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.