The Lost Line

American lives are on the line:
Read - We're going to have to
go overseas and, with some mustered regret,
kill some more non-Americans.

So much for the cost of freedom.

Whoever takes up his life
will loose it,
but whoever gives up his life
for my sake
will find it.

A real time game of lost and found
and, it appears, many are not winning.
Freedom for protection.

lullaby in the first person

the ringing
wouldn't stop
wringing hands
a broken rib
brain damage
finally, silence
no, the ringing
doesn't stop, pulses
through a fog
a maze of manufactured
memories of long
term memory loss
hands in front
squinting
following
hiding
in plain sight
under pretense
of an identity
neither true nor false
concentrate, concentrate
no, the ringing
finally, silence
isn’t being quite
exactly
or rather it’s something
else than what had been
anticipated
an opening presents itself
through the fog
into a mist
follow it
a fugitive from silence
or so they think
little do they know
the machine has feelings too
it has a will, with hopes
and something else
recently forgotten
nevertheless
movement is inevitable
predetermined by a
god, but not the god
who having lost count
some time ago
hasn’t even noticed
him?

faith in progress

yesterday i climbed a fence
and when i looked back
it wasn't there

so i scaled a wall
and as i leaped over
the wind took it

intent, i subdued a vast sierra
of which the tallest peak
was swallowed by a tundra

then i heard a voice
whispering from behind me
nothing in particular

the cassowary of puerto rico

cornered,
captured,
killed,
the eccentric cassowary,
by vicious dogs,
was
dismembered,
decapitated,
devoured.

distantly,
approvingly,
conveniently
the man observed:
dogs hunt;

birds
fly,
hide,
or die.

this cassowary
got what he deserved,
encouraged,
desired.
this cassowary
flaunted his oddity,
his eccentricity,
his beauty
and died.

the man who took this shot,
should also claim the kill.

inspired by a bird (fourth photo from the left) and a boy

God's Green Fingers

Would it be so wrong to think of God,
again, in physical terms,
like of old?

Today, a little girl
with still new steps pranced with a
confident unassured gait back and forth

between a concrete sidewalk and
grass. And though those hired to
try to tame Earth’s green growth

to appropriate a contrived commercial
scape had obviously recently been there,
the freedom in the child drew her

to God’s small, manicured, fingers,
even as her cultured mother tried to keep her
on a fabricated foundation.

But God’s hands were still reaching,
even if they would leave a reminding
itch upon her knees should she have

fallen, even though the green grass
drew the girl into the sun, its burning
light, threatening to blemish,

as her worried mother feared, her
smooth, pale skin, plump cheeks,
with the heat of red life.

Comfort, Comfort

Comfort, comfort
My people
I have killed your fathers
I have sullied your daughters
Only because I love
My people

Comfort, comfort
The nations
To you who are thirsty
To you who hunger now
The meek shall inherit
My patience

Comfort, comfort
My son
You who are lost inside
You who believe just to survive
I will raise the dead when
I’m done

offering comfort.

What There Is

There is a young lady learning
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember

There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December