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.