Poems
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Consecrate wine into his blood Then pour it on your hands. Burn the bread that is his flesh And mix the ashes with stained sand. Nail the commandments to the cross With thorns pulled from his crown. Then pray to the God you desecrate And claim you love him now. You would crucify your God
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There’s comfort in chaosThat an organized mind Would struggle to find while Navigating through thoughts Falling out of boxesAnd side-stepping timeMelting like Dali’s clocks. When ideas are litteredLike leaves after harvest,And wasted hoursSpill from managed blocks,Calm grows in the refuse- Nourished from the decomposed conceptsOf productivity and order.
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The dragon’s breath was thick and cold, Echoing in the crags of its rocky lair With the sound of cowbells ringing somewhere far below. And a path so narrow and steep, It would be missed if not for the warning signs marking its way. Maybe it was a good thing we couldn’t see beyond the
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I’m not the neighbor Mr. Rogers knew I could be When I refuse to grieve For a man who openly mocked empathy. A man who reduced lives to a price To be paid for his right to bear arms. “To be a neighbor”, Rogers taught us, Is to forgive and be kind. But I can’t
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Butcher Language.Chop your prose with punctuation.Splice your sentences to fit your thoughts. Shape language.Twist your words to craft new meanings.Bend the rules of grammar to your will. Steal language.Ravage dictionaries for inspiration.Wield each syllable as a tool for creation. Language is meant to be used.
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Capitalism killed the artistSo they could sell the corpse.They pick it apart, piece by piece,Like chop-shop scavengers. Then they reassemble it,A mockery of the artist’s work. A hapless thing they forced into life,A Frankenstein’s monster.
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Gaslights flicker in the heavens now,Since the sky fell and smothered the stars.They tell us that this nightmareIs just a dream, not reality.Until we believe that thisIs the way it always was.
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The war machine is gearing up turning soldiers into dollars. Lives are cheap in the land of the free, and politicians love good martyrs. Invasions cost the price of boots and blood on foreign soil. What are soldiers’ lives and civilian deaths when it comes to premium oil? They sell our souls to invest in
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A pen and a sword A hammer and boards: The tools of the jack-of-all-trades Pulling needle and thread Sowing fields, building beds: The skills of the jack-of-all-trades A butcher a baker A candlestick maker: The jobs of the jack-of-all-trades Watch him juggle and bounce As he lives hand to mouth: That’s the life of the
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I am not a poet. Does that mean I shouldn’t write? Are my words meaningless because they aren’t high art? I am not a philosopher. Does that mean I shouldn’t think? Are my thoughts meaningless if they aren’t soliloquy? I am not an academic. Does that mean I shouldn’t learn? Is my education meaningless because
Bringing Mae Flowers 