Hatred

War is hatred enacted
Inflicted from one man
To another. Inflicted by
Your nation state, not
Of your choosing even
If the hatred you are 
Acting out is part of
The dogma you were
Led to believe. Beliefs
About the other, who
Is like you, my warrior,
Just a man. Humaniry
Dies where hatred lives

Unravelling

Living is a long thread 
Of yarn, sometimes in
My favorite color, a red
So bright and vibrant it
Leaves no mystery but
Can always be found.
In subtler moments, a
Quiet beige blends into
The corners, teases but
Never tempts or stands
Out, not flagrant or bold.
The yarn makes patterns
It clumps in soft places.
The defiance gone from
It after days of following
Its destiny. Color mixes,
Dulled by the passing of
Time, only hinting at its
Fullest force.

Wild flowers

Come August, the fields are 
Studded purple, it's all I can
Remember now. I misplaced
The smells long ago, maybe
Better rather than worse, the
Colors, vibrant and delicate, 
Strong but sensitive, purple
Everywhere. Every August, I
Remember, wild flowers as
Far as the eye can see, like
A blanket, gently purple in
A breeze, air humming with
Heat, purple, quietly radiant

Mailbox

It's not just because
I love getting letters
A mailbox, attached
To an errant wall, just
Outside your apartment,
Is a truly special thing
Private in the way the
U.S.P.S. can never be,
Communication from
Here to anywhere, to 
Me, is just ours. I can
Imagine the wriiten 
Pages, sealed and then
Addressed, dropped
In that singular box.
They would be love
Letters, they would be
Secret missives, they
Would be private, ours.

Hold on….

Your friends will cluck over
How deeply misaligned you
Are. You will feel it, too. You
Know there is a gap, a divide.
When love seems impossible,
You dig in deeper and hold on
More stubbornly. It is you who
Knows why you love. It is you
Who knows what you love, it,
Your love, is not impossible. It
Is yours. You know why, you 
Know that love is personal, it
Is yours, to hold on to, to dig
Into, stubbornly, and with all
Your heart. When love seems
Impossible, when you and he
Are so different that love is
Cast over a chasm, you dig 
In deeper, hold on stubbornly,
You've got this, it's yours.

Consequences

Is what we do in line 
With what we say? 
Are we truthful? Is it
Our wish to tell it like
It is? Or are we happy
To prevaricate? One
Word for truth, dozens
For lies. Verily, if true
Veracity, candor, lying,
Mendacity, sincerity,
No consequences for
Lying, none for truth.
Speaking what we do
Know, knowing what 
Is so, does this mean
You don't know what
Is not truth, not real.

Silhouettes

What is it that troubles us
In the darkness of a world
Worshipping the negative,
A reverse image, outlines
Of the positive image we
Have loved to put forth, by
Force, something left in a
Tank of developing fluid,
Chemically enabling the
Vision of light to emerge.
Lightening the corners 
Bringing them out of the
Corners, no longer as sad,
Or dangerous or, dare we
Troubling, as darkness

Am I A.I.?

Life imitates art, painting,
Dance, even the houses
That house us, words and
Stories, it's art that gives
Us the blueprint for our
Lives, guiding us across
The divides between our
Reality and our fealty. We
Know about honor and
Loyalty because someone
Wrote about them, told us
How to and what to think.
Life imitates art, follows it
Around like a puppy with
A toy in its mouth, innocent
Of any thought but full of
Instinct and juice. Life=art.

Slither

In the heat, yes, it's hot,
And we do two things,
Complain, and sit still.
Move slow. Roll under
The blanketing cloud 
Of heat, evasive tack,
Slithering, wishing it
Was muddy to cool us
Off like the reptiles, with
A body temperature not
Heated, not hot, cooler
We complain, moving 
Slower, still, under a big
Frond of shade that 
Distills the sun, distracts
The heat, we sweat but
That does not cool us
Yes, it's hot and we do
Two things, complain
And move slow, sit still