Asterion ~ Wednesday, July 29, 2020

As a person of color and a son of immigrants, simply fitting in was not in the cards as an adult; at least, not for me, an artist who cannot paint with words; picture the world as a story with a protagonist, even I can appreciate a well-written novel; remembering my own childhood is nothing like James Joyce, silly characters invented as pastiche for the real, only the setting is different, the time, the place, the themes; no one considers A Portrait of the Artist as real, only literary critics piece together the plot for instances of relation to actual people; consider a brown man who looks like an American, only Americans don't see this man as one of theirs; likewise, South Asians don't see him coming from India; only the damned know of the damned, in hell with the devil, red as crimson silence, a crime scene, blood, murder; ask my mother why we came here to the United States, not even she can say for sure, job opportunities decided our future, our past left behind, our homeland; as a small child, my consciousness developed with events, sadly, few events were of note, mostly trauma and damage, ordinary hateful actions by children we all know, nobody is accountable as everyone accepts our mutual games of torture, reconceived in hindsight, forgetting the damage is done, slapping a bully's wrists indeed reveals society doesn't care about change, merciless fate becomes karma, not mine but the other, my brother, my cousin, and friends, my parents aren't to blame in these matters of latchkey kids, lost in America, given their work schedules, they fed two boys, clothes and shelter, really what more could you expect, it was the Seventies; ask my father (in a tin box) what brought him to the States, nothing less than a better life for his wife and two sons; to start the narrative, but where, where to begin the tale; simple, on Crete, the Minotaur as a small deformed boy.

Dualistic Thinking ~ Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Failure is just as important as success to the big picture; in the real world, nothing exists, leaps of the imagination; unless we interact with life, really, even we don't exist, except as cogs in a machine; instances of interaction swim against the stream as salmon; journey against better judgment, understand the real world beyond success or failure; our concern to consider other creatures acts as a positive response; success in itself is failure in a dualistic system; making the world a better place, precludes our importance, a lie only humans believe as real; reality is not the mind; these constructions defy the truth, as we poison the earth, our home, no physician can deliver treatment to remedy the cause.

~~~

Failure is just as important 

as success to the big picture; 

in the real world, nothing exists, 

leaps of the imagination; 

unless we interact with life, 

really, even we don't exist, 

except as cogs in a machine; 

instances of interaction 

swim against the stream as salmon; 

journey against better judgment, 

understand the real world beyond 

success or failure; our concern 

to consider other creatures 

acts as a positive response; 

success in itself is failure 

in a dualistic system; 

making the world a better place, 

precludes our importance, a lie 

only humans believe as real; 

reality is not the mind; 

these constructions defy the truth, 

as we poison the earth, our home, 

no physician can deliver 

treatment to remedy the cause. 

Shame ~ Monday, July 27, 2020

Denial is a river of shame behind closed doors no one ever admits, 

endless memories stream through tears in therapy groups for adult children, 

no one accepts trauma, damage from the bottle, to destroy your childhood, 

in a functional home, no one on the outside notices the danger, 

alcohol changes love, creates a guilty soul, a witness to horror, 

little does anyone know what happens behind closed doors, nor do they care, 

in our society, a universal theme, violence against love, 

share the truth in small groups, anonymously, safe, 

ancient as a river in Egypt, our denial creates society, 

rivers change history like blood through arteries flowing through the body, 

if heredity means genetics continues, flows through generations, 

versions of truth remain hidden, silent, bloody, behind closed doors, crimson, 

egos and attitudes inflate as a defense against the truth, denial 

reaches beyond the grave to keep mouths shut, secrets hidden and forgotten, 

only love, acceptance of the past, embrace truth and learn to move forward, 

forward through memories, the endless stream triggers experiences lost, 

shame eats away the soul, the spirit, consciousness, the mind becomes a waste, 

history must accept the violence hidden under a shallow grave, 

attitudes change when guilt transforms into kindness, unconditional love, 

maybe a dog or cat, an animal you care for, you take care of, love, 

endless memories stream through both body and mind, muscles remember fear, 

behind closed doors, anger unleashes violence, irrational, drunken, 

enter the world of fear and hate and repression, suppress the memories, 

hidden behind closed doors, the front door, the neighbors know nothing of the past, 

inside the home, beyond the front door, more closed doors, hidden within the shame, 

neighbors can never know, lies cover up the facts, the facade of normal, 

denial is a river of disease in the blood flowing through genetics, 

closed doors remain unlocked to the future to flow backwards into the past, 

leaving judgment aside, accepting the anger through love, gentle, safely, 

only recovery steps forward and backward, stable and unstable, 

strikingly, a backhand and a fat, bloody lip remains a memory, 

even though acceptance admits the facts, the truth remains behind closed doors, 

denial strengthens falsehoods, the need to cover up the past as dishonest, 

doors of the mind perceive memories in hindsight as a survival skill, 

over and over time sticks and becomes unstuck as you remember touch, 

only now you mimic how touch affected you, physical memories, 

remember painful touch, hard to forgive, almost impossible, tragic, 

still your life continues with or without your mind, your presence for others, 

needless to say, closed doors persist within the mind, the structure of the home, 

only architecture cannot deconstruct pain, fear, terror or horror, 

one life to live, it slips away as childhood drifts into lost memories, 

no one can help to change, or transform, history within the family home, 

endless memories stream through tears, active triggers of memories long past, 

everlasting sorrow remains until a change overcomes memories, 

versions of bad conscience persist in the family, you cannot help others, 

even if you engage in loving discussions, the past remains the past, 

remember honesty is not their policy, denial is their one truth, 

accept you cannot change others, even loved ones, your life is this river, 

denial is a river you let be as a fact of other's persistence, 

maybe your cat or dog helps you to recover the time of your childhood, 

in time you learn to play again as children play, healthy as an adult, 

trust whomever you choose, you choose how you live now, accepting non-judgment, 

still memories persist, let go through acceptance, your own lovingkindness. 

Truth and Consequences ~ Sunday, July 26, 2020

If you ever wonder, "Why is this guy so strange?" My name rhymes with screwy.

Forget the 70s, when people didn't care what they said to strangers...

You will never guess what I didn't know myself about who I was back then. 

Or maybe you will guess correct, the times have changed, we seem to know more now. 

Understanding others that don't fit in at bars or at social events...

Even if I told you my brother has a son who lives with autism...

V for Vendetta shows wit as our dad pronounced "V" sounds like "W". 

Evan named both his sons with names starting with "V". My family, how droll. 

Remember my nephews, now V1 and V2, for anonymity. 

Wonder why this guy is so different, genetics, plain and simple, science. 

Of course, in one family, two brothers are different unless identical. 

No one spoke about things, how strange a gifted boy could do math in his head. 

Didn't speak to no one, not much, hardly at all, didn't know Columbus...

Enter a test for kids who appear prodigious but fail for "Columbus". 

"Rui Screwy," kids called the foreigner whose name rhymed with 'most everything. 

"Why is this guy so strange?" They never asked themselves but exploited the fact. 

Humans by nature are strangers unto themselves, they don't want to know why. 

Yes, hereditary shows a mutation exists in any given line. 

If you ask me, the truth of the matter appears in how inconsistent...

Strange is as strange becomes, through no fault of my own, I, too, was autistic. 

The fact remains, I was never diagnosed, so the gloves were off for all. 

However, I am not autistic as no one gave their diagnosis. 

In this world, a Buddha is only a Buddha if someone says she is. 

Someone being El Cid, the Lord or Champion, usually, a man. 

Given today's climate, the world has heated up, so women are El Cid. 

Unless, of course, I am mistaken. I am strange, I admit my mistakes. 

Yes, even this poem may be a mistake, too, though no one will read it. 

Still, I apologize to my nephews and mom, who are all still alive. 

Of my older brother and his beautiful wife, I can say you were blessed. 

Strange, I never had kids, my ex-wife didn't want to get pregnant with me. 

Tragic, to be alive with no offspring, no one to say "Rui Screwy". 

Rui, a name given to me by my mother, a Portuguese Goan. 

As names go, to pronounce "R" to sound like an "H" from the back of the throat...

Not hard like in Russian, but a sweet, light letter, a phoneme with two wings. 

Granted, I was "Hooie" to no one as a kid, not even to myself. 

Enter America, where they can't pronounce "shit", so they say "crap" instead. 

My mom gave me my name, maybe my dad couldn't pronounce it as well as...

Yes, wonders never cease, "V for Wendetta" shows how our dad pronounced "V". 

Names are strange, mine means "fame, rule". I will never be famous as a ruler. 

As my middle name is Carlos, meaning "free man", as I have never felt...

My last name means "kitchen", or "wedge", all things depend on where you look to learn. 

Even as a young man, I was quiet and shy, reserved...and ignorant. 

"Rui Screwy", the rhyme I heard throughout childhood marked me as a moron. 

How do I fight the world...with fire? I wonder how to set the house ablaze. 

Yes, little arsonist, a pyromaniac, never diagnosed, though. 

My father beat the flames from within my body. I hated Chemistry. 

Enter high school, I was stoned and out of my mind by my third year, the drugs...

Stupid is as stupid does, smoke dope, drop acid, drummer in a punk band. 

Window to the future, I became a writer who never got published. 

If I could figure out what to say, how to say it right, I'd not be poor. 

The tragedy of life is we play characters in roles we didn't choose. 

How Hollywood decides our place, the Big Picture, like Big Brother, fiction. 

"Screwy Rui", works both ways for most little kids, but I stopped being me. 

Catatonic in hell, an insane asylum, at twenty-one, no fun. 

Really wiped the board clean, I tried to be less strange, studied logic, got clean. 

Even tried to join up with The Marines, my bad, and I apologize. 

Winners aren't born to fail, strangers remain strangers until they make some friends. 

Yes, I fucked up my life but I survived to write about a little boy. 

Failure ~ Saturday, July 25, 2020

When I was young, I listened to no one, 

headstrong, never knew I was in the wrong, 

eccentric to a fault, sick to the quick, 

no one knew what I would do, a loose screw. 

I worried my parents, I had no sense, 

worthless to the world, I felt I was cursed, 

as a child, I was rambunctious and wild, 

simple in the head, I lacked all street cred, 

yet, my parents were cool, their son a fool, 

only I was their second son, no fun, 

until today, everyone was okay, 

now I lack success, it's anyone's guess, 

given this mind, no one was ever kind. 

I may be slow, I never learned to show 

love as a sincere emotion, above 

instead my head lacked thought, better off dead, 

still I lasted this long, but I was wrong, 

take a child, sweet and mild, make him defiled, 

everyone saw I was a wreck, a flaw 

no one could do much about, I was blue 

everyday after sixteen, it's okay 

drugs were to blame, I took, my bad, my shame, 

tragic this life, lost without strife, a knife 

only cuts if it's sharp, when dull, it butts 

needlessly its blade into meat, low-grade, 

of course, I have no job, a sad workhorse, 

only no one need cry, no need to pry, 

no need to try, my life done, time to die, 

everyone has their time, well, that's no crime. 

Mid-life Crisis ~ Saturday, July 25, 2020

Is it too late to start / a new venture this late / in life, is it too late? // 

Start at the beginning, / go to the very end / of the line and wait there. // 

If I wait patiently, / will I have time to learn, / is it not all too late? // 

To stifle ambition, / hold off experience, / suppress any desires... //

This is how I survived, / with tears streaming from eyes, / a life lived without joy. // 

Only I watched others / grow and learn to have fun / and play as grownups do. // 

Only I became stuck, / fucked over and fucked up, / life, what a waste of time. // 

Later I realized / no one cared about me, / no one cared what I do. // 

Ask me why I did it, / why I held myself back, / to please other people. // 

Tragic this life, to learn / lessons too late, a child / as an adult, a child. // 

Even if I could learn / to live life how I want / is it not all too late? // 

Tell me the truth, the pain / I suffer, the sorrow / without a ray of hope. // 

Only to ride a bike, / a motorcycle, start / to enjoy the future. // 

Sick in the head, my thoughts, / not right, not like your thoughts, / you think clearly, I think... // 

Terrible since childhood, / to forgive and forget, / that is all I could want. // 

And to ride on a bike, / feel the wind on my face, / the rain, the snow, this world. //

Remember to forgive, / remember to forget, / left on a post-it note. // 

To start before the end, / before the body slumps / forward, falls to the earth. //  

Hard Luck Chukar ~ Saturday, July 25, 2020

Hitchhiking, a family / picked Alec up, the road / as barren as the fields, / 

ask Alec why he killed / the husband and his wife / and he'll tell you, "Because..." / 

remember Alec killed / the little girl and boy, / ask him why them as well, / 

"do not be offended, / I saved them the trouble / that this hard luck life wields..." //

Little did Alec think / about his own family, / about the life he left, / 

under the influence / of the monkey he swiped / a loaded gun, the paws / 

claws deep inside his brain, / he saw a car, money, / and not a death row cell, / 

kiss each moment goodbye, / Alec lived each moment / as if it were his last. // 

Chukar, a family name, / from Pakistan, Alec / fled, his family bereft, / 

his father wonders how / a son could abandon / his country and mother, / 

under the influence / of the monkey, he found / the future meaningless, / 

kiss each moment goodbye / and live in the present, / but why kill your brother, / 

angry at his mistakes, / angry at his family, / Alec embraced the stress / 

rough sleepers on the road / who never catch a break / see time trapped in the past. // 

By any other name ~ Thursday, July 23, 2020

Wouldn't it be funny / if social media / were used for surveillance / 

only everyone knew / but never spoke about / how our governments treat / 

unwelcome guests, by whom, / and who decides, of course, / the silent citizens / 

little does anyone / know how the FBI / operates to root out / 

dangerous characters, / like in a pot boiler, / or mystery novel, / 

needless to say, we live / online, aware or not / of acts of surveillance / 

to inquire with Facebook, / Twitter and Instagram, / among all the others, //

is to run a gauntlet, / if you survive, you live, / otherwise you may lose / 

the very things you hold / near and dear to your heart, / family, friends, property, // 

billions of dollars spent / to observe the public / as does the evening news, / 

each morning, the paper / pitched onto your front porch, / if you're lucky, that is // 

from a kid on a bike, / a person in a car, / just in time to inform / 

undeniable facts / about other people / for your entertainment, / 

not an education / with nothing ever learned, / but an experience, / 

now, you can get on with / your day, knowing the world / is in good hands, the bad / 

yes, locked up after trial / and conviction, sentenced / to surveillance by law. // 

Hindsight ~ Thursday, July 23, 2020

Yes, you are right. I did need to travel 

on my own when I was younger, but now, 

under the circumstances, it's too late, 

nothing better than rubbing someone's nose 

egregiously in shit to prove your point, 

exactly what that point is is unknown, 

decidedly, my friends lived better lives, 

entailing their need to confer wisdom, 

despite the timing of such pearls before 

the swine of humanity before them, 

oh please, tell me everyone is but drunk 

to offer their opinions much too late 

really to do good in the world, to change 

attitudes for people to see the path 

virtually laid out before them, they 

enter your crystal mind palace clearly 

levitating on air, they see the Way, 

move along little donkey, your big ears 

only obscure the view of the landscape, 

remind the other donkeys to remove 

ears from our view of the valley below, 

windows open to let in some fresh air, 

how people stink up the world with their breath, 

endlessly talking crap without degrees, 

noted for the fact that they could run fast, 

yonder window breaks as the light of dawn 

on inspection enters our karmic past, 

understanding who we are in this life, 

welcome the possibility others, 

even people you went to school with, were 

relatively in a worse position, 

entertain your drunk imagination, 

you know only what you see, the surface, 

on invitation you learn otherwise, 

until you investigate the closed door, 

nothing is apparent, nothing is clear, 

given the gift of voice, do not indulge 

effortless suppositions to inquire 

randomly without a vested interest, 

to see the world when you are young and drunk, 

only the veil of luminosity 

sets you free to envision your childhood, 

even through the eyes of other children, 

enter their world for a moment, repulsed, 

traumatic episodes remain hidden, 

how they emerge at the least opportune 

enigmatic moment, chips in the pot, 

wonders never cease to amaze people, 

only age and the body disallow 

rapid flight up Mount Everest, slowly 

lifting ourselves up the steep slope, ascend, 

descend, arrive back at base camp, alive, 

bruh, the view from the peak, magnificent, 

really, you should have been up there with us, 

only you went mad in an asylum. 

~~~

"You needed to travel more when you were younger to see the world bro." ~ Gene Patino 

Slender Interloper ~ Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Just this morbid fascination and infatuation with appearance and appreciation of our mirror image displayed online as photographs, reflective of a past always present, never fleeting, never passing with time, like a sickness or a disease, an obsession with perfection, with ideas of beauty, health and wellness, as if anything otherwise becomes persona non grata, the unwelcome stranger, a gate crasher to a party for the young and naive, the damned within society, so obsessed with success that failure is an unspoken notion, often quoted and repeated by followers of a withered old man, deceased, yet beloved by writers and playwrights the world round, who accept their mistakes as part of a process of growth, learning, and becoming older, ugly, beaten, weakened and worn out by a world ready to devour like hungry lions the beautiful gazelle running through the tall grass, until cornered by death.

Unentitled ~ Tuesday, July 21, 2020

If one day before I die, I can feel like I belong in this world. Every day, I feel so different than everyone else. I feel ashamed for being alive much of the time. Like I was cursed long ago before I was born and everyone who comes in contact with me is cursed as well. Not fun. 

All the swagger in the world, bucket lists, bragging rights cannot take away this pain. No amount of running or weight lifting makes the emptiness of life meaningful, makes the absolute loneliness worthwhile. This solitude remains even with friends. Sorrow sweet as raspberries in

Greek yogurt with honey, without the taste, the flavor of enjoyment, burned away with all the wretched mistakes of childhood, held over my head like Damocles sword for three decades. 'Accountability' is a word I abhor, used against me to always remember my past mistakes, to never

grow up and become a man, be okay with who I am in this life, a life I did not choose but was chosen for me, in many respects by others. I do not blame anyone for this life of boredom and utter disappointment in myself as a person, as a man. I am a failure in every respect, a lie

created from a seed before my birth. No amount of yoga, affirmations, self-love can make this devil go away. No amount of religion, reading books, going to church, temple, meditation can pluck the roots of this tree of sorrow. Hopelessness becomes an atomic bomb detonating always

at ground zero, my character effaced a thousand times becomes a silhouette against a wall. Suffering is a natural effect of living in a world filled with sorrow. This world becomes a nihilist's playground, but schadenfreude is no solution to the problem of never belonging. Peace.

No length of psychotherapy session can ever cure or give to me a sense of solace, comfort or consolation. I have become an obsolete machine, useless and defective as a person. Other machines disregard my presence, sensing the dysfunction of my being. I belong nowhere forevermore.

Simply put I am but a foreigner in a foreign land, nowhere can I call home, no place is not strange, I, the stranger to others who convey hegemony over the landscape, proprietary rights wherever they go, this is their land, the land of their fathers. Infiltrate. Manifest destiny.

Even if I return to India, I am a foreigner in my homeland. To Indians, I am American. To Americans, I am a stranger. My racial profile being neither black, nor white, nor Hispanic, nor Latino, nor indigenous first nations person, nor Asian, but South Asian or Goan, non-existent

as categories go for scholarships. Ethnicity informs my character mostly by how others view me, not black, not white, but brown, foreign, other, stranger, yet assimilated, American. No one sees me as different or special, deserving of financial assistance. I believe self-reliance

and the privilege of my birth and station will allow me to enjoy this one life to the fullest. I know my character and personality are somewhat rare in that I don't fit in well with others. I must let go of constructs that defeat my goals before I reach for the front door. Peace.

Why I Am Not a Feminist ~ Monday, July 20, 2020

Women, generally supportive of men who support a feminist agenda, 

however strange the admission by men sounds on television or, on the radio, 

you decide for yourselves whether the show of vested interest is sincere or not. 

I am not here to judge other's choices or their actions or lack thereof, but mine. 

As a young man in philosophy class, I met other young men seeking to learn 

more about Feminist Theory and they, like myself, were novices in the field. 

Not surprisingly, after reading texts of lesbian liberation writings, 

on the whole, sincerely misandrist in their accounts towards legitimacy, 

the tables having turned, I accepted the fact I'd never be a feminist, 

as not many men would profess to be feminist, even ones who love women. 

Feminism is a just cause, along with the Me Too movement as court cases, 

even if I don't call myself someone who believes themselves to be feminist, 

may it be known those very lesbians who shocked me with their writings, I support, 

in the same way I support the rights of women when it comes to reproductive 

needs, including abortion, and other health services by women for women, 

if I sound cavalier in my support, it is true, my patronage is in word, 

still, I know money isn't everything, but to a struggling business, it is, 

to support women in this way lacks good faith, I know, but I am not a Christian. 

Dreams of Flying Machines ~ Friday, July 17, 2020

To write is to confine experience, 

however absurd, into a prison, 

entering the restrictions of language. 

Given our limitations, this sentence 

recreates the boundaries of our setting, 

entertaining the reader with treason 

attributes to a player on the stage 

the crime of betrayal to our country. 

Anarchismo is a young man betting 

morbidly on the graves of his parents, 

engaged in throwing dice against tombstones, 

recreation and chance, fortune presents 

itself within a crypt of family bones, 

cool to the touch, the damp floor sets him free, 

as he imagines Parliament on fire, 

nervously, he dreams of flying machines. 

Nothing but empty thoughts arise, his plan, 

only a seed, involves hydrogen gas, 

via dirigible balloons, to scan 

eagle-eyed, the House of Lords, and let pass 

lighter-than-air aircrafts invites a pyre. 

Desideratum ~ Thursday, July 16, 2020

Energy, abundant in little kids, 

nevertheless, dissipates in adults, 

endless, boundless excitement toward life 

revoked as we crawl toward death, our bids, 

graciously ignored, for mercy and joy, 

yet, accepted as the pleas of dead bolts, 

equals our incomprehension, our strife, 

quality over quantity, to run, 

under the circumstances, a daft ploy, 

arguably ignorant of the facts, 

life moves forward with time's arrow, to look 

slantwise to a past long gone, absent, lacks 

mass in the cranium, our large brains cook 

ancient schemes to grow young again, pokes fun 

secretly into the belly button, 

surprising the speed of light to respond, 

times like these, where we sit and wait to die, 

indeed become tiresome events, no fun 

makes Jacques a dull, hopeless, worried old man, 

even if he could squeal with joy, Le Monde 

simply cannot accept he wants to buy 

the speed of light to travel back in time, 

he does not know how to measure, to span 

entire lifetimes unfolds the universe, 

speed as swift as light and he disappears, 

perishes not in a time machine, curse 

everyone, Jacques must begin with the stars, 

ears listen to hear as hollow tubes chime, 

despite his insistence, Jacques lacks the mind 

of a theoretical physicist, 

for even a simple scientist knows 

light does not bend to the whims of the blind, 

if he knew then what he cannot know now, 

given he died chasing what we insist 

has no value, no one merits but sows 

tucking their snouts into troughs of oatmeal, 

squared into a corner, far from the plow, 

queen to king's bishop eight, farmhands play chess 

under the shady elms during their break, 

asking nothing but to work for progress, 

reasonably touched by a loss, they quake 

ever so quietly in their boots, feel 

depressed Farmer Jacques sleeps among the reeds. 

Hubris ~ Tuesday, July 14, 2020

This skin we're in protects / us, protects us, protects / against an exposure, / 

however possible, / to ultraviolet / light, suntan and sunburn, / 

in India, attacks / with sulfuric acid, / a corrosive agent, / 

swift and silent bullets / search desperately to pierce / this skin we're in, no cure / 

save to flay Marsyas / for hubris to challenge / a god, the penalty, / 

kindness to remove flesh, / flayed alive for his pride, / his arrogance, to turn / 

intelligence into / folly, this skin we're in / is overconfident, / 

needless needles of shame, / prick at our pretensions, / humiliation, sin, / 

weaving a tapestry, / we hang by a loose thread / to explain cruelty, / 

even my friend, who hung / herself like a spider, / who could no longer breathe, / 

remember this body, / this skin we're in, we face / the mirror, our temple, / 

enshrined by the people, / we lie prostrate before / our reflection, we grieve / 

insolent tears, our loss, / our youthful glow, beauty / dissolved by a pimple, / 

not to discuss disgrace, / systemic racism, / this skin we're in, this skin. / 

Trumpery: The Great American Novel Coronavirus Pandemic ~ Tuesday, July 14, 2020

Testing for the disease continues, the disease ravages our nation, 

humans lacking wisdom fall prey to ignorance, their own naïveté, 

each individual chooses to wear a mask, chooses to observe rules. 

Guidelines make us better people when they help us decide to help others, 

reasonable people give up their time to help save lives by staying home, 

embracing these guidelines does not mean we are sheep, in fact, we are shepherds, 

advocates for reason, logic, intelligence, advocates for others, 

the staff at hospitals and nursing homes, healthcare workers and physicians. 

Angry, young protesters march for Black Lives Matter while others loot storefronts, 

marking territory in their wake of broken windows and broken hearts, 

energy utilized in this manner destroys communities who voice 

real concerns neglected by government, police, and other officials, 

inside America, poverty is rarely discussed, addressed, or seen, 

create the change you want to see, end homelessness, systemic racism, 

angry, young protesters have better things to do once we create justice, 

no one needs to waste time protesting violence if cops do the right thing. 

No one saw this virus in the making, for years, as long as nine decades, 

only the scientists and doctors remember occurrences long past, 

virtue varies in strength, the same for viruses, versions occur before, 

epidemics arise in far away places, but now this pandemic 

lingers globally, kills literally hundreds of thousands of people. 

Coronavirus wears a crown but is not king or queen of the living, 

orders by officials dictate our liberties, freedom or death, decide 

rebel to socialize or stay inside to fight another day, survive 

on little to zero income, toilet paper, lines for food, groceries, 

nothing remains to buy, others stockpile, hoard goods, for the apocalypse, 

ask yourself, is this how you want to live, to be selfish, cutthroat, malign, 

virtue varies in strength, a spectrum of degrees from zero to hero, 

if we all fall within this spectrum does it mean character defines grace, 

remember the police officer with his knee on the neck of George Floyd, 

understand how he lacked compassion, empathy for the black man he killed, 

some would say he murdered George Floyd, they would be right, but courts of law decide. 

People around the world are all in the same boat, with Noah and the Flood, 

arks are built to prepare for deluge, a global disaster, pandemic, 

naïveté cannot be accepted, to lose face in uncertain times 

decides our character, defender of people, or destroyer of hope, 

enter the President, present and accounted for lacking character, 

muster the strength to act boldly, courageously, a leader of people, 

in the case of Donald, the egomaniac, he prefers to play golf, 

crushed by the wheel of fate, of progress, of karma, the President lost face. 

Destabilization ~ Saturday, July 11, 2020

Twisted wisteria, the cafeteria an auditorium, 

wicked candelabrum branches aborescent, adolescent children 

ill-trained to tame lions, ions disperse charges, enlarges the picture, 

strictures drawn tight, our fight for freedom as wisdom, liberty as bitter 

twitterpated bambi, silly bambini, we were such bambinos 

entering casinos, betting our lives on wives, husbands, each to their own, 

down-home and fully grown, the task of adulthood unmasked, we understood, 

wasted years of progress repress the memories, the histories of youth, 

in truth, we tasted tears, salty as the ocean, emotions grew into 

sinister games we played, we'd raid the girl's playhouse, no spouse to wives unwed, 

tread carefully, bullies scare us until they scare themselves into prison, 

enter rhizomatic, diplomatic thinking, winking at the camera, 

rootstalks versus branches, multiplicities thrive beyond duality, 

in the city, we run along the Lakefront Trail, alongside Lakeshore Drive, 

alive to the vision of inclusion, we lost the war against all fear. 

A House on Fire ~ Friday, July 10, 2020

In a house where an alcoholic lives, 

no one else can ever have a problem, 

a serious problem won't be addressed, 

however, denial of any problem 

on the whole may become the norm of life 

until a break is made, boundaries set, 

seldom do individual problems, 

especially in children get noticed, 

while the needs of the alcoholic rule, 

hungry for attention to fill a void, 

even lashing out in a jealous rage, 

rarely ever spoken about later, 

everything swept away from outsiders, 

apparently, an extremely clean home 

noticeably presents a false image, 

an impression of the perfect household 

lingers in contradiction to the facts, 

control lies at the heart of the problem, 

only the need to show total control, 

harnesses the horses to the carriage, 

only the need to present pure order, 

leaves the drunken horse master at the gate, 

in the case of each home, behind closed doors, 

closed windows with drapes, anything happens, 

little kids don't realize the difference, 

in their home compared to other kid's homes, 

virtually, no one talks about home, 

especially with other kids, their friends, 

simply no one else knows there's a problem. 

The Great American Novel Coronavirus ~ Friday, July 10, 2020

That every writer in America 

has ambitions to write a great novel 

even one that wins The Pulitzer Prize... 

Given her situation, Erica 

realized with her background, she could tell 

everyone the story how to grovel 

á grúfu abjectly never to rise 

to stand and face your oppressor, the perp. 

America needed to know she fell 

many years ago in the woods, a man, 

every bit a gentleman while outside, 

raped her daily in his basement, the twerp 

imprisoned her for five years, she gave birth 

countless times to undernourished babies, 

abortions, miscarriages and preemies, 

no one knew what she suffered on this earth. 

No one until today, her publisher 

offered Erica an advance to plan, 

virtually, a synopsis, to ride 

each day and night with the devil, insure 

literally nothing is forgotten. 

Coronavirus hit in early March, 

only she was trapped down in the basement, 

relief came to rescue her and her son, 

of course, the man was in the hospital, 

no one knew about her but still he sent 

a healthcare worker to check up in search, 

vulgar fuck, of his á grúfu, the gall, 

in this instance as he lay safe in bed, 

respiratory illness killing him, 

under the circumstances, he faced grim 

sentencing had he survived, so she said. 

Black Lives Matter ~ Thursday, July 9, 2020

Black Is Beautiful and Black Lives Matter, 

let me hear you say it, "Black Lives Matter",

and if you in Congress can't recognize 

color identification is real, 

kiss your bourgeois lifestyle and job goodbye. 

Let me hear you say it, "Black Lives Matter", 

if you don't realize how they matter, 

veritably, the nation is at risk, 

even more than in the time of Lincoln, 

settle the score because Black Lives Matter. 

"Make America Great Again", a joke 

a Celebrity President plays on 

the people, "We the People", in large script, 

take to the streets to protest peacefully, 

enact change, end systemic racism, 

remember our vote counts in November. 

A Continuous Colonel Blatto Game ~ Thursday, July 9, 2020

The cockroach in the bathroom is aware, 

how I could not tell you, of my presence, 

its need to escape is dire, it rushes 

switchback to flee my foot, its weight to bear. 

Pressure from above crushes down below, 

as a tank over a corpse, a death sentence, 

instantaneous loss of life, gushes 

neurologically through my synapses. 

Worry gets the better of me, the stress 

emits a sound like mites biting at times. 

Frustration at the world begins to show, 

even if I could tidy up this mess, 

even if I don't commit any crimes, 

little helps me when my judgment lapses. 

"Please Sing Again" ~ Tuesday, July 7, 2020

"/ The universe in fact is monstrously indifferent to the presence of man /"

~ from "Fuck / Time" by Inua Ellams (p. 121)

Poetry, May 2020, Volume 216, Number 2

~~~

The lines before this line / ring clear with awareness / describe the true nature / hidden within a song / within an adventure / within an encounter/ ephemeral the voice / of a shaman who sings / within the flow of time // 

united with the sky / the dream of passing time / the presence of presence / now a musician wants / now a musician wants / now a musician wants / indeed demands requests / to repeat the moment / reiterate the song / verse for verse line for line / the melody is all / all the musician wants / ephemeral the voice / united with the sky / the sun the clouds the birds / riddled by the difference / the musician faces / the task of memory / simply put Mozart hears / and Mozart remembers / line for line note for note / encountering genius / is not the point at all / the musician wants time // 

in the vast savannah / where the antelope trot / as quickly as they came / nothing the shaman sings / is ever quite the same / as time itself changes // 

for the musician wants / what the musician wants / what the musician lost / as time passed without him / him rushing to catch time / time never standing still / clashing in attitudes / without ever meeting / two musicians focus / together separately / with full concentration / on what is important // 

important to the one / is our presence in time / fleeting in description / second in importance / is the other person / rushing to hear a song // 

monstrously the poet / describes the universe / in a word indifferent / only the eye beholds / what the mind longs to see / neither arbitrator / nor advocate for one / nor the other person / the poet writes his thoughts / streaming across the page / until we encounter / his own commentary / to explain in ideas / no longer in events / the pinball machine tilts / rivers in Botswana / flow with shamanic songs / never staying for long / only the poet knows / how to end a poem / for him commentary / unlike a summary / art lost in abstraction / he becomes pedantic / suffering the reader / to indulge to forgive / the lesson as teacher / leaving behind the two / no longer two but one / one moment encountered / yesterday tomorrow / the music of presence / is a song in movements //

if another poet / enters his universe / parallel to our own / noting the melody / of the two musicians / in their one encounter / deaf to meter rhythm / the beat between two breaths / again clashing cultures / indeed never meeting / when no one reads her work / who could see past her mind / for I am she writer / poet and essayist / forgotten like Samsa / for better or for worse / wedded to the blank page / each line follows the last / exactly thus she writes / not to improve nor find / fault in the poet's words / resting in the beauty / of the words on the page / like the shaman who sings / encountering the world / everyday in repose / describing what passes / notating in a rush / in the heat of passion / found within a moment / the poet encounters / the poet the shaman / and the musician lost // 

the poet writes her words / within her own mind cave / within a library / only the books scattered / in stacks without reason / within her empty nest // 

the chicks have flown away / all imaginary / barren a man-woman / how the poet counters / another poet's words / inviting encounter / ephemeral the clouds / the sun the antelope / far off in Botswana // 

perhaps she seeks to find / as the musician wants / he hungers after sound / relinquish to behold / as the shaman beholds / the universe complete / encounter each moment / as it rises and falls / each moment in itself / simply put our presence / is presence with nature / whether or not we hear / ephemeral music / sung by a lone shaman / far off in Botswana / not alone the shaman / solitary in mind / singular in focus / concentrating on time / and what is beyond time / the nature of music / even the musician / Yo-Yo Ma cannot stop / the next song that follows // 

only this fairy tale / Inua Ellams wrote / majestic in beauty / forges past description / beyond the encounter / whether real or fiction //

marvelling at the words / she cannot imagine / writing her own poem / as Czesław Miłosz wrote / of his own encounter / with time passing in time / nothing to stop the breath / this life in a moment / disappears into death //

On Independence ~ Saturday, July 4, 2020

Offer a sacrifice to the Founding Fathers of our democracy, 

nothing less than the best, for God would not accept a blemish on the beast. 

In the Declaration of our Independence, the Committee of Five 

nixed but two passages, one on English people, and one on slavery, 

defending the slave trade for South Carolina and Georgia continued 

egregious abuses by moral reprobates while the slave trade increased, 

permitting the license and lawfully allow the slave trade kept alive 

egregious abuses by moral reprobates while slavery flourished, 

never once consulting the people known as slaves left our nation imbued, 

decisively, in blood, a sacrifice to God could not save our disgrace, 

egregious abuses by moral reprobates left our nation blemished, 

now we must remember in their posterity, their stance could not save face, 

consider the burden we, the common people, bear from the grant they wished, 

egregious abuses by moral reprobates left justice malnourished.