“To a Fellow Politician in Washington, July 6th, 2017”

I remember you once asked,

How should I best serve the people?”

What I’ll tell you will sound hard

but is naturally and fearfully easy.

First, you wanna work at night

when the dazzling stars inspire smooth rhetoric.

In private, mind you. Public needs require secret newsfeeds.

Be sure you have the right tools and the right spot.

What you design in the dark should sound like this:

Each American should have their own place of rest,

fashioned with our lightly taxed cloth

pillows full as a soft father’s hands,

blankets tight as a woman’s grip.

His bed should be framed by the sturdiest wood,

fitting all and only his substance;

teach him to be an individual

and chase his own American Dream,

with no helping hand but yours.

They may wonder about random stuff like

the grave, or the coffin, or what happens at night,

but you can always call the rugged earth a smooth garden

or the grave God’s good and biblical passport.

They’ll each fill so rested and relaxed,

they’ll soon fall asleep and pose no more questions.

Only then can you slowly root them in the country.

If they were awake, they’d tend to wander

about and beyond the border of the lid.

This is OUR nation, afterall.

When others ask “Why?” “Where?” “How?” “When?” you can say:

A terrorist kidnapped him” or “He wasn’t educated right” or such.

They’ll never suspect you.

And even if the sleepers awake, it’ll be too late.

They’ll be shut in the black, screaming.

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“The Rainbow”

Everyday the weather is the same.

Calm light blue tranquility, a child’s blanket,

slowly invaded by ambiguous grenade smoke

which only grows over time, making me sick,

casting my hope in a grey and damp pallor.

 

The ashy fog barks. And barks. Rumbles softly. Rumbles loudly.

The sparks are like gunshots, the sky Satan’s smeared portrait.

My ears become an explosion. Light speeds over my eyes.

I run into the house like I run into my mind, whenever it storms.

 

The rain falls fast and wet as I sigh relief.

The thunder may rage, but the water doesn’t admit it homage.

Yet before I get used to the clear runny wall,

the sunlight swallows the stream and glows.

 

Back out on the gravel I look up:

a bridge of colors arcs from the smoke.

Though I only discern some of them,

I know life has many shades,

 

like the smooth yellow sands traversed by camel feet,

their riders laughing to an Arabic tune,

or the yellow warning sign over barbed wire

beyond where men enginner enigmatic evils,

 

like the rushing blue waves under an American surfer;

he smiles at the thriving lusty beach,

while in the northern, colder country

a lost hunter’s dead face waxes blue in the brush,

 

like the rolling green hills where little blondes

tumble and play with the fluffy dogs

and where, silent in the green grass,

snakes hiss, smelling where to strike the childrens’ feet,

 

or like pink ribbons symbolic of victory over death,

they march the streets cheering progress,

while in some abandoned apartment

pink eyes no longer shut themselves in ease.

 

So many colors, so many storms and bows.

Everyday the weather is the same.

Making me sick.

Yet I rejoice.

For though I know today that somewhere

red blood will be shed on the ground,

such ground was long ago purchased

with red blood eternally new.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Tired Sailor”

In order to discover the world
that lied outside his door,
a young man sailed under some sails.

He first thought that the globe
was as flat as a light blue plate,
but soon came to realize that it
was as round as a light blue bowl,

For when he floated around,
he saw the same lands
with the same houses
with the same people.

But when he continued to see
the same lands
with the same houses
with the same people,
his spirit grew stale;
no new winds to sail by.

Yet through the clock’s current,
curiosity once again flowed into his head:
“What lies at the bottom of the sea-bed?”

So the old man,
dreaming a new dream
of mysteries untold
being unfolded,
dived into the light blue bowl,
wearing gear made from
each era’s egotisms.

But the sailor never surfaced,
swallowed by the rushing fury
that washes newborns ashore,
and yet,
that reclaims them forevermore;
a sinister, dark blue bowl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Grandmow’s Nightmare”

After another loving day of labor
she dreams:

She’s driving me
down the timeless,
unchangeable road of life
because she cares.

The road is so curvy
it makes your mood swing,
but since her eyes focus
better than my dreamy ones,
we do not wreck.

We wonder,
with dread inside,
what lies over the hopeful guardrail
blocking us from the embankment
leading to a descending end.

We ride safely,
till Destiny
blows out a tire.
We stop by the rail
to collect our minds,
checking to see if we
thought too much air
or too little.

With her love-focused sight
she fixes the tire
just like she’s fixed everything else.
She calls “Devin!” to confirm
that her mission is complete.

Then she hears a sound,
a sound that’s as real
as a shriek or a scream;
a deathly black transfer
howls down the road,
shaking her and her car with
a warning:
the trip is fleeting.

“Devin! Devin!”
She hears nothing.
Then feels nothing.
Eyes darting everywhere
she sees me nowhere;
except two grandbaby tokens:
a shirt and a shoe.

A crash pulsates through her ears
and into her heart;
she looks over the hopeful guardrail
now torn apart
and knows that the truck,
senseless as it is,
has crashed her dear grandson.

Grandmow, I’m afraid of that transfer.
And I know you are too.

But listen:
That truck will catch you too,
and you’ll crash down through the last stage
as we all must do.

But at the bottom of the mountain
lies a beach;

it’s sands are smoother than a hug,
it’s waters more refreshing
than a fine dinner.
The birds that fly there
do not fly in fear.
Those that swim
in its waters
swim forever,
never growing tired.

I’ll be standing there,
waiting for you,
no cracked bones,
no bloody figure.
Just me, me as you’ve
ever wanted me to be
and more.

I think we’ll take a walk
down the shore,
no needing to focus your eyes.
And perhaps we’ll sing a song together,
as song that says:
The Trip is never fleeting.