The Sycophant and The Proselytizer

This jar holds no question marks, no queries and no retorts,
the air gap allows for the nodding of heads and agreeable reports.
No dialogue, please. You want debate? We have only cheerleading here,
to join this club and be one of us, you will have to let me steer.
I possess the answers, you see I’ve deciphered our history,
and I will write our future and you will applaud deferentially.
I won’t argue with you, I know you, and I’ve heard it all before,
my minions tell me that surely my logic you will abhor, and so
I am the Proselytizer, you’ll do well to be Sycophant,
your tiresome queries bounce off the fabric of my rants.
Applaud and bow and idolize what you could never hope to be,
I am the champion of everyman, of everyman but you, you see.

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Megalomania

Ha ha, you braggadocio, you blatherskite and swaggerer, with your brains
balanced on the head of a pin and your paltry butt cheeks puckered tight behind
the bunched fabric of your pantaloons. I see you! Ensconced in your rhetoric,
your bombastic displays, Secret Agent Man. Not one could be a satisfactory match
for your perspicacity, of course, privileged prince, glittery Wizard behind the curtain.
How is it that I see you? With the tear in the fabric at the seat of your pants
and the smattering of silliness behind the mask? Not blind then, after all,
are the minions who do your bidding and put the spit shine upon your medallion?
You’ve got more tart than a kumquat, you, and appear as disagreeable as a blizzard
in May. I’ll pluck that arrogance right out from the roots of your sparsely spaced
whiskers and shoo the petulant beast I know as you, shoo you right to the midway
and over the edge into prudery. Funny little megalomaniac, this insolence
your nakedness will abide.

Posted in alienation, Apathy, Congress, Contemplations, Corporations, Poetry, Politics, Social/Political Commentary, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Thinking of Dying

The fins are off and the hook is embedded, it is frightening to be caught.
Tears behind a closed door and a jaw locked on grudges. Who takes
away the urge to die, the thought that death would be welcome?
Blossoms on the cucumbers, their vines tangled up with wire
and lazy cats purr and anchor me to this arid place. I never knew
that dreams could fade and fear would fill the space, or that walls
could be so thick, such an impediment to joy. To fight or to finish,
the only choices, really? Girls swallow their rage, don’t they, and then cry?
Even my tears have grown tired of my face. I should take this fear
and block it off with wood and string and sea shells. The walls would tremble
if I had my feet planted, eighteen inches apart and stuck
in the bone white clay. Tears? Merely exclamation marks hurled through the sky
like seabirds, like shackles broken by motion breaking upon the day.

Posted in alienation, Apathy, belonging, Community, Death, demons, Depression, family, Health, Poetry, psychotherapy, Respect, Responsibility, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Grow Up To Show Up

I want to start a revolution. How about this one:

Grow Up To Show Up (G.U.T.S.U) I’m pretty sure most of you are really tired of hearing about deadbeat/absentee fathers and the children who grow up without them; this worldwide epidemic of increasing violence against women, human trafficking and sexual slavery; the sad lack of community and familial connectedness that only perpetuates alienation and antisocial behaviors that lead to crime and violence. Well, I’m tired of it. And I don’t believe that there’s “nothing we can do”. That’s bullshit. We can make that phrase part of our global lexicon; our new mantra for the species; our new slogan for the times. Add a little jingle to it and put on TV, I don’t care. Just say it, share it, incorporate it into your daily OM and make sure it spreads. Grow Up To Show Up. It means: Do the right thing. Have integrity. Be responsible. Show compassion. Work hard for what you want. Share as much as you can. Honor. Respect. Treasure each other. Show up!!

Please, if you agree, share this on your blog. I believe we need to find a way to stem the violence, ease the despair, and inspire each other to belong to each other again. We belong to each other. It’s time we started acting like it.

Posted in alienation, Apathy, belonging, child abuse, Community, Contemplations, crime, family, Health, human trafficking, Respect, Responsibility, sexual slavery, Social/Political Commentary, Uncategorized, violence, Wellness | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Alluring Avenue of Rage

The world knows how your heart pounds and your jaw clenches, how
tightly your fingers curl into the sinewy guts of a balled fist.
Rage, old friend, comes to visit with his hat perched jauntily upon his head,
and most of the time you greet him with a glint in your eye.
No apologies, no excuses,  does he bring. He knows he is the remorseless
Joker on the table, the frequent visitor to your dreams. Bar the door, if you must,
if you can. You will always forget to close and lock the window, or cram
a towel against the growling gap at the bottom of the door. He slithers in
and extends a hand, offering many an object for you to hurl, and you take them.
You make the critters duck and cover. You make gentle hearts tremble. You make
your self out to be this amazing monster. And then he leaves,
and the light returns to your doorstep. He has joined his footsteps once more
to that alluring avenue – the one that joins you to your shadow, joins
your shadow to the heart of all the world’s children. That road
that loops around your best intentions like a crown of thorns upon your head.
You feel his footsteps before you hear the sound they make and you wonder
when will he come again.

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What Could You Possibly Say?

Wings are broken, legs are hobbled and you won’t look. You have your eyes
locked upon a slippery shimmering silver lining. They say:
Look at the bright side. And you try your best because you’re the optimist. They say:
Namaste (the spirit in me salutes the spirit in you). And you repeat it
because you’re worldly that way. And they nod their heads
in salute right back at you. They say:
An eye for an eye. And you pick up your dagger and aim at the loser’s heart.
When the frogs cry because they are dying what do you say?
When the bees drop out of the sky and the kittens mew from hunger, tell me
what do you say? When dogs fight each other until death, what
could you possibly say? When continental Africa is rendered childless,
when the oil fields dry up in Kuwait, when the Taliban have killed all the women what,
oh what do you say? Look at the bright side? An eye for an eye?
Salute this, you silent observer: salute Peace. Salute the open hand, the open heart.
Render short sightedness and the ego of man a shriveled, forgotten page in our history.
A blemish on the photograph, a glitch in the trajectory. A cloudy eye, lips stitched
together with complacency.

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Somebody’s Child

The lies don’t matter. Don’t let them blind you to the truth.
The sweat streamed down the back of his neck, made silver
by the indirect light through the window, and tears were jettisoned
off the tip of his nose. His chest could not bear more weight.
Salty words were spilled, as common as those of any beggar or liar: “Starving,” he said,
and his eyes were so very red. He kept them pointed down, away. I wanted to feed him.
Acidic words flowed quickly, like from the diamond sharp need
of a junkie: “I need my money,” he said, and his words were slurred.
Judgment requires a reason like an addict requires a vein. Truth is the drug.
He sank down into a chair after I’d called him Honey. I call everybody Honey,
but not usually accompanied by uncertainty and tears.
Erratic as a dandelion seed being pushed between buildings, down alleys that stink
of urine, and wasted food, his mind was jumping. Borderline belligerent
as a magician exposed, he wanted to thrash and scream.
“My mother died,” and the words were strangled by tears.
He hid his face and crushed me where I stood. His mother
may be alive and cooking collard greens in a bright yellow kitchen
or lying on a slab at the morgue with only a toe tag. When the need is greater than the lie
we see it – Everyman peering back at us from the mirror. Somebody’s child
is waiting there.

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Tomorrow is a new day

theminstrelscitadel:

Support each other. Love each other. Change “the system” which manages to leave humanity out of the equation. Ditch the stigma. Seek to understand. Give every human being a fighting chance to heal and love and live life to the fullest.

Originally posted on JoeWritesHisWrongs:

One of the biggest things I love most about Joe is that he works so hard every day to better himself from his past. He wants nothing more than to show everyone as well as himself that he can find some kind of success either through his artwork, cartoons or writing. Each day he strives to better his life and his work, each day is a day closer he is to becoming a free man, each day he fights to not let that place destroy him.

When I met Joe he was the most positive person I had ever met. I mean here is the guy surrounded by so much negativity and constant chaos and yet he stays so positive and has such great determination. I mean he could have been like the majority of other prisoners and just waste his days away doing nothing waiting for his time to…

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Two Nickels

The dreaming of the rain is bright, far lighter than the prickly slumber of wood.

I could never know his dreams; I only sometimes knew his mind. Thunderheads

blotting out the stars of a Summer’s night, ice crystals telegraphing rainbows

around the moon, greedily clinging and leaving

not a single drop to fall. He sawed great logs in his slumber. Shadows met him

and blanked his mind. I remember what he will not. I roamed the streets

of his grievances and let my footsteps slap down – loud and angry and insatiable.

I watched the shadows on the asphalt as keenly as he searched his pockets for a dime.

A nickel for the right one and a smile. Two nickels rubbed together

for a very brief time.

I remember the way he smelled – I never really liked it. I remember him brown

and black, with his boxers slightly open and the way I turned my head,. This man

who adored me, this man who tried to drown me, this man whose wrists

became so thin. Power is what you make it. Power is what you take it for.

There is no power in love. In love there is only the seeds of need

and those rock hard kernels of regret. In love we beg forgiveness and it is given.

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Food and drink

theminstrelscitadel:

The Plutocracy goes surfing… on the backs of the poor, of course!

Originally posted on Bell Book Candle:

At a time when food prices are rising rapidly, my local government here in Saint George, Utah has decided to increase the price of water by 10%. Why 10%? It’s nice round number and will raise the average monthly bill by $2.50. Not much you say, but the revenue increase will go into the general fund rather than pay for water related expenses. At a time of drought and possible water shortages, increasing the price will decrease usage and that is a good thing. However, increasing food prices and water bills at a faster rate than the increase of Social Security means that those on limited incomes may face the choice between shelter, medications, healthcare and food and drink.

Recently the City of Detroit has moved to cut off the water of poor Detroit residents who can’t afford their water bills. There is a move in the US to copy…

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