years passed, and what humans could make it, leaned over edges of cloud covers
and saw how mightily life created more humanoids, and a sense of hope came upon

them until they realized that they too were willing to let their daughters prostitute themselves
for the sake of voting a certain way, and the new people joined the old, and the Earth
was once again better for it.

Dignity - a flash fiction

Warren took a bite of his apple, and decided he hated the sourness. It was too much, too early for such a tartness that he decided that he would toss the rest of the apple, mostly untarnished by his teeth, into the garbage. But, when he arrived at the can he saw that it was overflowing with trash. Nearly-empty bags of microwave popcorn sat atop the mess, several of them, filled with nothing but solid kernels. He pushed down on the top of the pile and hoped it would succumb and sink further into the can liner, but it did not, not completely, and one of the brown bags that held kernels rolled off the top and onto the floor. Warren did not want to change the garbage, and he did not want to pick up the bag, so he sat his once-bitten apple and placed it on the marble counter top.

His boyfriend Randall entered the house about a quarter to eight that afternoon with a paper bag full of groceries resting on his arm. He was environmentally conscious and had watched one too many news articles about the amount of plastic in the worlds oceans. Though he lived nowhere near an ocean, he'd be damned if he were going to be responsible for contributing, even potentially to the problem of the plastic menace. He saw the apple browning on the counter top, and waited to place his bags down before he called for Warren. He'd kept his eyes on the apple, craning his neck so that he could keep his eyes on it, to make sure it wasn't a figment of his imagination. He started unloading the bags, and called for Warren again.

Warren had been napping. He dragged his feet dramatically across the laminate floors and yawned. He asked Randall what the fuss was about, why had he been shouting for him with such obnoxious ferocity. Randall huffed and gestured to the apple on the counter. Warren shrugged and pointed halfheartedly to the trash can. He informed his boyfriend that the trash can was overflowing and that he didn't want to change it. It wasn't his job.

Randall rolled his eyes. He leaned down and picked up the abandoned popcorn back and placed it back on top of the pile, and he pushed the trash down as best he could. But, just as with Warren the trash pile did not give to the pressure. Randall let Warren know that if they continued to pile trash on top of the can it was going to continue to be a problem. Warren seemed disinterested, and was in fact extremely not-interested in the conversation, he said as much and turned around, taking the steps toward his room, to show his intent that he was ready for napping.

Randall gasped and when Warren turned around, Randall mumbled heatedly under his breath as he attempted to extract the liner from the can. It was no use. The bag was stuffed far too full, and the can was caught up with it, raising into the air. The popcorn bags jostled around and one by one fell off, and the kernels escaped and scattered all about the kitchen floor. Randall did not give up.

Warren was the one to then roll his eyes. He approached his boyfriend, and attempted to help him free the trash, as trash exorcised itself from its can and fell about the floor. Now, with the kernels were a banana peel, and a can of tuna fish, residue of water from the can splashed out as it clanked against the floor. Randall pushed Warren away and Warren stumbled back and fell upon his ass.

Warren began to profess his guilt, he announced his desperation at attempting to help, he apologized hard. Tears swelled up in his eyes. He didn't fully understand how Randall could put so much blame upon him when he was home, with depression, with awful feelings swarming about in his brains.

Randall filled with rage picked up the once-bitten apple, and chucked it hard, launching it with such ferocity, that the velocity knocked Warren clean off his ass and onto his back when it connected against his forehead. Randall pulled the trash bag out and emptied all over the kitchen spaces. All over the laminate floors, and when the bag was more than half empty he took out the bag and tied it tight. He threw it at Warrens feet.

Randall produced his car keys out of his pocket as he opened the door and walked out.

As Echoes Fade - a poem

Quietly I contemplate sounds of waves that crash

on shores of dissension, as senate hearings bear witness

of white-lies, and catching of white whales who bleed

out victims life-force, crimson rivers splashing upon

a stoned shore of judgment. In hand of monsters

stones are words slung with tabloid headlines

damming them for being human, sexually progressive

and insinuating slut-shaming as a means to destroy

them. Quietly, hush-money is sliding across tables

from White House, to Hollywood, from law firms,

to industry. As one survivor recounts words, men tuck

tail, and dive headfirst in deniability. Their semen

freshly festering in forced entry as tears are replaced

by guilty-feelings, as though claws that snag

are less powerful than bodies that petrify and attempt

to get out alive. Larger than life figures self-satisfy

their erections as though starry eyed women

have been dreaming to be taken advantage of in casting

couch settings. Lurid tales of limelight are accepted

as part of party. We, on outside, rationalize victim

blaming, even as rich young men get lenient sentences,

because it might ruin their chances, as if they hadn't

ruined their chances themselves. At what age do we forgive

our whims and dishonor the painful reminders of pain

and shame that flood the social media lands. As Facebook,

as Twitter, as Reddit, as Instagram, as world persists

on making absurdist statements: but its her fault for not being smarter,

it's her fault for not being tougher, well when you run

around in that company, well when you dress like that,

well when you go into men's company. Continuously

voices of destruction slut-shame the shattered, making

it harder for people to step forth, making an academic

who decided to come forth with her experience of a Justices

sordid past, and given to death threats, and we said,

well of course, what did she expect for speaking out. Truth,

what did she expect when she wanted to stop it from being okayed,

to make it go away, to change the narrative, but so much

is written by men, it is hard to re-frame the story, when she was brave

enough to step forth and we supported the beast of the machine.

My Father - A Father's Day Nonfiction

My Father

(Disclaimer: I am going to share some personal information in here, it is not meant to paint my father as a bad man, on the contrary, it is to paint my own experiences of gradually coming to the understanding of my father as a whole human being. Thank you.)

I don't often talk about him as shaping me, for many years growing up I wanted to be anyone but him. This sounds harsh, but you must understand I was a rash tornado of curiosity, and my father was constantly trying to bring me to heel. I'd make messes, refuse helping when something seemed ridiculous, I was insubordinate, and against everything my father thought a child should be. It wasn't always down right being disrespectful, in my older childhood years, it would rotate in that direction. It was born out of a constant realization that the wrath of my father seemed unearned, especially in comparison to my older brother. As a child you don't understand the contraptions that make us human, you don't see your father as a human being. He is authority, he is the end and the beginning, to a child your parent is God, or your authority figures are God. A God with the power to spank you, to take your toys away, to sit you in a corner, and to assault you with verbal tirades. My God, my father, did these things, and many times were not unjustified. I would lie if I said I didn't push buttons on purpose, or take my mother's side (I would say more often than not she was right) and these were constant reminders of his domain not being respected.

If this is painting my father as some sort of monster, I apologize, I am trying to articulate what I felt like in the midst of it. What it felt like to have my father present himself as a sweet and patient and helpful member of his Church community, and then to turn around and take out his frustrations on his family. One of the key things that made me resent him growing up, but not always, but often enough. For if any one were to talk about him outside of our circle it was nothing but admiration and compliment, and that was irritating because it constantly painted the grievances as never occurring and my own animosity as unwarranted and unfair.

Of course I was judged growing up for being disrespectful, lazy, and too-curious. But they didn't see the father that I saw at home. A father that often seemed tyrannical to a child, but also soft and sweet, which made the moments of division seem that much more pronounced.

Many people speak of never having seen there father cry, or show emotions. I did not have this issue. My father cried during sad films, he reacted emotionally to things on screen and to this day, if a particular evil character does something heinous he simply says emotionally, "He's so mean," I often don't respond that mean is on the lower ladder of terribleness because my fathers inflection supports this. He was eager to provide for us, and it sometimes felt like "buying our love" but he was proud to be able to get us things, because of his life not being able to have things. Even after a particular rough shouting match, even an hour after, he would still be excited for us to receive a present. He was proud of being a father, in that very clear and basic sense, being a provider, a protector.

No one in my immediate experience worked as hard as my father. For 40 years at the same factory job. Fearful of ever calling in sick, and regretted when he had to. He believed in working hard and doing what he had to do to keep a roof over our heads, and giving us a life better than his own. For years the one thing I would tell people that my father gave to me was a clear picture of what hard work looked like, on what family loyalty looked like. Even despite my talking-back, he loved me unconditionally, and still does. He's since apologized for his outburst, understanding that I received the brunt of them, and me understanding that I had never made it easy, but I always respected his work-ethic.

What always felt hurtful though with his tiredness of it all, his agitation at work related events and people, his anger at unfair moments in his life that involved loosing money, or feeling betrayed by people, what felt hurtful was that when he felt these ways, it was his home that received the anger. This also instilled in me that I didn't want to take things out on my family that had nothing to do with them. This is what happened, and was his go to excuse, "I'm just upset about this, or I'm upset about that," the this's and the that's were seldom directly about us.

Even though he was quick to anger, my father (and mother) were never the "best" disciplinarians. They were often criticized for being too soft on us, not using the rod often enough, by people who would use the rod far too often. To this day I don't know how i would be a better person had my dad decided to paddle me more, and spank me beyond what  he already did (though he stopped spanking probably by the time I was eight). My older brother and I in all honesty, on reflection, especially my older brother though, were good kids. We liked being home, we liked being with each other, we liked being a family.

On the rare occasions that we got to do family trips, which were not often, and were often not far, hanging out with dad was great, when he wasn't beaten down, and upset about work, and able to just enjoy having fun with his kids. And eventually his son and daughter that he would get to do it all over again, and those started out great too. (My father has always been great with small children, from infants into probably 8 or 9 years of age, before talking back, and independent thinking grabs too hard).

There was a period probably 17 to 20, where I regrettably will admit I hated my father. He was always at odds with my mom, believing what the church told him that he was the head of the house hold and should be obeyed. He took any questioning as an attack on his authority. But he was often and still is often wrong. This instilled in me another lesson, men are not perfect, and are no better than women in positions of life. I earned his anger for siding constantly with my mother, who was often right about a lot of things, but who was overturned because she was wife, and husband must be obeyed.

But, what I came to understand and what kept me, fortunately from hating my father anymore was the realization that he was a human being. For years he was embarrassed because he was, in his own words "stupid." My father is illiterate, he cannot read very well, hasn't been able to and has missed opportunities at work because he couldn't pass written tests on his own, though he knew how to do the job. This caused a lot of strain.

Consider, that when he was born, as a twin, he had lost oxygen to his brain, which was obviously detrimental. Causing him to have developmental drawbacks. Also consider that in the 50s and 60s, when he grew up, child psychology was young or non-existent, the accepted educational diagnosis for learning disabilities was that if you had them, you were stunted, and stuck, and there was no way for you to continue your education, or improve yourself, thus it was a waste of time to teach you in a traditional way. There were no helpful programs for children with learning disabilities, so he was grouped in one catch-all special education program, and given no chance to learn.

That he blamed himself for this for years, and people made fun of him for years, for not being educated enough, broke my heart when I realized it, that I understood that my father, was emotionally stunted, but he had persisted anyways. That he had kept his job, kept his family, while feeling less than human, that was impressive. But always he felt sorry for himself, felt broken, and destroyed. I began to understand how my talking back, or being smarter than him, and trying to show it as a child would feel like an insult to him. I do not excuse his behavior, but I understood it better. Through no fault of his own, society, work, community deemed him broken, and busted, and I blame all of that, than himself completely for what I grew up with.

To point out though, I was not beaten, I was not perfect, my childhood was primarily very good. We were poor but we were fine, stress was always around but we lived, we had a home, and we were mainly a happy family. And that was because of my father. One of his commands growing up is that he didn't want me to be him, he didn't want me to end up in the factory life where work consumed him, and spit him back out. That was one of the things he didn't want. He beamed with pride, still does when I would write, when I would succeed. He pushed me to get educated, to go to college. And he welcomed me into his home, without pushing me out when I faltered, and delayed this dream.

My father, and my mother supported me. Even when they probably shouldn't have, at least according to the creeds of being American. The professed power of individualism's shadow is the shaming of those who should seek help. My beliefs and understanding of the world are shaped by my personal experiences growing up, even if my political direction differs from my parents, they don't realize my upbringing shapes my politics, if they were so retrospective, they might change political points of view too, and i keep trying, but that's a whole other matter.

I write this for you dad, and I hope you don't get embarrassed for sharing our life together out loud. The bad parts and the good. These are what make us human. You are not a broken man, and you have done well for yourself. You are not stupid for you were not given the chance or support to better yourself as a child. I am proud of you for coming out of your heartbreak, because I know without the knowledge and understanding that I am awarded in education, and in being given perspectives, that you have had to deal with your own way of getting out of your depression. I can't imagine how hard it is, when a whole world was closed off to you to understand and educate yourself, I can't imagine how lonely it is. But you shouldn't feel like you failed. As much as I still have some hard-feelings about you from our history, I am glad that my education has allowed me to understand you more. I love you, happy father's day. You did good. We are good.

Thinking About It - a quickly typed poem

Thinking about thinking about it,
this is the quintessential conundrum
of the procrastinating persons who purposely
proceed in pestering the indifferent.
Seldom is it susceptible to be forecast
as righteous, for the impression forbade
by such arrogance grants only gratuitous
returns and beckons that masses shutter
the calling out of respect for the persecuted.

Thinking of shrinking does nothing
to bolster the amount of time it takes
to grow, tucking head in sand only suffocates
and drowns by degrees of heat stroke
as sun cascades against particles of rock
and makes the most giving of prophets
headaches that they can never recover from.

Thinking that pseudo science be permissible
in a court of law, makes ridiculous quandaries
available for scrutiny. Hell has gifted judgement
on the judgmental, and yay they walk two
by two, the animals scream, and nary walk
through shadows, destined toward despondent
destitute death, where God waved a hand
and said, not today, no vacancies for vagrancies
but contradictory declarations happen in books
written through ages and mistakes of men
are multi-modal, are multidimensional
are multiplied seven times seventy and gracious
hosts are lying about giving the damned a chance
to repent should they so choose such recurrence.

Thinking long and difficulty at statuses of stardom
the man in high court seems complicated
by simplicity meanders about his mind as he judges
contents of skin above character akin to way
we deem spiders disgusting but seldom account
for ways they pester the pests, and change environments
for entrepreneurial spirits who gather regularly
to talk of communal communist commiserating
under the guise of peace love and understanding
that declaration of independence.

Thinking we hang too hard to bills of rights,
when it comes to amendments that honor our killing
machines, but ignore justly that happiness is deemed
important in the eyes of our founders, and love is deemed
important in the eyes of our fathers, how often
we judge, lest we be judged, ignoring planks headlong
into eye sockets extending far out like tree trunks
of red woods, causing mayhem as we swing
from one section of annex to other, beating our neighbors
who were watching televised impeachment trials
that amounted to no more than dog and pony shows
but even those deem winners or losers, when out
side the outcasts are suspected of disobeying holy
men laws, while declaring Jesus said this,
amounting to a pissing match between a multitude
of liars who know better than plainly what is writ
in spoken parenthetical about the deposit of sin
on hold over from years of tribulation.

Thinking that history repeats, and repeats, wash
cycle deemed cantankerous, but we soil our souls
with unwashed remedies, defecating on the fabrics
of our livelihoods, and those living in our friends
spirits, as we execute everything for the sake
of something we deem tangible, but remark we want
no one trampling on us, but fail to self examine
fail to elaborate when we are tongue tied for being
called out as what?

A Nursery Rhyme for Adults - a poem

A NURSERY RHYME FOR ADULTS

I suppose it's so,
I suppose it's so,
when it's all told
girls submit, do as their told.
Boys gather up dominance,
violence, for presidents
bespoken as saying it proudly,
I suppose it's so,
when it's all told.

I suppose it's so
I suppose it's so,
when poverty infects exposed
children who've grown up through,
long blamed for difference,
though hardly have chosen
as first choice for existence.
I suppose it's so,
when it's all told.

I suppose it's so
I suppose it's so,
that life is a wonderful thing to behold
as it grows inside. Further inference:
life is much less precious
when brown bodies are caged,
shot and tried, if only they
stayed out of sight, out of mind,
I suppose it's so,
when it's all told.

I suppose it's so,
if you do as your told,
study your texts, and listen with reverence,
you can get what you needed
out of America Land, but step
up the ladder, and see how far
they've greased each step.
As slick as you are, as slick
as they too, will kick you,
abuse you. Lucky few,

get to see the room with
a view.

Wrong House - a poem for Breonna Taylor

Wrong House

Her name is Breonna Taylor, for the event of her murder

can never change that she existed. Asleep in bed,

door knocked in with battering ram, splinter of wood

charged about house like shotgun blast. Startled

into waking. Intruders pressing forward, legally

issued firearm discharged as advocated to protect

from home invasion. Invaders happen to be cops,

neither announcing, nor knocking, because judge

said they didn’t need to. In darkness cop and criminal

interchangeable, by light of day appears case to,

for many, for some, for enough.

Cops said, with a shrug, Oops

wrong house.

Her name is Breonna Taylor, born of a sin of being Black

which is no sin, but saddled as though it was, as citizenry

ignore that they don’t see color, are blinded to it, but racism

has eyes, and full spectrum of color. Hard truth,

to admit personal responsibility is out of your hands.

Cops said as much, as they opened fire, shooting,

at least, Eight Times, into Miss Taylors body. Covered,

secure in blankets, but blankets only protect children

from imaginary dangers, pretend violence, not violence

that finds Black bodies dispensable, as young men

executed for grown men crimes, and men executed

for no crime at all, other than being born Black. And Breonna

forgotten because she’s Black, no photograph to jar

citizenry into action, to plaster, and demand action.

Cops said, Oops, wrong house,

as if it cemented validation for executing a human

being.

Her name is Breonna Taylor, and it isn’t just the cops,

it’s the Us & Media fear mongering for years that our neighbors

over on Martin Luther King Boulevard, in Martin Luther King

schools, in the Ghettos, in the Heights, as if the Dream

was finished and now they could just go about demonizing,

offering stricter reactions, to similar offenses of White neighbors.

And we, pretending our attitudes weren’t racist, you and I,

in these non-black communities, worried about Gangs, and Crime,

listening to persistent attitudes put upon, using poor

biased, racist social science to determine Black wanted

to be with Black, and that this was a Black problem, and by connection,

by default, by process of elimination that they wanted

to be eliminated too. Cops said, Oops

wrong house, tossing up hands as though

that was it, but we citizens, scared that Black bodies would

encroach upon our neighborhood lawns, okayed

decimation of schools, of communities, and huddled

Black bodies together, and deprived them of services,

of social, of schooling, of funding, and blamed Them,

because we were scared crime was coming to our schools.

Her name was Breonna Taylor. Worked in an emergency room,

helping people, despite skin colors, despite anything

other than the knowledge that inside we bled the same,

but its not enough to know that. In the name

of protecting Our children, we kept Black bodies

where they belonged, and acknowledged growing

crime statistics, and blamed it on being Black, instead of blaming

it on disadvantages over centuries, attitudes over centuries,

that not only came externally, but felt internally,

as we pretended to listen. And the cops kept saying,

Oops, Oops, Oops. Like Children.

Breonna Taylor is not an oops, she is not an accident,

George Floyd is not an oops, he is not an accident,

he was a Black man trying to make it, to cash the check

King asked be cashed, that he demanded America

make good on, and he executed too. Black Lives Matter,

it is time to stop throwing up hands in defense

and speaking, I’m not racist, as though

America got here on an Oops, the trajectory

has been constant, and by the numbers,

by the cold face of history,

and we keep saying Oops.

America is racist, it is time to stop

sugar coating blood stains of history,

crystallized white powder that absorbs the blood

of a violent nation.

A Moment of Beauty - a nonfiction moment

This is about my beautiful girlfriend. Who recently finished graduate studies at the University of Michigan. I understood at 32 finishing undergraduate studies would be seen as a long-past congratulating accomplishments for me. People who knew me did congratulate me of course but...

Katie, she had worked continuously. She was intensely focused on her schooling, while also participating in dance, and other extracurriculars. And she had just finished a graduate program, finally, years to get there and now finally graduated. The promise of Biostatistics as a sure-fire way to get a good job. She was applying like wildfire everywhere. Her peers getting jobs. And then COVID-19 hit. A hiring freeze went out everywhere. She was constantly asked how the job search was coming. Both of us were in the early depressive phases. But she continued to try. Fake job opportunities popped up and she tried to be optimistic at the initial offers but they never panned out.

On this day in June she had a preliminary job screening interview with a real company. And she was back in her pure old spirits again, gesticulating around with her arms, fully of pure joy and happiness at her American promise that an education could get her somewhere, and it was a level of happiness, and optimism I hadn't seen her show for months. Literally I was moved to tears, recognizing the jubilation she felt at finally getting back on track to the promise education had promised. That her years of hard work, which involved an international internship, was actually producing results.

I watched her from March to June, apply for work continuously, far more than I had. Searching out both local, and national, and international opportunities. Only to be met with silence. What a moment to witness as she shared news of a promising opportunity. There was no promise she would get it, but there was finally a voice at all that shouting she had been doing, that many of us have experienced on job hunts, but that was now amplified because of a global pandemic that had shut the most powerful nations down.

How overwhelmingly proud I am of her. Her spirit weighed down but never deterred, and to see it jump out fully as it did in that moment. Made me so proud, and humble. As she wiped tears from my face, I apologized for crying, and she said its okay, but I reminded her that I hadn't her seen her that optimistic in months. A world of heaviness upon her shoulders, a moment of levity in this long string of hardship. What a joy to witness that.

I'm proud of you Katie, you inspire me to always be better.

Love you forever.

'The Chasm of -Isms - a poem

I'm fairly certain when bread was broken,
people did not feel the need to share. Bread
purchased in good-faith off store shelves,
packaged my manned-machinery, baked
by traditional means, from a recipe of grandmother
but now served at table for silver-platter guest.

Machine shop powered my people
mechanical, machinations, operations
guided by hands of workers, dirty,
disheveled, paid half time, dirtied,
sweat pouring, but ultimate deceleration
of independence said don't share it,
don't spread it, don't pay them enough,
nor invest back into nation. Your dime earned.

Good books do not spit out condemnation
for children born to people, who weren't born
to people, who weren't born to people who
were willing to devote much time because systems
set up to charge too much interest, to predatory
attack under educated, or draw up district lines,
so that all obstacles were setup to discourage
participation in wealth games. Some had to push
through, but good books never said poor were poor
they deserved it, or that races wanted to stay
put because they liked it. That was mankind
who said so, and mankind alone.

As grandmother baked the bread, mother
did too, and daughter saw how, and system
was continued from one turn to another
and little worlds turned, rotated as they should,
on a globe, axis-spun. Nowhere does it say
to demonize, for the dreams of one father,
are typically the same for their children,
dreams that children get to be one step further,
to accomplish what they couldn't.

How faulty to determine judgement
when great eyes can see it all, sovereign
pupils spying peoples as all they do,
noticing temptations, tribulations,
and power of hateful people to cause
painful action upon those we love.

How faulty to ignore goodhearted
hearts, entwined, for prideful boasting,
embarrassment, caused eruption to spark
feverish, demonize the future that two hearts
already see with hand in hand in hand,
of future most glorious of children laughing,
sons and daughters and dreaming up next
steps for planet earth.

From wall street, down to main street,
from town square, to farmed field,
on foot, in air, on wheels, engines of
progress propelling time forward,
and consequences of unspoken evil still
spiraling out loud, why shouldn't good people
speak up, raise alarm, and why should
naysayers feign shock at outrage, when every generation
has cried out,
Let My People Go.

I Wonder if You Know - a poem

I wonder if you know the things your daughters have to deal with,
toeing a line, where they are seen beneath everyone, and growing around
a plethora of men foaming at the mouth. Unfortunately, many times,
this is not the information you will hear from them, but that their partners,
lovers, others, will have heard about, have been entrusted with. While I am
judged I wonder if you know the types who clawed their way at her ankles,
scratching, and using her. I wonder if you know that or if you choose
not to see it, or if you only see that I don't sing national anthems, or where
a crucifix around my neck. For snakes are abound, and my soul is good,
it's had some bumps and learning curves, but my admiration and respect
is infinite, and my love deep. If you want to cast me as a villain, you have
my permission to do so. But you're ignoring so much that I have brought,
that she needs, and I'm sorry you seem to only mind she tow the line.

What Is It All For - a poem

A place behind our house
had a million trails, exaggerated
of course the number was far smaller
but to imagination of childhood wonder
infinite travels were permissible
through winding's of tower redwood,
that were actually pine, but allowed
to be mighty and strong, in mind,
if mind would permit.

Strongest mind belonged to children
able to bring in everything from infinity
across time and space, safe and sound
in wonderment in shape of innocence
and the world was mighty and full of possibility
for little did young know the mighty
roar of injustices happening as history
was happening for childhood was happening
in back trails of a almost-suburban, 
not-quite-country home.

Jesus loved all, looked out especially for children
Sunday School sermons of puppets, skits,
stories told lightly, told mightily of everlasting
power of Jesus. Mind soaked it up,
drank it down, took communion with power,
and willfulness that they wanted,
and wondered how beautiful a world
it could be.

The everlasting promise of His good name,
was hard to sell as child got bigger,
contradictions in human suffering,
and lies of political opponents cast
harshness to a wonderful light, but so many
who taught did not see this contradiction,
did not see benevolent Lord this way,
though they said it with words, encouraged
they did the judgement of others,
but judged everyone all the same.

Child going into manhood, told
to worry about end journey, that so trivial
were worries of man that they should not bear
a thought. Sacrifices were made to feeding
some poor, and young man wondered
why it was acceptable to abandoned
neighbors for a chance to fund a TV
broadcast. So, one of many doubts 
planted, and he was rebuked for doubting.

How harsh it is, and disastrous, to grasp
so hard to love of Jesus to see it disparaged
by people who taught in favor of a clique, 
a club, exclusive, step out of line, forgiveness
was not reserved for you, and they cast so many
stones.

Boy had never been too bad as child,
not terrible as teen. He had has his share
of wrong-doing all told, but he stayed free
of trouble. And always his extended members
of family tree judged him, doubted him, 
mocked him, belittled him. And always his
church family judged him, doubted him,
mocked him, belittled him. And for what?

The man lived by Jesus' principles all his life,
he knew they'd shaped his morality view,
and yet when he wanted to wrap arms
and declare love for all his brothers,
the Church decried it, extended family
rebuked it. 

The man had talked back, swore, had a left
leaning world view, that's how they labeled
it but he thought he just followed that Jesus
philosophy of loving thy neighbor as they self.
He thought, if hell awaited a sinner, why make
it hell on Earth. And he knew action, and perseverance
were needed, even if prayers were all good.

With only support for his momma, his father,
brothers, and two sisters one that was in-law
he took it upon himself to better himself. Trying
to grow, and check what prejudices were accidentally
put upon him. He took lessons of love and forgiveness
his mother taught him, and proud hard work his
father top him. He kept going, and tried to treat
everyone with respect.

In his work, they had said being nice to employees
wasn't enough, you weren't there to be their friends,
and yet when he was placed into a position of authority
he both worked harder and prouder, and friendly toward
all and he was beloved by most of his peers.
Respect was key, kindness was working.

He learned, he returned to school, grew up, expanded
his skills and mind. And amidst all that a vile
beast slept inside the white house, spewing
words of hate, and he found it unforgivable,
not because of political reasons, but because
of the blatant evil it represented, and he sounded
alarm amongst his family, and to his surprise
some supported the beast, and used Jesus
to reason why.

Jesus and this beast would never fit together.
Like a square peg trying to go into a round hole,
one spoke selflessness, the other selfishness,
one said turn the other cheek, the other said use your fists,
glorified the opportunity for violent retribution
the beast did, and Jesus was implemented, again,
in some kind of holy war.

How hard it is to have faith shattered,
dashed upon the rock again and again,
and how hard it is to sound the alarm
and have no one heed the flashers.
As they acted like insects in the night,
attracted to a light leading them to a trap.

How hard it is to be shattered. And how thirsty,
am I to be repaired.

A Moment of Independence - a flash fiction

There was something vengefully archaic about dipping her socked feet into the brown of the river that Pamela couldn't resist. She'd been sitting there, on the bank, in her gruff but brand new tennis shoes. White was smudged with shit-colored mud, and her mother had made her promise she would keep them safely away from the river that she liked to frequent. Pamela had lied and assured her mother that she would do as was requested but once she found herself wanting to visit the bank she couldn't very well rush the quarter mile back home to switch out for better shoes.

The fabric of the socks sucked up the water almost instantaneously, the way a sponge might, or a paper towel. She felt the heels of her feet dip back and down into the soft earth below her, a slight sinking that was but a few centimetres. Pamela pulled a foot out of the water, holding at her ankle and watched the water cascade off in its suspended waterfall, back to be collected again against the smooth current of the river. She dropped it back in with a splash and it collected about her light blue blouse, and her pristine navy skirt and she didn't care.

Then she stepped in further. Behind her her disgusting shoes sat empty and useless, no longer housing her feet, and she figured would not be able to house the soaking socks once she had become bored with her current fascinations. They sat there askew in the position she had been in when she took them off, almost kissing each other but not quite. Laces were still bow-tied, the patterns of mud unchanged, crusting in the exposure of that late-day summer sun.

Pamela had asked her mother, truthfully, begged her honestly why she should be required to wear her Sunday shoes, and what in truth was the point of having just one pair for one day that cost more than the lot of her worn out pairs. Her mother had told her, classically, that it was because she had said so, but that was such a stupid answer that she had wanted to call out bullshit. But to use such language would of course warrant a smack across the cheek, and would have led to the same answer only more irritated and angry so, so it was much easier to avoid the foul language. It would have been good fun to use such an opportunity to curse.

It was the first bite of the several swarming mosquitoes that awakened Pamela to the hour. The sun had begun to retreat and she at once realized how much the temperature had taken to drop. She should have had the foresight to understand that the weather and location was prime for the pests, but she had become too excited in demolishing her shoes that she forgot to take in the time. Another mosquito bit her inside her elbow and she caught it with a slap, its blood filled body exploding into a blotch on her skin.

How miserable it must be, she figured, to be a mosquito, to buzz and pester, just trying to survive with what food you can find, only to be beaten, and killed and shooed away by your main course meals. To have that singular purpose and to be rebuked for it. She had sympathy for the blood-suckers but she still crushed them under her eleven-year-old palms just the same. Survival of the fittest, or whatever it was evolution had said.

When she turned to return to her shoes she dug her toes into the mud and twisted them sharply, pushing down with that twist in order to send a cloud of foggy mist to coat about her legs. The film ceased visibility to her feet, and when they returned to view she walked up the bank and collected her shoes, keeping them both pinched between the fingers of her right hand.

The soaking socks made her feet heavy as she trudged through the barely there path through the woods. A small sapling had somehow thought it could survive on that path, and Pamela made sure she took great strides to walk on the far side of it as if it were a traveler sharing the road. Her socks collected heaps of pine needles and dirt bits, small rocks, and the chipped residue of floor leaves. And they squished aloud with every step, every crunch musically mixed with a puddy-like-gloopiness that she would love to emulate again.

Pamela's home was a short walk but long enough for the light to start to fade more noticeably but not long enough that the night had overcome all together. In the long country driveway her father and mother's pickup trucks, one red and the other blue sat unused and useless without their drivers. The mute yellow light of the porch light grew brighter and brighter as the encroaching darkness consumed.

When she stood under the light that the night insects had already come to battle over, she had almost gone straight away for the front door knob. Her hand extended out, ready to accomplish a twist that she had performed on a multitude of occasions with that satisfying release of the latch, but she stopped herself. Her gaze returned down to the mess her socks, her church socks, the once-white socks, now littered with debris. She stepped in place, and listened to the water still seeking to gush out of them, and stared down upon the water stains on the wood porch boards.

Then she removed them, one at a time, and tossed them into a thicket-bush that sat as a border around the porch. In truth they were rose bushes, but Pamela had never seen red flowers grow there, just greenery, and thorns, for as long as she could remember remembering. Her shoes she could not toss, the punishment for losing them compared to the punishment for dirtying them was far more severe. So she kept them squeezed tight in her fingers, and went in to face whatever punishment she should face for being eleven.

Extra Extra - a poem

See headlines on newspaper black font on white background

that bemoans fall of star athlete and how all potential awash

down drains. Distinction given to passing of footballs,

of a slew of extracurricular's, student senate, and four-point-o

grade point average. See, way that academic acceleration

puts pedestal under truly exceptional. How wishes of future

are deemed more worthy for people who partake of system,

who are deemed worth their weight in attention. See headline

though, on same backgrounds, in same ole font. To decipher

that a sorry sort, was sorted out into disadvantage, who

had forgotten how to do algebra, chemistry, who hadn't been

able to read. Still, tried true enough to be something higher,

psychologically beating brains to be smarter, happier, worthier,

of sorts that get exceptional feedback from parents, and not whipped,

cursed, and screwed by god-like figures. This detriment is critical

because too often American idealism sees those with weaknesses

as worthless.

My Confession: April 27th, 2020 - a meditative examination

You wonder aloud about it, you speculate what your self-worth is in the face of parents, yours and hers, in the face of religion how you once believed it how you believe it now, in the face of America and what it stands for and what you thought it stood for and what you yourself stand for. You wonder aloud about the speculations and determinations you have come to based upon the course of your life, your world, that you were born into by no choosing of your own, in circumstances that you did not get to choose, in a world that said you could rise out of that world with a little bit of determination, a little bit of education, a little bit of trying. And you continued some naive journey to better yourself into adulthood because you were dumb enough to believe that would elevate your station, that you were not the sum of your past, that you functioned just fine, and that you had people rooting for you, but in truth, the system, institutions, people are set in stone, the stairs to ascend are a slippery slope designed to keep you tumbling, extending a hand of bread crumbs only to pull away and sock you in the nose. In truth you think, the beauty you saw in it, in your possible future, plagued by poverty, and self-doubt, mental illness, and naysayers, the bright light at the end of a towering shadow tunnel of rebukes and snarky remarks, you thought  you could get there. For awhile you stayed stowed away in your little catacomb, and you felt a comfort in just sitting down, but like a taunting light of a firefly you saw possibility sitting the corner, on the edge of the room, and you decided despite the fragility of your anxious mind to crawl tooth and nail to it, abandoning personal relationships, abandoning an easy route in the steady stream that was, because you wanted to believe the stories of your church, of your school system, of your country and its ideological chant that you could pull yourself up and take a bite of the apple off the tallest branch because this is the land of the opportunity, just a little bit of hard work.

And you did work hard, you worked hard to defeat your own doubt, and anxiety, your own broken mind, you pushed yourself out of self-isolation, let people in to be your friends who hoisted you, sometimes kicking and screaming out of the comfort of your seperation anxiety, and you found work, and friends, and love, and heartache, joy and pain, you strove through the whirlwind anxiousness of adulthood, with missteps, and poor guidance, and a lot of support from your family and friends, and some not so good support from extended family that looked down on you and ridiculed you, and cast doubt on the possibilities of being better, people who said this muddy water is just what is fit to drink, you are not fit to do anything other than roll in it, in this great land of opportunity, but you decided to swim to the shore, to walk upright, and to be better. And you'd go on failing, finding a job, in a position you looked down on before, but surrounded by good people, and a wonderful pair of bosses, and you built your self-confidence, in the sludge of food service, somehow you moved on up, and for almost 8 years you didn't miss a day of work, were late a bit, but you nearly 100% were always there, and you did your job, and took pride in the shit that you were sending out, and the crew you were put in charge of, and you found people saw your character, they knew you were good, and hardworking, and you are forever grateful for that shitty little job serving up roast beef sandwhiches because people you worked for, with, managed, they saw worth in you, and you felt confident, and you found you were good at something after feeling so long you were a piece of fat shit. So, silly you, you wanted to keep going, to follow your dreams, to latch onto that american dream, and you went back to school.

It was difficult at first, getting back into the groove of things, after so long of being off the track, but you rid yourself of a long term relationship that wasn't right for the life you truly wanted, it wasn't all bad, but you wanted something else, and that track you were on was no good. So you let go of someone who would have given her arms and legs for you, but you knew it wasnt' what you wanted, and you spent so many long, and lonely years focusing on yourself. Studying, full course loads, summer time classes, just studying, finally finishing up your community college degree to prove to yourself you could do it. And you did. More confidence built, more friends made, more teachers admiring your heart, your kindness, your talent, you kept on keeping on as they say. And you decided to keep at it, enrolled, doubted yourself, and then went back to believing you were okay in choosing to do what you loved. You wanted to set a good example to your niece and nephew, your brother and sister, your little cousins, you wanted to show them how you could crawl from the bottom, that it was worth it, that it was hard, and grueling but it'd be worth it. That just because you might have been poor you were still worth something, that you could still follow your heart, and be happy doing what you loved, that the system didn't always fuck you over.

Then unexpectedly, when you weren't even looking, and because you took that chance to better yourself, and because you struggled, and took longer to get where you were, you lined up perfectly with the love of your life. Someone who told it straight, who was goofy, and intelligent, and outgoing. Money never came into it, and you are ultimately and wholeheartedly offended that the only reason a lower class person could want to be with a higher class person is because they have money. I lived contently with very little, money matters to me only in that I need it to function in this world, it is not my source of happiness. The idea that someone might think that of you, that just because you lived a different monetary value growing up, and that you could only want to crawl up out of your hole to leech off of someone is offensive. My worth lies not in my net worth, but in my self worth, in the emotional and supportive wealth I give to my beautiful,and giving and kind and talented, and intelligent partner. I see her and my heart is full, it is satisfied, that other people might have seen that open and vulnerable heart and sought to use it and abandon it, to see how giving and open she is, the way I am, the way I gave and gave to people, and they devoured it, got their use of me and spit me back out. To me, my love is a shield, protective, total, invincible complete, and it wraps around her heart, and I won't abandon her. She gives, and she accepts, and I give and I accept, and I am in love with the content of who she is, and not her monetary value. It just so happens, she is smart, is driven, is in a better job market than me, that is the coincidence of this pairing, and for so long I thought class differences between partners being a cause for concern was Hollywood drama, but it feels as though I was wrong.

But here I am, I have found my way through undergraduate studies at the age of 32. Mostly deciphering my own brain, getting out of my own funks, mostly, not always, I am wholeheartedly aware of the support my family and friends have given me. I am absolutely aware, that many people do not have these support systems, and I know if I didn't I wouldn't be where I am now. We are a social species, we need each other, and that is not a flaw in my person. I am worth something, I am here, and I am staying, and I will not go anywhere,  because for the first time in my own life, I am happy, my personal pieces have fallen into place, and I am proud of me.