Born in Blood

Dexter, Dahmer, Columbine and Virginia Tech.
Serial killers. Spree killers. First person shooters.
Born in blood. Blood soaked deep. Watching Thriller.

The empire thirsts for products.
Outsourced for the benefit of the many.
We breed violence. We breed war.

Making terrorists by creating the poor.
We are a sponge to this culture.
We curse it then consume it.

The Roman American coliseum filled
with the entire world, not just innocents anymore.
Growing fat as we produce the terror we hide from.

Football helmets clash crippling kids.
The crowd cheers for all of this.
Buying movie tickets to make it exist.

Serial killers have codes.
America has a constitution.
Both are flexible.

Do either have morals?

Wedding Vows

these words will find their place.
a space between the beats
replete with distance and sync
to repeat. sound travels.
it is spoken and forevermore.
vibrating through our core.
infinity, disguised by dark matter.
a web of wild west spiders, building.
spinning our tales and learning.
traveling time and bending souls.
this is the exploration we live for.
the dark and the light unite.
to make up what we see despite
not seeing. not knowing. not feeling.
the mystery is God.
How can we know him
when we are him?
when he is not owned by them.
for we are within
the same system. the rip in
the black and the white holes connected.
infinite umbilical chords giving birth
to entire galaxies. the death
of and the birth of everything.
at once. together. forever.
till death do us start.

Right Here. Right Now.

as we live on top of each other four to a room
i think of the homeless with no place for their head.
no manger or floor to call their bed.
as i sleep on this air mattress i think of the world

floating in my dreams with my body curled.
i write these words to send you a picture of life.
a snapshot of what it’s like to live truthfully despite
all the obligations and obstacles we all occur.

helping me find focus as life flies by in a blur.
i try and compact hope and peace and love inside
a few short sentence fragments that might be read.
by a handful who might find a chance to be led

out of the despair that is this modern era.
to dream of a life lived without fear or terror.
i awake to the sounds of my children running round.
the air mattress squeaks as my body is found.

four bodies, four hearts, four souls live in this room.
to many this would be a time of gloom.
but i cherish this time with my loved ones.
for we are lucky to have each other right here, right now.

Weebble Wobbles Falling Down

politics and the grit.
the dirt in my teeth.
the miles of junk food i did eat.

i am a survivor
of canned food and microwavable dinners.
which did not win me years.

memory masking the toxins inside.
no fame here.
just one lame duck citizen.

bred to be non-effective.
the poisons are everywhere
inside my internal systems.

they live inside my body where I store them.
i am so tired of being poisoned.
i’ve quit eating meat.

i’ve quit eating dairy.
i ride my bike to work.
quit it all, not just for the benefit of me

but for the benefit of my progeny.
my carbon footprint is now small.
the guilt that has been lifted, worth it all.

no more moral tax.
no one to look at me and say to themselves, “look how fat.”
no more rounded belly or joints.

no more Weebble Wobble father for my children.
i am an awakened conscious human not looking to be led.
i am looking within and doing what i have always said.

because no more lip service is needed
for the environment and my body can feel it.

one man’s actions can help change the world.

No More Dharma Bums to Feed

the light and dark are one.
the earth’s crust has begun
to become thinner.

letting the spirits out for their dinner.
to pass onto the other side.
from purgatory they do glide

from the homes they did hide.
on this hallowed eve i pray
for my father’s soul to stay

where i can find him once again
where we will talk as friends.
about the sanity we do lack

of the fearful wanting their country back.
of the possible terrorists attacks.
i watched as comedians spoke

in the capitol they did joke.
as hundreds of thousands watched
we remembered Woodstock.

we remembered the broken dreams.
how a generation proclaimed
to work for peace and to refrain

from the over consumption we maintain
and passed down as our birth right again.
feeding the black bellies of our greed

no more Dharma bums to feed.
there is no need to take our country back.
because it never went forward.

it stayed in the same place
that the children at Woodstock faced
with wars being fought in foreign lands.

over ideologies we cannot ban.
for freedom’s just another word
for all the stuff we did not lose.

for all the stuff we bought and bruised.
for all the bad mortgages sold and chosen.
for the American dream, now broken.

The Anti-Patriot

I don’t believe in this country.
I don’t believe in its greed.
I don’t believe in its lack of tolerance.
I don’t believe in Adam and Eve.

I don’t believe in patriotism.
I don’t believe in continual wars.
I don’t believe in religion.
I don’t believe in the growing poor.

I am an American anti-patriot.
Who lives here because I should.
To keep this country stable.
From all those who would kill me if they could.

I live here for all those who would have this country
White faced and Christian only.
Driving SUVs to church on Sunday.
Eating hamburgers and hot-dogs on game day.

For all those who don’t care for equality
For all those who are different from them.
For all those who qualify as a minority.
For all of those with different cultures or skin.

I am a proud anti-patriot.
Who served in the military back when
I believed in this country
And the freedom I thought I was protecting.

I am now ashamed of my service
And the reason for of its purpose.
To continue the foreign policies of this nation.
To spread capitalism to every station

Where natural resources can be had.

Sweet Cherubs

Words spit fire from inside my ancestral choir.
Singing verses not yet explored or known from the inside
Of the human species, unable to relate.
I am the everything. My vowels feed my bowels,

Making the sun shine on rainy days.
The doors open inside my brain’s membranes.
Pinging the nodal appetites that fight synchronic pain.
Shingles fed by Pringles poison the body of my goddess.

Mother of my children. Sweet cherubs of the world that we awoke.
I sang in the church choir each Thursday night.
I was coached to vocalize my praise for him.
I was coached to let my rhythm marry the system

Of Baptist hymnals sung for hundreds of years now.
John’s head rolling. Politicians’ heads now polling.
I learned a thing or two there. Standing in front of the power brigade made
The social animals sitting on wooden benches, not yet calling us witches.

Not burning us at the stake, because for heavens sake we were holy.
For we are the beginning and the end. The next generation to sing the lullabies
And the stories to be fed to our children. The morning glory.
Dressed in your Sunday’s best looking to impress. They called me names.

They bit their tongues to refrain from the long hair growing down my neck.
From the questions unanswered and unchecked.
Where did the dinosaurs come from Mr. Greene?
I’ll talk to you after class, he did beam.

But we would sneak out across the street and buy dip.
Put a bit in our lips and spit venom while waiting for the lip service to end.
Already cursing another Sunday right around the bend.
These are the memories of being put into a class.

For it is those buildings with those crosses where most play pretend.
Big girls playing princess dress up and wearing their best make up.
Where it is easier to sit down and shut up than to give up.
Where hypocrites find solace breaking bread and drinking from the same cup.

These are the memories of a child not being asked.
What do you believe in?
Do you have enough education even?
And if you did would you still attend?

Take Me Tonight

Oligodendroglioma malignancy grade II (H&E) with the typical tumor cell

Oligodendroglioma malignancy grade II (H&E) with the typical tumor cell

There is this thing about being a survivor.
Living with something that could put out your fire.
A ticking time bomb continues my strife.
They say go on. Live long. Live strong.

How can I when I have let go?
Having said goodbye to everything that I know.
My family. My art. My goals, all gone.
Looked at them long and hard and said, “Now I must live on”.

I stood on my mountaintop casting down
Judgments all over town. And then… I lived.
You see… this is not as easy as it seems to be.
I have already said goodbye to you and me.

I have looked death in the eyes and said, “Take me tonight
If you so desire, I will not put up a fight.
I am ready to leave with you.
Because I have already become unglued.”

I am a soldier trained for battle.
Not able to fight. Not able to delight
In the site of a round fired down range.
Hitting its target, knowing his skills have been engaged.

Having trained for war.
Having laid it all bare for my legacy to store
All these little stories for the generations to come.
I sit here thinking about the prank cancer pulled.

It trained me for death and then it let me live.
It trained me to share my all and give
My humanity to the collective.
It yanked out my heart, now hard and unprotected.

To think I once called you a gift.
You have done nothing but set me adrift.
A homeless soul no longer looking for answers.
A homeless body always seeking its new cancer.

Seeking a shelter to share with the unafraid.
Where I can again shout from the mountaintop knowing you made
Me stronger and then let me live.
By teaching me how to let go and how to forgive.

Hemingway’s Shotgun

The muse is not listening.
The fuse is glistening.
Fire, flame, glimmer, shame.
Am I forgetting

How many times I have been applauded?
How many times I have been lauded?
Will it ever be enough?
I think of Hemingway and his Pulitzer.

Drunk on whiskey ready to pull the trigger.
Shotgun in mouth.
Brains blown out.
It was never enough.

And what about me?
What do I need you to say?
That my words touched you today.
That you did think and pray.

For peace. For love.
For a better world to make.
Would that be enough for me?
Is creativity an angel or demon I seek?

Can one survive this thirst to create?
Always needing to captivate.
Always needing to communicate.
Hemingway’s shotgun to take.