Passionate nostrils.
Talkative eyes.
You know our planet.
You know our plight.
You know what it’s like.
You show us the best way to be human
and the right way to protest and fight
the parasites of this world
by creating a new world.
From the ashes,
we rise
misfits without masks
so we can breathe
by applying sunblock
to bask in the truth and the light,
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.
A Thunder Stone
struck by lightning.
A Rosetta Stone
struck one Man—
killing and reviving—
by spiritual lightning.
Even the Surgeon General
speaks candidly of our insanity:
“We live in crazy times.”
In a world without lines,
nothing is simple;
the News—
pick your poison—
feeds off fear and duplicity.
In a world without truth
nothing rhymes naturally
or satisfies our hunger for simplicity.
To drummers with no drums
to fishermen with no nets to mend
to artists with no canvas’
to poets with no pens.
To faithful lovers
gifted with the sober reality
of broken hearts
To empty stomachs
full of ulcers and knots
that growl with biological protest
at the Sender
whose promises are slow to send,
Life is a cold, ember-less hearth
that stores a constellation of keepsakes
from hatred to pride,
from disgust toward the privileges
of the haves
to talent for survival that’s worn
as a badge of honor
by the poor and have-nots
like broken clocks and bottles of booze,
torn socks and worn shoes
that tell stories of running
but going nowhere.
These are the cruel callouses
that make felon thugs cry
and fetid lepers sigh,
understanding that someone
has it much worse
and even they don’t lay down to die
in overcrowded tombs
but continue to try.
These are the sagas
of the prideful and prejudiced,
whose rap are rhythmic, regurgitated
monosyllabic sobs,
living out life sentences
for being alive—
two toxic streams that dump into a delta
of muddied politics and passions,
soiled Pampers and waste,
an ocean that churns with great haste
that goes by no other name
but “les misérables.”
Only the fire of the great I AM,
the aurora borealis contained
in a burning bush
that’s consumed without consumable fuel.
Only the coals and embers and bones
of the sacrificial centaur
can keep our hearths lit
so we can dare
to stare upon the bronze serpent
without being bit
or save us from high-interest loans
for fashions consumed and enjoyed
by plump moths in spandex
that don’t care
about their waste-lines
or the smell of their expensive feces
from destructive loins
that wreak havoc on our species.
Only the living Water of the living God
can purify and satisfy.
Not the mythological Poseidon
with his impotent trident.
In the great reversal water flows
to its original source
where the Tigris and Euphrates conjoin.
Restoration flows back
to the Garden of Eden
not before but after
there was such a thing as remorse.