The surrounding darkness
It glows in the night
And silence is her cloak
Save for the distant sounds
Of Arabic coming from the porch
Across the street at 2am
A neighbor speaks to loved ones
On the other side of the world
Afraid to awaken his house mates
Not worried for me in mine
This is a single evening
Lying awake in the forbidden hours
Waiting for sleep to chase me down
Knowing it probably won’t come
But a man can dream
Unless he’s awake.
It’s easy
to become a fascist
to become a hater
extraordinaire
when you
put your mind to it
first –
you must become
the victim
even when you’re not
just convince yourself
you are hard done by
tell this to yourself
everyday and every night
and you will believe the lie
make sure
the people around you
only reinforce your pain
let them go on and on
about how you deserve
to have a better life
and here –
just put on these blinders
they’ll help on the journey
once you’re the victim
it’s easy to justify
every horrible action
because “they” deserve it
for what they’ve done
to you
take your brothers and sisters
your parents and lovers
and send them away
for the culprits
you finally see them as
with these new eyes
sure,
you will be angry
every single day
but…
remember –
they are the problem
and you the oppressed
lock them cold in a cage
until they have confessed
the beauty of your numb view
praising this new wardrobe
your emperor’s new clothes
A very kind letter about my last column on profiting from hate.
My column in this week’s Winkler Morden Voice and Altona Rhineland Voice newspapers.
The further away you get
from the mountain
the more of it you can see
until eventually
the whole thing
comes into view
that’s the way
persepctive works
you lose sight
of the entirety
close up and personal
and you can’t tell
what it is
distance brings truth
whether you like it
or not.
Do you build a house
And complain
About it’s quality
Or do you seek the skills
To improve what needs
Improvement?
The answer says
Everything.
This week’s column in the Winkler Morden Voice and Altona Rhineland Voice newspapers.
a number
it is meaningful
it winds through
this life
my life
our lives
a time of grappling
a time of giving over
nine is spirit
shot through flesh
cannot be removed
it is
anniversary
part of me
part of you
like breath
it seeps into the blood
rushes to the brain
gives rise to thoughts
of beauty on a rainy day
impressing memory
like a forever flower
into a book
these words
they’re all i have
to give
may they live
beyond our days
these words
they are yours
you built this
hand in hand
with me
over
nine years
like the home
like a life
and i know
you are breathing
with me
even now
across the space
you in your place
me in mine
across these
nine years
who reads the poets
in these days of dark inspiration
when the world rots to hell
giving us plenty to keep busy
as our pens plow lines
across field after field
of white space?
who reads the poets?
not so many that i can tell
only poets read the poets
keeping an eye on the competition
admiring the dead
while hating the living
those that write performance pieces
those that write dripping sacharine sweet
poems that belong on motivational posters;
who reads the poets,
we lesser children of greater sires
whose writing was first and foremost
hundreds of years ago
before the world got small
along with the minds within it?
who cares in the end
we write as those wounded
bleeding ourselves into your midst
we write as those breathing,
we write as those hearts beating –
it’s autonomic for the people.
we reads the poets?
it never mattered,
it never will.
we wander through the crowd
dropping gold to the ground
as all eyes stare up at the sun
lost in a poverty of blindness.
And I imagine
That I will fade
That I
Will pass to the shade
Leaving what
I expect are impressions
Every act of meaning
Like a dandelion seed
Drifting into the future
On the currents of time
To become…
Become what?
It matters not…
For they will simply
Become