Tragedies of Blessings (December 1997)

What was always good
enough for everyone,
ever since the beginning,
can’t now be enough
to make me content.

An inmate, released,
with a job and good friends,
has more reasons to smile
than he’s ever wished for.

Aborigines gifted
with the magic of trains,
or the wonderful aid of antibiotics,
praise creation as I never could.

My hands have never harvested grain.
The skin is smooth, and supple, and soft,
but leaves me thinking that farming is hell.

Guerrilla Poetry ad (2004)

There is a raging battle being waged
for the hearts and minds of those who’d be enslaved
by knaves still stealing money, power and safety from babies
who will have to live in a world of insecurity.

Not enough liberty to go around.
Not enough food to feed the whole town.
Not enough trees to be found in the woods,
and even though today, the enemies wear no hoods,
they’d do the same things to you if they could.

A Precipice (October 2000)

To fight
with one’s
own imagination

wrestling a bear
smothered in butter
which keeps

on grabbing
your hands
using them

to slap you
senseless

finally landing
a kick to the groin
only to double

yourself
over in pain
eyes dripping

broken faucets
limbs mangled
twisted pairs

of shattered bone
is far harder
than letting it

run its own course
which feels
even worse

in the end

Needing a Mirror (January 2001)

You’re like a world-class athlete
afflicted with disease
a wasting of the organs
that no one else can see
and that’s why we all worship you
we think you’re something
that you’re not
a flawless stone
hollow on the inside
a deaf composer
making miracles
that you can’t even hear.

Learning my Lesson (October 2000)

and around
yet again
one more time
for good measure

regimented
disciplined
it’s a mantra
on the tongue
at all times

with a breath
of hesitation
a this time
things will be
different
mentality

caution
and prudence
thrown to the wind
childish ignorance
neophyte
unrealistic dreams

going around

A Wise Past (July 1998)

In the month of my birth,
in my twenty-fourth year,
seven, twenty-nine, ninety-eight…

climbing my favorite tree, on the beach,
the one I first found with an angel,
my best friend’s nine year-old sister…

sitting on a branch eight feet off the ground,
forgoing the wish to climb higher,
content to remain where I am…

watching the blue of the lake through the green
of leaves trying to hide it from view,
before walking on sand, and then into water…

A fractal’s edge (February 1998)

The edge of the world
can be seen from the beach.
Not far, past the line which keeps
the sea and sky from each other,
but here, where water laps at the sand,
taking it back to the endless expanse
of primordial waves, borne from afar.

Chaos beckons from a close finger’s reach,
ready to lay to waste all
of the things of which one could conceive,
were one given the chance to conceive,
instead of just shifting around
the things of which mankind’s so fond:
power, substance, emotion and learning.

Delicacy (late 90s)

A door resists when pushed,
until the force which assails it exceeds its strength,
causing a crash when the door is broken,
torn from its hinges and thrown
to the ground with a timid roar.

Gentility asks us to turn a knob,
so that the door and its hinge will cooperate,
without an idea of what it is that they do.
We manipulate, coerce, and softly caress
without license, or our victims’ knowledge

of the control we assume over them
by hiding our selves in the gauze of niceness.

Subversive Assimilation (November 1998)

Jab.  Hook.  Bob.  Weave.
For twenty-four years, I have trained for this fight.
“You killed my father.  Prepare to die.”
Six-fingered goliath, western civilization,
you killed all our fathers,
cutting us off from the roots of our past,
replacing our trunks with your insidiously hideous self,
leaving us, leaves, blown in the wind,
without place nor time to think of as home.

Raisins (late 90s)

Little juicy raisin,
you used to be a grape.
Now you’re shriveled, small, and ugly,
sitting on my plate.

Pop a raisin, eat another,
grab one more - that’s three.
Look around, you’ll never find
raisins growing on a tree.

Funkadelic raisins
singing soul with Marvin Gaye;
if you had the chance to talk to one,
what might the raisin say?

“I used to be so plump and pretty,
plucked right off the vine.
Now I’m gross and old and bitter.
I wish they’d made me into wine.”

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