NaPo 2020   (The Hodgepodge Chronicles)

21/30
The Suitcase

When crooked claws of age lays its last axiom upon me
I shall wear dark funeral clothes and white summer gloves,
robin-blue hat, pale and soft as the day I held her in my arms.

I will gather bouquet of flowers near the half-finished swings
lily of the valley, carnations and lavender lilacs, perfume’d
delicately, awakening sleepwalkers brimmed with wanderlust.

Gently tip-toeing to attic of my mind where lays a suitcase
with whispers and lullabies.  Weathered and worn skin-deep
patched wishes sewn to torn dreams threaded of regrets.

The leather peels wheeling snippets infused with talc & honey;
7 knotted prayers, beaded braids lain on pink dress & booties
folded in satin’d dome.  Placid and cold. Oddly, I barely recall

The curse’d night inhaling incense and sage, digging the dirt
with broken nails beneath the black walnut tree, malevolent
roots coiled around wombs and empty tombs, a mausoleum

Of dust and doom ruffled in waves of peace, heaved of tears
burrowing these useless limbs in obscure corner of origami
A sweet homecoming to a child of love, an unfinished life.

An angel flutters, clutching ribbons of rainbow, like a dove.
=====================================================

20/30  
The Other Woman
 
How can I rival with thy one pledged  
essence of beauty, sultry and fair  
moonshine smile, eyes heathen hell  
tangles in mane, seductive and bare  
brushing quill’s mighty lit ale.  
 
Purer than moon, waxed and waned  
brighter than sun on spring’s last day  
dint of plumes rise in the air  
lips to quench, sultry dare.  
 
Amaranth drops on alabaster sheets  
light as feather, deep in well’s ink  
immortal and rare, no doubt in my head  
sculpted befit by skillful hands  
she awaits, secrets secreting perplexed  
softly twining musings in threads.    
 
Sorcerer!, I cry, while thou compose;  
petals of sherry and buds of dew  
commanding seasons crowning throne.  
 
One knows not what, what is true  
gently draping on weary old fool  
she draws coyly deterred by two  
honeyed syntax and witchy brew.  
 
To bed, to wed in novels & poesy  
lain in the arms so faithfully.    
O’ jealousy!  Eyes rob thy blind  
guise of darkness forking the tongue  
scales convulsed veer the night,  
wild hearts flap, with fire and ire.  
=======================================
 
19/30  
The Breakfast Club  
(Inspired by the movie)  
 
It seems wrong  
to be watching at this hour  
lights flickering  
sleep swelling the night  
augmented, spellbound  
the pendulous moon  
suspended from a tree  
when I should be sitting  
on the floor  
crunching cereal between  
two slices of bread  
inventing lies and lores  
cutting them in squares  
with a razor blade  
more reliable than circles  
without an edge  
but i’m a rotten liar  
I wear slothfulness with a flare  
shaking dandruff from my hair  
life’s urgency pounding at the doors  
ship-shaping the wayward world  
beauty in cruelty  
empathy in pain.  
 
I once asked, ‘Where’s God?”  
When a child gets slapped  
across the face  
sent to bed  
starved of embrace.  
They will grow  
to take care of you  
with a smile, chipped tooth  
and a bag of debt.  
 
The twilight draws  
its velvet curtain  
brooding to its reflection  
wishing I could fill  
these clouds with kerosene  
to set the sky on fire  
instead;  
I light a candle  
say a prayer  
holding my tongue  
to the flame.  
======================================  
 
18/30    
Coffee  
(We will always have coffee, if; nothing else)    
 
(1)    
I want you whole    
your weathered loins    
oozing with oil    
essence of soil    
bursting with warmth    
relishing rain and sun.    
*    
*    
Liquid ecstasy    
drips tap, tap, tap    
intrinsic tempestuous tempo    
infiltrating aromatic rouse    
through pale ivory walls    
rising reign with each trickle    
titivating canvas of dawn, like    
a love poem longing to burst    
on the tongue.    
Dark, mysterious, enigma    
drop by drop, cup after cup    
surges the heart    
warming the soul    
synchronic    
sentience; bliss.    
   
   
   
(2)    
Conversations    
always started and ended with coffee    
flavored kisses    
soft, succulent, silky    
akin to smiles: loose and wide.    
Coils of hair unraveled    
like waves upon a tide    
disrobing scent of musk and midnight    
softening dusk, trailing morning light    
in remains of two cups    
thickening    
forgotten.    
   
   
(3)    
My finger    
traces the circle    
imprinted on table    
stain soaked within the grain    
of dark frame, round n’ round    
a tunnel of cosmic karma.    
*    
*    
Some rings    
stay    
on fingers    
others by bedside    
where its safe.    
==============================  
   
17/30    
The Art Of Dying    
   
You always had a habit    
of dying    
nonchalantly    
in the middle of sentence    
when we’re trying to convince    
ourselves    
we are at war.    
   
Two tongues dueling    
like swords    
in suicidal mouths.    
   
Who knew?    
   
Which one would fall    
forward    
voluntarily    
surrendering to defeat.    
   
Then you’d laugh    
assuringly    
with temporality of    
a blunt arc    
tapering to a steeple.    
   
Throwing your head    
back in the past    
to the moment of latency    
coming alive    
from underbelly of relief;    
a faded footnote,    
stigmata gentled by the hour.    
   
This exchange of blood    
always seemed sexy    
dangerous, alluring    
the kind of taboo    
mothers’ warned vehemently.    
A poison in the blood.    
   
But, you had mastered    
the art of dying    
in every portrait    
unframed.      
   
A crowned laureate    
flaring    
the tapestry with a gusto    
matches flung    
carelessly to pyre of piles    
allowing    
consequences    
to paint tomorrow.    
=============================================    
   
16/30      
Kill Me With Your Love    
     
Kissed the lines on my face      
caved scars in both hands      
never asking how or where      
calling my flesh a sacrifice      
and we’d never be apart.      
Love divine, love sanctified      
spooning lies and last rites      
he promised one thousand      
dreams, breamed of weeds      
clear to stream, sought for      
one fought for none.  Burning      
behind the red old barn, like      
cornsilk tassels in the night.      
     
What good will it do, knowing all      
knowing none clawing less than      
one could find, caught in net      
fought in dung, hung in splint      
two old stones toiled in mud.      
Berries, cream & crushed nuts      
fed from trees tall and dark      
shrubs crept whole and wild      
teething bramble, lightening bugs.      
     
He build a path cutting twigs      
chopping words, choking wills      
nails nailing upon this bridge      
over marrow thick with love.      
‘Hurry, hurry..’ he called out      
my name surging songs seraph      
breaking metaphors in spite      
“Light never forgives the dark”      
oft swelling seeds in a park.      
     
Betwixt sheet cuffed to vows      
vines braided soaked in wine      
confused the limbs expertly      
myths, links and offerings.      
Thread by thread, tale by tale      
unraveled mazy masterpiece      
atonement sought, war fraught      
in my arms, in my skin      
’My alter…my psalter’ he cried.        
Crumbling inside with all his sins.      
======================================    
     
15/30      
Red Red Hearts      
     
Baby orb beets      
bleed ruby ink      
piled in a pot      
swaddled mud      
     
blisters bubble      
tongues treble      
bold smoke hot      
Aphrodite taut      
     
earth stone gem      
sticky sweet sap      
tender folds drag      
slowly undressed      
     
uprooted upright      
sultry sublime      
heed-come-hitter      
heaven’s delight      
     
singed goddess      
secrets secrete      
stained fingers      
feed with a beat      
     
red, red hearts      
robust chunks      
untamed mouths      
sin rapture lust.      
=======================================      
     
 14/30        
Aunt Eliza goes to Tijuana      
       
How many words do we know        
in the english language?        
Hundred, two hundred, a thousand.        
Synonyms, antonyms, adverbs, adjectives.        
Collectively, do we implement what we know        
to live life fully, completely?        
Unlike most, hoarding words        
Aunt Eliza had mastered the art of simplicity        
her tongue trundled three mere words        
used efficiently, heedfully, appropriately        
Thank you, bybye and Cucumber        
the latter was puzzling, admittedly.        
We weren’t sure how or when she had learned        
especially the way she pronounced        
cooo-come-per, phonically mellifluous        
acquiring some kind of Wonder Woman power        
making it her own to haggle and barter        
vegetables and fruits, comparing freshness        
to all things great and small to Cucumber-ism        
firmness, color, grooves on skin, returning        
home triumphantly with bagful of groceries.        
*        
*        
She didn’t know how to drive        
but her talent as studious passenger        
surpassed any licensed driver        
possessing a secret compass        
navigating without knowledge of        
street names or city limits.        
“Turn right" she’d say.  Pointing left        
and by the old adage        
“Actions speak louder than words”        
following the direction of her hand        
always proved the quote.        
*        
*        
One glorious sunny day        
Aunt Eliza decided to hop on the bus for Tijuana        
the rumor through the mill was surely impressive        
barely restraining herself from running barefoot        
to adopt knickknacks, gimcracks for dust bunnies.        
       
“I need a painting to match the couch        
something floral, something bright” she announced.        
Strapping the fanny pack, bidding the family farewell        
promising to come home before nightfall        
and much of the cash.        
*        
*        
She was gone for three days, three nights        
no phone calls, no sound        
not even a peep or a beat        
thrumming from the land of Aztecs.        
       
On the fourth day she was on the return bus.        
An enormous painting of a lotus in bloom        
in tow, sweat drenching, dusty shoes with holes        
standing room only, she grasps the pole        
rocking steadily, lurch-reel & roll.        
Suddenly, she feels a spasm        
her stomach contracts convolutedly        
borborygmus accelerations of        
rumbling        
tumbling        
gurgling        
rivaled with hustle n’ bustle        
the bus and engine.        
       
She assures herself no one would hear        
takes a deep breath, pelting with a zeal        
Oh’ what a relief and an encore        
to cease the final release.        
That’s when she lowers her gaze        
meeting the old man        
in glittery sombrero watching her face        
smiling slyly, nodding approvingly        
‘Madame, good boom boom!’ he exclaims,        
hand fisted, pounding the air.        
*        
*        
There’s comfort in universal language        
of commonalty, communicating and relating        
in the absence of thesaurus or a dictionary.        
While other things best remained unspoken,        
untold in the theory of cooo-come-prism        
and a woman wandering on her own        
in Tijuana Mexico.        
==========================================      
       
13/30        
Rooted        
       
There are two small dark moles        
in the back of my arm, one        
shaped like an almond        
smooth and dark with tiny        
little forest of trees        
bent to imaginary winds        
roots darker than above.        
       
The other, a thimble        
softly protruded yielding to touch.        
I’d rub it, pretending it was a lost bead        
from my grandfather’s chain of prayers;        
Tasbeh, the color of toasted wheat.        
He’d murmur silently some ancient        
language foreign to my ears        
pulling the gems in three’s        
to a full circle        
ending with beginning.        
       
My mother would say        
she’d find me anywhere        
lost, kidnapped or a runaway        
from the shape of nevi on my skin.        
I’d dare her by coming home late        
from school to see her curly hair        
amplified, rods electrified        
tinged with worry-silver.        
       
Memories,        
sweetly unkind        
linger with my grandfather’s worry        
beads hung from my wall        
timeless, magical, mysterious        
and my birthmark        
with its tiny forest bowing to time        
remind me;          
Nothing is ever lost        
firmly rooted to the ground.        
================================================        
       
       
12/30          
Blue Easter        
         
lies & the body in blue//  dreaming of a dull sphere// seasons          
& reasons cursed retreat// mouths sewn, conscience unclear//          
Faberge spawn, cyclone'd myth//  glass resistance tempered fits//          
grand design of mercurial gin ink//  an atmospheric (almost-electric)          
tranquilized secrecy // architectural quandary// politics decree// tape-          
worms breed// azobenzene on blueprint// press the forget-me-nots,          
periwinkle & butterfly// verisimilitude on peeled skin//  diagram of          
design, desire & descry// azure, cyan, indigo reflect//  oceans of tinge//            
there’s no sky, no sea, no i, no u//  cobalt, Cambridge, Dutch disagree//            
dissent despondents on blue Danube// see the eye in heaven bruised-          
blue? Cerulean reflections ponder clues// Prussian Monet swirls Starry          
stars// (a)cross the prayers one last time// here lies the body & blue//          
====================================================        
         
         
11/30          
Christmas With Aunt Eliza          
         
(3 days before Christmas)          
         
Earth tingled, streaming ribbons somersaulting to childhood dreams          
accrued in moments, incremented within reach.          
Somehow, Aunt Eliza managed to untangle defiantly, unapologetically          
at Christmas with a glee, innocence wrapped in bows          
shiny foils reflective of cheers.          
         
Her favorite color was blue, not just any blue, Royal blue.          
The color of Princess Diana’s ring representing: class, elegance, beauty          
unhurried, unworried, bold, outwardly. She had the exact replica on her finger          
bought at a swapmeet.  I’d secretly watch her admiring at every angle          
light catching her dreamy eyes,  somewhere far away.          
A princess in tiara and satin gown.          
         
As grace grows, soft and thick.          
I had found the perfect gift to to soothe her weary feet          
matching the sapphire ring; navy Isotoner plush booties          
sold at JCpenny on a deal.          
         
The Tree seemed crooked.  Half dressed, half naked          
glittery ornaments, silvery tinsels, lights, red and green          
some snoozing, others on cue wandering from branch to branch          
towering mountain of boxes, the nativity: Mary and Joseph          
baby Jesus missing from the scene.          
         
All was quiet through the house, no one was stirring          
not even the cat with fluffy mouse.          
But, there was Aunt Eliza tip-toeing in the dark          
guessing every secret hidden from view          
perhaps only the three wise men knew          
shaking, weighing, carefully assessing width x height + circumference          
sound in absence of light, to wit’s end          
conclusively batting her fake eyelashes, sweetly          
pleading "What did you get me, do tell…"          
         
"Aunt Eliza! You must wait, my lips are sealed to first light          
when we all gather to celebrate as one."          
And off I went for a walk; exasperated, confused          
who was the adult, who was the child          
hands full.          
         
Upon return, I found the house in shambles,          
disarrayed, upturned, jumbles of rumple          
She was wailing, crying, frantically searching          
“My ring, my ring, it’s gone, it’s lost!”          
descending, upending          
tears to waterfalls          
voice to murmurs          
culling, lulling          
every possibility nulled and void          
resigning to her loss.          
*          
*          
*          
         
For three days, the sun stopped rising and the moon folded its icy glare          
bored with monotony of grief.          
On Christmas morning Aunt Eliza adorned her smile,          
charging from the bedroom wearing her red taffeta dress          
greeting the gifts with exuberance          
unwrapping, admiring with surprised delight.          
         
When she opened the box of booties her esteem was utmost.          
How blue, how magnificent splendidly stupendous!          
And was it the right size?          
She threw her old tattered pair aside, slipping hastily the new ones.          
         
Alas, something wasn’t right          
Her feet had encountered a mysterious object          
obstructing the way.          
         
She removed the slippers with investigative squint          
shaking the booty upside down and out falls the ring!          
         
We all stared at it in disbelief.          
How did the ring get inside?          
*          
*          
*          
Curiosity may turn angels into daredevils          
It may even kill the cat          
but Aunt Aliza will never be a suspect          
in the art of resealing, rewrapping          
no fingerprints          
no witness.          
         
         
In other news,          
the case of missing baby Jesus          
continues….          
=============================================          
         
10/30            
Dear B,          
           
You would not believe            
the purple flowers blooming wildly            
on Jacaranda trees.  Petals covering            
the grounds like rugs in Persepolis.              
Watercolors of annuals, perennials            
inaugurating rains of spring.            
If I sent you pictures            
it wouldn’t do justice            
neither do my eyes seeing            
without your sight like silver coins            
sparkling on the shores of Cannon Beach.            
           
I have watched the moon’s            
twelve phases from my room            
and rivers of sky between us.            
Wondering where you are            
if you are watching the same stars.              
Do we taste grief alike?              
I make an offering in the dark, to gods of            
stones carved in salt.  In their silence            
wings grow to taste your mouth, words            
orphaned in the winds but somehow I find            
you within reach…in my heart.            
           
Tolstoy wrote in his stories:            
Life is a long chapter of misunderstandings            
in increments of tragedy, but            
there is always beauty in sufferings            
the agony of love…apart.            
======================================          
           
9/30            
A Poem Without Title            
           
I’m not sure what this poem is about            
it could be about anything and everything            
things that matter without pitter-patter.            
In the dust, in the gust without much fuss            
and it will never be construed for its depth            
or linguistic artistic expressions.            
           
Revisions, provisions or any kind of vision            
envisioning the worse like blank piece of paper            
mockingly grinning in its invisible threads            
despite the ink splattering in the brain;            
a Pollock painting disrupting all the grey.            
           
But what does it really matter            
without a subject and ample time            
when I can’t even weave            
two words to make a rhyme.            
Ahavati tells me to just write            
unfurling            
uncurling            
unctuously            
unassuming            
ad lib!            
O’ so liberating            
on and on and on…            
To pour wisdom and elegance            
like the greats: Keats, Poe and Loa            
timeless thinkers and takers            
inhaling earth’s grime and dirt            
exhaling beauty and wonder            
back to universe.            
           
Although, I’m proud of the title            
It’s everything            
if nothing.            
           
Original            
unique            
unpretentious.            
Perhaps I’ll call it            
“New and improved’            
Soliloquy            
solely            
mine at qua.            
=================================            
                        
8/30              
The Whore              
             
Rain              
drops              
heavy              
pounding the ground              
like spaghetti water through sieve              
merciless              
exuberant glee.              
             
The scene              
drenched in a song              
when we fumbled room to room              
falling helplessly into silky sheets.              
             
Giggles              
drowned in nothings              
whispered pixie in my ear.                
             
Later,              
when we knocked              
golden daffodils in a vase.              
             
I pretended not to care.                
             
He offered to read Bukowski              
“Prayer in bad weather”              
bookmarked              
yellow’d from lonely years              
but instead,              
I pulled the dictionary              
Inquisitively thumbing              
wildflowers and their roots              
latin and common              
pronouncing each word              
with a flare              
softly              
elongated              
with passing clouds.              
             
He listened eagerly              
sounds twisting lip to reap.              
             
“Whore”              
his voice cut              
dipped in timbre.              
“Would you want me to call you that?”              
chartering waywardly in my eyes.              
             
I turned the page slowly              
scrolling to its origin.              
             
“Whore” I repeated              
foreign on my tongue:              
Old English              
Germanic              
Dutch              
German              
Latin              
             
“Carus”              
             
“Yes, Dear,” I replied.              
             
That’s when I understood              
Buk and all his whores.              
             
So loved..Oh love              
             
Beloved.              
====================================              
             
7/30                
The Talk              
               
There wasn’t anything extraordinary                
of the moment, mother calling me in                
to have that talk which every girl for                
generations have known,                
the inevitable change to womanhood.                
               
Although, the day was as bright as ever                
and sounds outside clattered with same                
flittering tempo, comfortably allowing                
ripples of echo.  Her voice was quieter                
and the words were wisely measured                
“It only gets better with time and in time                
you will learn one must make choices.”                
               
She had loved once and once was enough                
in her lifetime.  Blooming in hands tender                
yet, strong.                  
She rouged her lips, perfumed her skin                
dressing in red because it was the color                
he adored and she adorned his desires.                  
My father cherished her and the luck                
bestowed, fanning the spark                
to never cease the fireworks.                
               
I’d watch them from the corner of my eye,                
in disbelief.  Happily ever afters do exist.                  
But—how could I tell mother that I’ve split                
more wishbones than one to free the bird                
with broken wings rattling in cage of bones                
who no longer recalls, the songs of the heart.              
=========================================              
               
6/30                    
Spring                
                   
Spring rains wash cold winds                    
winding last of winter’s fury                    
releasing its wheezing breath                    
brittle hold of uncouth fingers                    
                   
The earth splits open in praise                    
not prying too much in grace                    
hollows, sorrows surrender                    
quivering in moonlit paths                    
                   
Perennials & bulbs emerge                    
reliable, steady like prayers                    
blooming savagely, wildly                    
succulent tendrils in realm                    
                   
There, unfolds lip of purple iris                    
here, blue hydrangea clusters                    
aslant trellised trumpet vine                    
shy blossoms sway, lulled                    
                   
Fireflies light the dark canvass                    
whispering wisdom of trees                    
the honeysuckle’d life, haven                    
in arms.  Gods, Venus alight.                
                   
============================================                  
5/30                          
 Aunt Eliza                        
                         
There was always dirt under her fingernails                          
sunrise to sundown                          
cooking, cleaning, mending for her family                          
wearing the same gingham dress                          
or so it seemed, every day of the week                          
but somehow she managed to look clean;                          
spring’s haste in her footsteps                          
perfectly coiled hair in cannon of beehive                          
a flower tucked in the back                          
pink Maybelline on lips and scent of Tabu                          
lingered from her sunburned neck                          
commanding the light                          
children, cats, dogs, old and young                          
even the cuckoo bird, petrified in the clock.                          
                         
We would hear her voice                          
down the neighborhood, bouncing from walls                          
with a deep and slow accent                          
dragging the eee, pulling the ooo                          
yanking the words like an acrobat across the lawns                          
never missing a good idiom with a laugh.                          
                         
Her hands were ruthless yet; gentle, meticulous                          
the way she tackled preparations                          
like some kind of scientific formulation.                          
Wrapping grape leaves stuffed with rice,                          
lamb & herbs rolled in perfect little bundles                          
fingers branched like spines of a wing                          
each a river in harmony                          
rolling, coaxing soft and hard                          
dark crescents glistening beneath the tips.                          
                         
Everything was scrumptious                          
like La Petite Parisienne on Rue Marash                          
baked in small windowless kitchen                          
with her dirty hands, broken nails;                          
orange blossom honey cakes                          
pistachio filled Fillo nests and                          
crumbs of dirt in the glaze.                          
                         
The taste of home in every bite.                        
                       
====================================                      
4/30                      
The Jogger at 4am.                      
                     
The darkness wallowed in its own misery                        
thick with molasses opacity, hot and vicid                        
the air hovered over streets indecisively                        
dripping into streams from leaves, buildings                        
and automobiles. Scent of mildew and dust                        
unfurled slowly with systematic persistence                        
smothering with each drop, weight of water.                        
                       
The street lights were indifferent, heads in bow                        
silent witnesses to all creatures in fear of light                        
fretfully racing with urgency to win the fight.                        
Twin headlights sped cutting through shadows                        
leaving kaleidoscope of colors as afterthought                        
and a solitary thin frame appeared, jogging                        
hurriedly, running to..mayhap fro, the finish line.                      
=========================================                      
                     
3/30                      
Lying to a liar                      
                     
                        
More than once                      
I confessed a lie                      
to protect the truth                      
when you knew                      
one hundred people                      
could have told you                      
what you already knew.                      
                     
More than once                      
I pretended not to cry                      
to protect you from guilt                      
bestowed by your own whip                      
one thousand lashes                      
against your skin, reducing                      
a man to his knees.                      
                     
Once I knelt                      
Rubbing ointment on your feet                      
blisters, burns and bedraggled                      
looking up to your eyes                      
searching for the boy, lost                      
who cried wolf                      
one too many times                      
lying to your lies                      
to protect your fears                      
now we both lie (separately)                      
in our tears.                      
                     
More than once                      
you have walked that (familiar)                      
lonely road                      
paved by your hands                      
criss- crossing, every step                      
now yours, again                      
all on your own.                      
======================================                    
                     
2/30                    
The Stage                    
                     
Silence breaks in half to the sound of thunder                        
and echoes cascade in the distance, fearful                        
to disturb the night longing liberation of solitude                        
crawling to the horizon ‘pon stars at deathbed.                        
                      
I tiptoe in the empty rooms searching for lightening                        
to jolt fractured pieces of life in despair to repair                        
the vast spaces of void, weightless artifacts                        
lay at half mass covered with dust and the rusty tin                        
roof overhead sizzles under tempo of raindrops                        
muffling last summer’s temper of lustful expectations.                        
Velvet curtains sway apprehensively at the shrine of                        
panes pretending indifference at the erratic static                        
rising staccato to pounding marcato.. in vain.                        
                      
Cold seeps beneath my feet, through bones                        
feeling chill of the earth turned inside out, reflected                        
to brooding sky above, absence aligned erred to                        
recreate footnotes of a golden past: reposed, beheld.                    
===========================================                    
                   
1/30                    
The Three Month Old King                    
                   
Come in little new year, crawl right in                      
shy of four months with a halo of a dead moon                      
‘round your reared head, bearing headline news                      
we were worried on arrival, speculating                      
the unimaginable: pains, gains and heartbreaks                      
carrying last year’s wars, bombs and shrapnel                      
to cut right through the skin                      
revealing disease of all mankind                      
on full volume topping the charts.                      
A Corona…the coronet of your 3 month reign                      
but we both know the core of the truth                      
there are just too many of us populating the earth                      
destructing more than constructing                      
undeserved to live longer than we should                      
on someone else’s watch                      
which stopped ticking at quarter to two.                      
                     
I won’t slap your back for a job well done                      
nor hear you wail at thieves of the sun                      
cutting from one end to patch another                      
each on its own solitary road to hell.                      
I won’t confess my sins, nor yours                      
on wobbly knees in the church of obsoletes                      
the holy water is someone else’s piss                      
and the communion wafer is laced                      
with Monsanto blessings, instead                      
I will suck the air my neighbor breathes                      
eat the words tossed carelessly, and                      
lick the walls my government builds                      
washing it down with a cheap bottle of booze                      
and a dose of faith to taste the color of hope.                      
After all,  “In God We Trust.”