Just walkin into a room
requires all the courage
I can muster.
Exposed like a nerve.
Afraid to smile.
Do I let you in—
a place you don’t deserve
to make fun of my face
and call me “Herman Munster”?
Walkin up,
wearin Supreme,
holdin my skateboard,
takin jokes to the extreme,
trying to find my tribe,
my people group.
I’ll know when I’m home:
kind eyes find me
as collective lips pronounce,
“We-e-e a-a-are Groo-oot!”

“…distinguishing our friends on TikTok

from the system failure of the Matrix,

fictional agents who trip on the trip-wire

of a progressive déjà vu,

sounding the alarm for Pokémon

like Pikachu,

whose evolution to Raichu

seals the demise

of politicians and preachers

who wear a postmodern disguise.”

Those who live for the glamor and spotlight

drink drops of disco

that rages into the night.

Forget your westward expansion;

leave a fossil footprint of what’s right.

Androgynous highs and lows—

testosterone freezes

and estrogen flows

like snow,

sun-bathin on top of Kilimanjaro,

meltin glaciers below.

Only a tomahawk

of compassion

can break through

this frozen oppression.

The neon sign

to the promised land

has faded.

To the working-class

happy endings

are overrated. 

You exuded confidence

like one of Zeus’s thunderbolts

and beauty, oh greatness,

beauty that rivaled the cause

of the Trojan War—

Helen of Sparta’s passionate revolt.

how quickly we forget,

laying down palm branches

to casting stones a week later,

breaking stained glass windows

to our mansions,

crucifying our Creator.

The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.

Light bends, as we know, when it passes through substances of different densities. And, in this case, light passed through the glass ornaments, hanging on my evergreen, extrapolating a symphony of numbers that danced all around me.