identity

where is your heart?
do you keep it in a box,
safe from those that may do it harm?
do you wear it on your sleeve,
where it is always accessible?

i keep mine in a safe
with a little peep hole
so it can look out,
but never be touched
unless i choose to
flip the lock.

i love unconditionally,
but i'm fully aware of
how flawed we are.
people make mistakes,
and those mistakes don't
necessarily make someone
bad. it just means that they
are prone to the flaws,
to the misleading illusions
of who they think they
should be in order to live up
to a certain image of what
the world says they should be.

this is the way of things.
we are composed of every
minute, every limitation,
or ideal we have been fed.
we get stuck in these little boxes
because we are told that safety
lies in those containers.

it is much like stereotypes.
we are told that that portion of the
population does a particular thing,
and we are suddenly convinced
that that is true because
that particular portion
is now trying to live up to
the stereotype provided. it becomes a
viscous cycle that is hard to break.

and just because someone says
they love unconditionally
it doesn't mean they are willing to
succumb to the ignorance of race,
or the radical view of sexuality,
or the limited morality of religion.
it simply means that they understand
that underneath the masks,
we are all just people, making our way,
trying to find the unconditional love
that was always there, no matter
what stereotype you're trying
to fit in.

don't do what they tell you.
don't believe what you are told.
don't be who they assume you to be.
don't give in to small notions of what it
should be, or how they want to identified you.

lock up your heart.
keep it safe.
allow it a peep hole to look out
unto the world that is trying to
identify you.

Mrs. Mackinac's Cat

there was this pitbull
like the kind you hear about
on the nightly news
when the news is slow.
a mean sonofabitch,
the type that takes out a couple of toddlers,
robs a bank, and has his way
with a choir group.
he's 1 in 500;
the other 499 just like a good
scratch behind the ear,
or a nice belly rubbing.
a real Killer.
he didn't get out from the yard much,
but when he did,
all hell broke loose.
cars were stolen,
stores were looted,
mayhem was had.
one day this pitbull got out.
women and children fled to the
safety of their homes.
deadbolts were secured,
and alarms were set.
the police were called,
and the national guard was informed.
this goddamn dog had
a swagger in its step,
a look in its eye,
and an assurance of what
it was put on this great, green Earth for.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat strolled out through
the cat door in the kitchen and meandered
along the walkway beside the house
and into the front yard.
it paused to lick its paws,
and glanced up at the pretty, puffy clouds
bobbing in the big, blue sky.
the pitbull spotted the cat
and went for it like a freight train,
all gristle and muscle
with a maw filled with enough teeth
to make a great white cringe.
it barreled along the street.
steam rose from its nostrils.
a woman screamed.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat casually glanced over at the
behemoth galloping closer.
the cat licked its paw again
as the pitbull cleared twenty yards
in a flash.
the dog opened its mouth.
teeth gleamed,
saliva flowed,
spittle sprayed.
mere inches away
from gobbling down the cat,
the feline jumped up straight into the air.
the dog was befuddled at the vanishing cat.
and down Mrs. Mackinac's cat came
with razor sharp claws extended
in switch blade - like glory.
the previously docile cat came down
with fury,
landing on the pitbull's face.
blood and fur flew.
the dog yelped.
the cat flipped backward
and landed on its feet
as the dog fled,
blind and defeated.
the cat licked its paw.
later that evening, old Killer
had to be put down.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat still likes
gazing up at the clouds
in the big, bright, blue sky.
and from time to time,
the cat can be seen bathing in the sun,
and purring a little tune
that tells of patience
and grace.

Xmas is a trick pony

everyone's a trick pony, and i have lost my taste for sweets.
they memorize their poesy. they believe it will get them
noticed,
recognized, adored. it's no bother. waste the space in your
head- better than writing anyhow.

smokesweet and drowned in opinion. let the quiet fill the
noise as the curtains are drawn and the bath is filled and
the steam rises and reason out all the shit that ails you.

when it is time for bed there's nothing left to do but rest
your head and let the sands of time settle all of the bets.

some believe in the miracle of Xmas.
i believe in rain.

the headline reads:

creatures,
far and wide
come for the festivities.
they read the headlines,
but not the news
for they believe the
headline is good enough,
gives a taste
of what they need.
they believe it without
having to go any farther.
nothing's new.
nothing's changed.
there's new shit
the third Thursday
of every month
so they get high.
the creatures
stand
undivided in the truth
that leaks from the
tube. bloodbath
incarnate.
the windows are dirty,
but there's not much to see.
there is a glass of wine
waiting on the counter
so she washes it down
and peaks through the shades
across the way to the
neighbor's house where
she finds the old man
out in his underwear again,
clipping the hedges.
he wears a grin.
the shears are spot rusted,
but the blades still gleam.
he picks at his balls,
and discerns his next move,
wavering over the hedges
to eyeball the level of the cut.
she opens another bottle from the fridge
and pours another glass.
she takes a sip as the old man
delicately clips a stray leaf
from the hedge.
eyeballs it good,
and goes in for another clip.
the neighbor's Yorkie
bounds out from the hedges
and barks.
the old man is caught off guard
and jumps back.
the little dog pants.
the old man grumbles.
she downs the second
glass of wine
as the old man kicks at the dog.
the dog jumps him,
and begins humping his leg.
she giggles.
the old man falls back,
and in an act defying physics,
the shears tuck under the hedge,
lean drastically toward the old man's
torso,
and down, clipping off his testicles.
he screams in pain
while the Yorkie goes in
for another round on his leg.
      the headline reads:
man is castrated by lusty bitch in act
of exhibitionism.

the truth in love's light

he remembered the warm kiss.
the shape of her legs.
her downy white skin
laced with lace,
and the taste
of her neck
that could drown
a man in lust.

he drank entirely
too much that night,
remembering,
remembering,
remember.

with music soft
on the air,
and a heart
that cared too much,
he could see her
clothes askew
and the ripe,
round ass
bobbing
in dusk's light.

eyes that showed
the gleam from the window
where crows cawed
and coughed out little rhymes
about drunken men
too far up love's ass.

sobbing,
he tore at his chest
and wailed
for his love was lost
on the ocean that drives
the waves through the mind
of a madman,
beckoning the
creatures into
absolution.

sobbing,
he tore at the tears
of his cheeks.
he wreaked of wine
and cigarettes,
and musk.
eyes swollen,
sight blurred,
coughing up
old memories
because he was
a pussy.

a single finger. a single salute.

save me a special moment where the dogs
are calm
and the fingers extend middle first
before the end comes quickly.
let me tell them one more time,
let them know,
let them
hear it from the source.
wash away the thickets
in manure
and hold until the very last second,
this draining extension
of worth
we call love.
bathe in the bile
that is inclusion.
build a monument
in their honor.
but it is not enough.
there is never enough time
to get it all out
and hand over the final moments
in a gesture
obscene.
there is never enough time
to take time for time.
there is never enough minutes
in the day
to say
all the building venom
that stirs in the soul.
a waterfall.
a lake.
a darkened plot of land
where a building once stood
as a magnificent testimony
to human endurance
and ingenuity.
and some motherfucker
had to go and blow it to hell.
is that not
where we are?
what we have become?
is that not the way of all things?
if it gets to be
too much,
blow it the fuck up.
forget about reason.
forget about logic, compassion,
mercy, sympathy, delusion.
if we think it
at this very moment,
it must be true,
right?
a cup.
a cigarette.
an ashtray
perched on a table,
ready to fall to the ground
where the ashes will be spread
like
the legs of forty virgins
just waiting
for an asshole like you.
because everyone knows
there is no heaven
for virgins.
there is only a heaven for assholes
and murderers,
con men and
scapegoats,
for leaders and the successful
who build empires on the backs
of the disillusioned.
so,
save me a special moment
where the dogs are calm
and the fingers extend
middle first
before the end
comes quickly.
i just want to let them know
where i stand.

9 to 5 minutes to midnight

it is easy to console the soul;
drop everything and follow where your heart
       leads you.
but if you want to pay the rent, the car payment,
the utilities, the insurance, the medical bills-
work away with everything you have
until there is nothing much left of who you were
before you began the miracle that is adulthood.
grind the coffee beans and brew up a pot
       before work.
shit, shower, repeat.
throw on some clothes, and make sure they fit the times,
and the fashion, but forget function: looking good
       is supposed to hurt.
put gas in the car, clean the windshield so you can see
       the assholes coming.
pay for parking.
lock the doors, and set the alarm.
take the walkway. glance at he old homeless woman
losing her mind. stand up straight.
be a slave to convention. go in debt.
punch the clock, or swipe the card to let the powers that be
know you are ready to begin. smother the soul
and begin your day.
try to make the screaming in your head stop.
use the toilet and cry on the pot.
refresh your cup of coffee.
glance at the clock. adjust your soul.
run away before it is too late.