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.