Might isn't always right and race isn't the most essential part of our identity The enemy of our enemy isn't always our friend Sexual preference doesn't define anyone beyond the bed Class distinctions are artificial as money trying to buy happiness The desired outcome never justifies a hateful method. (hating haters only multiplies haters) Fomenting hate is never the solution for hate Only character explains a person, not their color Size matters only to those who have tiny souls. & birds of a feather are for the birds.
Category Archives: Poetry
Your sad-kitty victim-eyes trick another to check in to your house of mirrors Salvation Sam (or Sally) to the rescue-- The catfished are like cattle to the slaughter but they want it at any cost-- thus, the flim-flam; until payment is due Courting conflict creates continual chaos berating boredom bastardizes bilaterally Having homes like houses of horrors mental mirages manipulate manic mannerisms Victims vent vitriol --converting to victimizers verifying a vicious volition. Remember: Never blame others for your choices or you'll never check out of Hotel California.
There is a time to let go;
to slice the cords binding the soul.
Though they hum with live desire,
then biting, sting with a venomed fire.
We drew energy from a shared breath;
pledged our love to reach past death,
but when we stayed closed in together,
the storms burst out in clashing weather.
There is a point to let go,
but now I can’t, for I know
you’re in my blood, a part of me
to my heart, you hold the key.
Atlas appears to drop the ball statues of the state are being sacked hell is having an unholy holiday libeling the memory of our heroes and heroines independence is infamously iced. Butterflied bleeding-hearts are brainwashed as academic actors adjust America's attitudes-- between her borders, bullies bluster because the bloated beast boasts belligerently insurgents instigate internal insurrection to turn trustworthiness into a tale.
Shameless leaves peep below the long corridor of our Village stairwell--- eyed wings of moths seeking light, & me loitering across the street before coming home early to the most gorgeous woman alive. A glimmer in the shadows of our open-blind second-floor window you glisten from a bath, wrapped in a towel I desire to be surrounded by your dewy body your naive beauty captivates this voyeur husband to spy on you across, behind the lightning-riven oak tree under the second-story window Silhouetted, you look out, waiting, & I imagine for the moment that I am to return home, but then, he pulls up, parks & climbs
with the morning breeze & uncertain atmosphere. the cycle built which propelled a blade of grass through a telephone pole. I face all this in you for you wreck me.
A jade dragon by the door the saffron full-moon stares on. But they argue and bathe in sorrows not mending the ragged cuts of self-pity. "O cruel world, why have you kicked me again?" as the fat pig wallows in its own filth and excrement. Among them, the adversary gets a jealous sacrifice sighing it up with tears to the sanctuary. Thus the ritual is repeated, even sought for & insensibility accounts for these twisted facts. How easily carnal fantasies disengage --like the companion in one ear whispering: "For love I do this for you, only for you, for you my one and only." Yeah, right. Taste a switch & the button, perceive the plasticized flesh. Like a hungry canine, the antler fetched jaw-clamping it in lipped teeth-- Before the altar, "Nevermore" is repeated avowedly A figment of imagination? .. No, it continued, Cast from heaven for conceiving beds of pain, the chains argue aloud, but few ever learn. The end is the finale & indeed, the inception of the future.
When the music ribbons between ancient watches of the night only your face brightens my gloom, for the moon becomes a child's smile piercing the mute darkness. The winding seems to be hemmed by bogs, snarling roots and vicious night shadows elongating, but then her vine clings true making empty pretensions subside. The climb seemed elating, the sinking rut seemed bitter, but only as we were. You became the night, eclipsed by yourself, while his leaves were dotted with distilling drops-- that you may need.
The lust for war is skin-tight & as hemoglobin to bone-- turning poets into preaching prophets politicians into potion preachers children into cheapened chattel soldiers into senseless slogs intellectuals into inflated idiots conservatives to corny connivers liberals into leaky liars & the right into the wrong. simply because war is a blood poison and war is psychotic chaos, a familiar imp that smirks at every easy solution posed by poets, preachers, philosophers & politicians this resident devil refuses to be bought off by an affluent culture of convenience whose minions glibly say, "Just turn the place into a f**king parking lot" especially if you-know-who flips us the nuclear bird-- So what shall I be turned into? nothing more than what I am: one whose eye can see the smirk in the mirror.
Our great Lakota chief warned, "The white man cannot be trusted," and though I am a child I cannot understand why as Sioux, we are forced to learn the white man's ways, They stole our sacred Black Hills --those who would teach us what we do not want to know. The Paiute shaman, Wovoka, taught us the Ghost Dance because our ancestors wish to revive our ways. He said, if we obey, the buffalo will once again multiply with the appearance of our ancestors While we danced-- the pony-soldiers came and massacred us; My mother and brother now redden the snow, but, no matter, I will continue the dance.