Christmas Lights are out Tonight

Christmas Lights are out Tonight 

Tonight was the opening of the Christmas lights

In downtown Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana

There is an extra tax to light the streets

Even the giant light bulb crucifix by the train tracks 

I pick up my daughter from my old house every other Friday now

The porch is draped in the garb of undulating wreaths and herpes sparkle

I go to the side-porch door, knock, no answer, like always I wait 

I sit on the bench that I bought from Home Depot

That was in our New Orleans back yard with the hummingbirds

By the pool Katrina knocked the tree inside and created the mosquito vat 

Three minutes, I sit, my daughter comes to the Dutch door

Opens, “Daddy do you want to come see the puppies?”

I tell her, “You have to ask your mom if it is ok if I come in.”

It’ll be four years this Christmas, daughter is eight 

I walk in seeing walls with altered frames,

My daughter’s nine month old brother is cooing

I am silent at the beige to walk through the hall in that bedroom,

Through the master bath, into that twelve by fourteen closet and see

A box of a chocolate Labrador with a litter of four  

I explain to my daughter why the mother knows

To lick the feces and urine from the puppy’s loins  

Their bellies plump with milk, blind  

I glance at the wardrobe stacks encompassing these foreign rooms

Jackets and pant-suits familiar and not, the mirrors I bought at Hobby Lobby

I see the shower stall on the way out; I grab a third-grade book sack  

Home, I make pasta with sausage, her favorite with glazed carrots

She makes pretend computers out of loose-leaf and markers to play school

She sings a save the ocean song about a mother and her turtles  

We bundled up and go out for seven p.m., park, walk the small town Main Street

Antique shops, a few bars, church folk huddled singing carols

Teenagers squawking by the town alligator in its reptile pen  

I promised her mother last Tuesday, when she asked if she could take her to the downtown Christmas light thing, (because they go every year.)

I responded with, "I’ll call you when we go and you can say hi."

Well I get hijacked and the insanity of nausea permeates

Over the top bleeds in like ricin cotton-candy and arsenic hot-chocolate

Greetings are a festival; every foot a fresh salutation is generated

The spawning of acquaintances is pandemic in her mother’s roots  

The nine month-old is there, stroller, wipes,

Admirers comment how much he looks like his father

How if he turns out half as much like him he’ll be a great man

He is out of town tonight. 

I can see the bystanders do the math in their faces as they glance at me wordless.  

I am standing silent in a winter coat.  My daughter between her mother and I

Time is extending to a greater summation than any point in the last four years

Of a relative equation of daughter, mother and child without the interruption  

Of the man her mother refers to as her dad

As we walk over to his office six minutes later;

He sells insurance across from where she does corporate accounting.

His boss provides refreshments every year on this occasion even for cuckoo birds.  

We go in some lady that use to be around greets her, spots me

For some reason tries to give me a hug and I could smell her gin perfume

I tell her my plans to move to New Orleans are into month nine

She gets her taxes done where I work; I ask her not to tell my boss 

There are others, but I was blessed with leaving the moment at stares

My daughter spots her friend near the back, the kid of the police chief

Whose brother threatened me that time 

The relations are unending; I have neither the time nor energy to explain

The train comes by outside, blowing and blaring

The kids run and fund a game of hide and go seek

In a courtyard at the rear of the establishment 

I stand alone staring at an open bar picnic table

With her mother and the other mother conversing by the rear entrance, ten feet away

I talk to no one, but the night sky, trying not to make eye contact

Thankful I have always been so reticent so that this stance is nowhere near as lonely 

The memories flush; I arrange a departure for my daughter and me to continue alone

Goodbye to mother, the threshold of time a bit like an anvil and a time warp 

Daughter and I walk the parade of shop-fronts

Noticing the window drawing Grinch and Santa’s

I remember the nickname my daughter told me

Her mother’s family gave me during the trial 

Near the very last before return to our car we pass the daiquiri shop

That also sells ice cream I know her maternal grandmother takes her to

She wants mint chocolate chip, but it is past eight-thirty and time to return home

I say no; she whines, protests, negotiates for a fraction, then breaks 

Her tears flow like I have not heard in years, she is angry thumping her hand at me

Demanding, crumpled, I am walking with her for this remainder of Main Street

The people pass, daughter is crying aloud, tears to the car and the whole drive home

Incessant as the Rolling Stones play on my iPod as the sounds collide to my silence 

I exit the garage, light the interior of the house to her bedroom

Return and pick her up, carrying her to her former green rocker sitting in our living room

I rock the eight year old, patting her on the back in reassurance

I am quiet as she continues into minute twelve 

I ask her if she wants some water; she shakes her frown in the affirmative

The whimpers diminish with the sips as I stand in the kitchen holding her in my arms

All sixty-plus pounds of her is carried to her bedroom 

I ask if she wants to wear her Ninja Turtle night shirt, she smiles and

Remembers how we bought it together at Target a few weeks ago

We ready and go to read Chapter Nine of Narnia’s A Horse and His Boy

She is so tired, exhausted midway through, we cuddle  

I ask her, “It’s been a long time since you had your mom and your dad and just you in the same place for that long huh?” “Your family was there.  It is a lot of emotions.” 

“I know, kind of me too.  I remember.” 

She nods and blooms and drifts to reverie in my arms.

Parallel Addiction

Parallel Addiction 

If parallel universes exist

An alternate version of myself

Is a deplorable skid-mark drug addict 

I can imagine a turn, a choice

Consummated, evoked and detoured

Veins riddled like tire treads

Crimpled like torn scabs on interstate roadways 

The drinking, the anesthetization of a consciousness

Breathing through scripted notebooks flowing through an alternate outlet

For release to find common bond in the silence  

The smoking, the miracle haze of rail billowing

Through European territories babbling in languages

I would never take the time to become fluent  

The injections, the missiles going off like Gaza

At war with my homeland wanting back what was mine by birth

Yet sabotaged based on the nature of rooted decision trees   

The driving, the times behind a steering wheel

Staring aimless at a set of brake lights and a lighter on the passenger seat

The bags in the glove compartment, the glances at the rearview mirror 

The insomnia, the weight of head to pillow collisions

Crumbling these papers fed into my notebooks like must get it out ejections of poetry

Incinerated into gathering shoes to light up on a porch and stare at passing cars 

The bar stools, the orders the familiarity and sinister friendships

Of mutual decay shaken hands and amenable recognition of a common decadence

The juke box lies replaying in stereo flirting with parallel damned beauties 

The escape, the silence follows out to get the supplies

The adventures with deal-makers experimenting with potency to evaluate the sincerity

Of perverted American criminals; pointing pistols at each other beneath our pockets 

The loneliness, the match or the pen burning the same

Bizarre strength and fragility wrapped up like lovers molesting each other

Because we know nothing else

My post-modern Ignatius Riley Impression of the Day

My post-modern Ignatius Riley Impression of the Day  

If I believed in swearing to God,

I would pledge on the day I get to quit my job to smash

the Okidata line-printer used outside the door of my office

to vomit rural utility billing statements from DOS software

with a sledge hammer and stomp the crap out it in the parking lot

like in Office Space for the hell it has railed on my ear drums

while trying to subdue my rage as a lame-ass CPA in nowhere Louisiana.   

A pox on the foul printer! 
Nazgul ring wraiths be a better lullaby!

You are drowning out Bob Dylan's Song to Woody!

May the archaic software that demands its vile cacophony combust! 

 

Where are the angelic hackers to quell this foul screeching harpy

from my orchestration of account groupings

of the public safety paragons of the Livingston Parish Sheriff’s Office?   

Oh, my New Orleans

we will reunite under the bridge of your river and

reconcile the horrors of the great wasteland! 

Bring me home!

My Definition of Manhood

My Definition of Manhood 

Manhood is an unflinching perpetual pursuit to better ones being and environment by setting the tone with a consistent genuine example of maturity, courage, reliability, and contemplation.  A man must above all things be a standard bearer of what doing right means for his community.  Sometimes this is as a guardian; a listener, a farmer, a provider, a leader, but in all, a true man performs these roles absent the horrid taint of hypocrisy.  The measure of a man is the standard he holds inside himself whether anyone sees or not.  It is from this podium that all other acts of manhood become possible.

Moss Covered Statues

Moss Covered Statues 

I was beautiful once

Like a statuesque man of chiseled flesh capable

Of simultaneous  

Stalwart reliance the way

A woman attempts to round the circumference of a bicep

And that gap in her fingers created by the diameter

Steadies her stance when affronted by street mongrels and

Tempests of subconscious doubt 

And  

Emotional malleability to contort my heart into the shape of a bowl

To hold words in a soup of concern, love, joy, contemplation and comparison

As a vessel of listening empathy, silent for the devil of prospered solutions

Confidant that she was speaking simply to be heard

Recycle the broth of her day and re-intake like ventilated air

Knowing the difference between a heart and beige painted sheetrock

Words Kept

Words Kept 

Promises, I need you like a mail delivery

Even if it was only credit card applications

At least I knew there was something to check for

The element of an expectation that got me through the mornings  

The anticipation like high school when I had a pen pal

And went weeks in between letters before the internet or texts

When humans use to write each other in long-hand with ink pens

I would salivate, see it empty and still hope the next day  

I know how to do the laundry now, fabric softener and bleach

I can dispense and swirl to steam sanitize the bed sheets

In the Kenmore Elite you so wanted us to buy from Sears

I kept what I could knowing the walls were yours 

Rolling for the empty like a true rock and roll song on the radio

Never heard before and danced a thousand beats in the head of dreamers

Exploding into requesting the disc jockey for a favor

To listen to that melody again like a tune not yet nauseating to be designated classic 

Station format change from indie to southern rock, reversion and the

Coercion of Rancid punk fiends for Zeppelin something once renegade and now accepted

Where the hell is Woody Guthrie when you need him?

He’s heard it all, the goodbye to his home, a hobo and a guitar, a step stone in a song 

Promises, I need you like a cigarette even though I have never smoked

I imagine I would crave if I was addicted to any substance but this loam

Scent, the Earth baking within my till, I remember what I thought the soil was

Caskets and peach pits germinating nothing in this ground  

Water and sunshine, repetitive battery licks the alkaline

Hoping for energy to make bread where there is no seed

Circles and portals afterlives and missing hymnals

Science and consciousness, invisible and circumstance  

I would give my left lung for someone to ask me to make a promise

Something to keep to, pure and honest exposing an example

Even if only midnight looks at it; I would have it

Swaddled like a hazy sway drunk on giving that I gave what I could that day 

I would slobber all over myself knowing someone wanted me to come through for them

Hunger Parlor Trick

Hunger Parlor Trick 

I am starving for humanity

My tongue is passing as if outside my body and back into my chest

Like an oil dipstick measuring the hue of corrosion seeping into the flow

My head is static, sterile and compact externally immutable, yet 

Conducting this measurement at this moment

The lungs are warm, alert, fuzzy and on guard to the glob

Baffled below the left’s respiration indentation

The proverbial tank of feeling is parched  

Vision blurred and fingers stoic at the tap of the keyboard

Hirsute upper hands like gorilla mitts wanting to go hammer outside

Than face the specter of a contemplated emotion animated

Dancing about me as a coroner might do with successive application of higher learning  

The announcements, the degree of certainty

Of an engineer compared to that of a musician

Science and art at battle for a panoply of the empirical and faith mashed together

Like a squirrel on a highway flashing through tires with the driver wondering  

Did I make contact?  I did not notice a sound or did I?

Keep in motion in either iteration of outcome

The whelp of ache it permeates the skin beneath this sweater and winter

Is crawling its way into my workday again  

The bed, the silence, the sheets of meals wrapping from plate to plate

The repetition it reverberates like a drip of water from an unstoppable sink

The flow prevails the absence of sound to make clamor in a fortress of silent ruin

I can hear through the nothing, the way a man listens to his stomach growl  

The chemicals of who he is speak in the consumption of his self

No one else can detect one’s own orchestra with the same dexterity of ear

Crimp of a cheek, jaundice hue, brittle hair and chemotherapy spew

Booming out as rationalizations for why or how, 

But none of this sickness is a natural cancer this is a human endowed

With the werewolf, the lycanthropic starvation for a species apart

Of wolf and man, howling in the darkness of satellite television sunshine

The moon buffet of beings and all this time is emaciating

Labyrinths and Oceans

Labyrinths and Oceans 

Catacomb labyrinth of modern man’s stucco tragic

Epoxy quandaries mortared to the maze

Underground and inebriated haze of thirty-four and want no more

The cattle cade is a trail of shits stepped in and want it over with 

The flare gun confirms isolation like an illuminated manifestation

Beyond the grid is a forest of lost bodies attempting an empty spark

Reaching for life in the belly of bacterium, growing gray unsure how to collect them

The moments when the sun caresses like a Miles Davis groove 

Close sensual and honest, pure and redolent like a scent to the ear

Fingers to an abdomen like a gilded rainbow of curves

The lines of humanity blur, so long to come home

Ulysses on the sea exhausted in this foam  

Pitiful mornings fishing in nets ocean sick and plastic regrets

Churning in a funnel island of debris out in this Atlantic

Cold waters luggage and brackish tempting to drink

Still makes the throat burn, finding the wetlands turned  

Black from years of the hurricane’s claw back with salt to the root

Rotten inside and the argument has turned moot

The landing, the standing, the solid Earth and the understanding

That home has a place that still exists  

Cannot see, simple faith and the one last hold

That home endures inside a kindred soul

The one carrier pigeon of every human

Sent out imbued in the sentiment that makes us whole  

Is not a farce lost in a subterranean vat of brine

Sailing eternal with the yoke of time  

I remember Sundays, hoping behind the phrases

I remember Sunday nights seeing Monday’s labor

Compute to estrange us; the week never ends

The heavy and the light will never counterbalance again  

Turn left, turn right, rather figure it out another night

Angels do not exist, only stone figures sculpted by mad men

Directions do not exit, only choices of mortal kin

Split of the same, crying out in the same maze

New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Eve

I remember the passing line between was and is

Crossing within the borders of a kiss

Static and ecstatic fumbled enigmatic

Come on drip me tragic  

All about this parking lot of marked-up memories

Slashed tires and revving engines throttling to go

Strap the grip of a clutch caution in the slip

Never in the let go always in the innuendo  

Fires bombing at midnight cursing by the dawn

Thorns for the petals stitched bodies belong

Linked in mute and handcuffed in dispute

Of caverns dark and morning’s spark  

To illuminate the beauty marks of tattoos and monthly scars

Missing links and country bars of pickup-truck gun racks

Steeple-obtuse angle pitched ceiling stained-glass window maps

Ways to go and closet mirrors, looking in and autumn delivers promises of winter 

New Orleans calls like a booze hound howling all night long

Remember nothing, never lived or sang, just a memory of absence clangs

Outside the doorway like a cattle triangle of you, me and what will never be

Country thistle and the missiles bombed on Gaza like Jesus  

I miss the painted streets; the highway aches to be held

The neutral ground full of bloody wrecks, the sidelines reek of sex

The gawkers slow-stare at the bodies, death and life, left and right

Middle and the outside forgotten and the crimes  

Nothing but the real, the hearts charred in incinerated masterpieces

Oiled engines combusting in the thrashes

Patience like eagles falling to the earth, talons crossing and death right on the verge

Separate before the ground, cannot prove that love and war do not make the same sounds 

I always wanted to see you in an evening gown

Dressed up like New Year’s Eve, fabric of a haughty life

Children with a sitter and the night all to ourselves

As if America had the hour, wild for the kiss 

You, me, time, passing the line between was and is

Message not the Messenger

Message not the Messenger 

Exiting the clearing the woods scaled back

In stick-brushes crossing my face

I asked her, “If God materialized before us and commanded you to kill me, would you?”

In the belly of a beast between morality and sin  

I call back into a hypothetical of that which you say he would never ask

The years fall like sand precipitation on this desert of assumptions

Book grown long, pages pass, inside the sphere of a titled hour glass

The cold grains spill cracked in the age of concrete  

Homeless man coughs up influenza in the bowels of the street

I prayed three times, morning and night

I saw the sky grow dark despite

Gray cackle clouds, circle like crows  

Oh, delight the murder knows

Which sounds will split these words do tell

The division of man’s speech and hell

I ask not to splay these wounds to burn these walls, our living room 

I wish to stay in this home with you, but I cannot come between

His grace and you; I stand here quelled in a quiet space

This love of God without this phrase

Scribbled by or about a man; who others claim was his living hand  

Cannot form the syllables to ring, that his name was the be all everything

If he was, He was a messenger not the message

I give this life to peace and love and respect it

Cancel not these limbs of blood, heaven is not partitioned from this mud  

Journey now, pace internal; I see the spurs of a road of turmoil

To lay down the hammer and nail, the work of assurance, a scripture failed

Proof and faith the dirty words, fairies nesting inside the thoughts we’ve heard

Myths and coats for winter days; keep us warm inside each phrase  

I hold you here within this bed, come to me and dare we tread

Let go of him to bond with me; I take us all as one universal being

Crawl this lot, this ship, this space, the skin across this fragile place

I can see, I can see, I can see our face in you

Come with me, come with me, we will be soon

In a place, in a place, calling through

Run these fields and I will run with you 

The sun sets dark upon the stage; I extend this hand as if you came

The wolves they howl for dawn, the pack grows hungry the night is long

The steeple tall the soil low, the roots like weeds, the devil we know

I am here watching at the clear, the space the buck will dart out as he sees you near 

Pupils glow in the moon lit dark, I hope the pew is a peaceful heart

Stay inside the holy cage, a bird can sing and pray a maze

A key is sleeping underneath your skin, I see the love, it calls me in

I can see, I can see, I can see our face in you

Come with me, come with me, we will be soon

In a place, in a place, calling through

Run these fields and I will run with you

This year for the Holidays

This year for the Holidays 

November a few days before Thanksgiving

The Black Friday advertisements I am unable to dodge

Prompt a wretch in my throat I have to ease back to my gullet

The esophagus is well trained  

Door-busters, caricatures of humans dancing

With scarfs, coats, toys, pink-castles, whale corsets, and credit card debt to be

The whole spew is nothing but nausea, more vomit,

Bukowski worthy vats full! 

I am finally able to end Christmas this year

Thank God

Christmas ceased being Christmas in America some decade ago

I think the day Black Friday started Good Friday ended 

So if anyone I know gives me a Christmas gift,

I will vomit.  I don’t want to be sicker; so please desist!  

I am caught thinking about Generation X again

What to do instead and so I may suggest

If you must participate in this financial rodeo

Pay down a Generation X’ers or a Millennial’s college debt 

Some portion, some contribution bludgeon them to give you their debt holder’s account number of their economic freedom and donate the dollar value instead of whatever piece of crap you think they needed to pay off their slaveholder’s calling card.  

Or better yet in true generosity celebrate in the Rolling Jubilee

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/banksandfinance/9666748/Occupy-Wall-Street-campaigners-buy-up-debt-to-abolish-it.html 

Buy some random stranger’s distressed debt for pennies on the dollar

And agree to forgive the debt; true charity to the generation under the ledger

Month of Thanks

Month of Thanks 

Month to express thanks in Internet posts, daily diary of gratuities

Culminating on turkey day like an advent calendar countdown to manger

Amniotic sac eruption of luminous lamb emanating a Bat symbol to the sky

For wise-brown men in a trio to offer gifts 

Where did the gold go?  Who kept it?

Native Americans not Wampanoag, Sioux or Cherokee

Nah, calls ‘em Indians two made up nomenclature paints of ignorance

Bestowed to elementary schoolers and adults since the 1600’s 

Bringing geese plump and husked corn cold outside  

To a table to share knowledge with Euro-mariners

Stealthy secrets, covert like a pre CIA byway

Of what works when a nation is spying on itself  

In the formation the United States is a nation of Occupiers

And so it is, we see Gaza bombed and debate not whose bombs we fund

Thankful this November for the blessings shinning in the side

Of who lords over who, wood and sticks and politics  

Nailed like Southern Yam casseroles bursting with marshmallows

Gorgy porgy decadent sugars bubbling for Black Friday

So Good!  So Good! The sky goes charcoal with consumerism!

Cracking at the moment of annual out of the red into the Black! 

Father, they know not what they do! But damn it the Twinkies!

Lying in wait holding out hands in tubes of subterfuge

Creamy middle and sponge synthetic substances fed to a nation

Kicking pigskins with Cowboys awaiting Redskin RG3 

For INRI and do and die, the sheep did not smell beyond the inn

Welcome them in these foreign looking men as we return to the town of our birth

To pay defense budget taxes, to reignite the match of where this shall pass

Into eternity this Thanks; this family, this employment, this land of atonement 

Buried in flesh wounds of Palestinians launching Sioux arrows to the sky

Landing randomly in hope that the millions of natives will take at least a few

Occupiers out before parading towards extinction like the buffalo

Borderlines of water supplies in a desert, Christian and Jewish minorities  

Control the cash and the story is the oldest, the basis of war zones

This pox of tribe!  This pox of cult!  This pox of this divide between you and I;

It kills us each in this breach of savoring for Thursday like hummus or corn

The only substance we find accord, as if we did not both understand fundamentally 

Each of these foods contains water

Yet we burrow in the Earth, hoarding relics and claiming priority in wells of

Holy Ground, identical symmetrical historical foundation for the other’s extraction

As if the perpendicular wood of this crossing is an insurmountable barrier 

As I scratch you and you detonate me

As I have bow and you have a drone  

This is a month to be thankful; Oh joy the holidays are coming!

My daughter finally figured out Santa Claus this past summer

We no longer have to pantomime Christmas

We can begin to speak like adults

The Great Evil

Never has there been a more vile rancorous sublimation of man’s free will!

Religion, the slavery of a pacified mind yoked to plow and sword

Pilfering purse strings with the audacity to see this thievery as pleasure to God

Israel and Palestine such mirrored beings of spitting gargoyles mortared to tents! 

This tent for Abraham, this tent for Mohammed, this tent for shush, shush his name

Only in Spanish accents can we dare dub ourselves after the great non-adulterous general; the man of un-kinked Hasidic hairlines, the un-bloody vaginal shoot!

The blood oh ye vampires of lore! 

Give me Zeus and I will find just as credible an argument! 

Climate change the world, preposterous science in category of debate

My book has no mention of this is how thou shall morph

The ice, the carbon, the heat, the storms, the winds, the point of non-return

As if the hand will come to reckon or save; fear not rapture, the quake can partition  

Vibrations by moral authority; the lumber severed from frame to fling by gust

Will club the idolaters in the skull cramming that meteorology into submission

To my God is bigger, stronger, authoritarian and all the more virile!

I claim immunity based on infallibility for what my ancestors taught my ancestors

Who taught my ancestors was sound; credible and worthy of this tax deduction! 

I hereby obtain the will to slay thou with vengeance!

What say you sir, pews of peace, prayers, good will, thou hast entered no war?

What then is this dollar?  What then is this pound?  What then is this payment upstream?

This time donated to the apothecary of complacent bigotry to claim spiritual trump? 

To say one knows the will of God and it be this set of plans and parchment

Interrupted to exclude, Oh “All are welcome,” that is your psalm your refrain sung from choir lofts, bedazzled balconies and pulpits of gilded speech

A pox, a pox upon any house that dare scribble an answer, a specific solution to beguile sheep as children and shuffle them to the slaughter of considerate meandered thought 

Of white, black, yellow, crystal churches all aflame with the spirit of goodness!

So much goodness to pour into streets with crucifixes like men with nooses gone hunting

Modern crusades to go beastly about Mosques built within bomb zones

Wanting an enemy to be detailed outlined for the xenophobes to go to sleep at night  

To pray for on weekends like God gives mind what rotation a planet has made in its revolution around a sphere of gas perpetually exploding until one day not, yet before the expiration these oceans will flood, not like Noah, but like BP, drilled up and man made

And some survivor somewhere, will get God involved again, write it down and blame will be incorrectly allocated; to make stories about animals marching!  

The remaining will beat this into the brains of offspring as grand enlightenment

For the bottles in the sand will melt, the wind shall rattle the foundations of every building, but those of holy sanctuary for one knows who watches and

He shall provide!  To let us set battle to those who have caused this day, we will find them and ravage the sides, pilfer the coffers of combatants with their uranium, as death cans, retaining the white cake and destroying their horrid yellow! 

And he oh he, oh we, oh we agnostic theists all dare we be to claim the classic cosmological argument without the sword of demand, the blade to partake in the certainty of defining faith as concerted action the beginning of which is to proclaim an insecurity in a deity to necessitate the horrid act of worship 

Worship, bowing to what all this time? requesting, whispering and demanding that

He obey you, that He need you, that He be so tiny in contemplation that this song, these formation of syllables was pleasing Him when in fact it was a narcissistic praxis towards reinforcing one’s need to be right for what dare you say if thou were wrong? 

God need not prove a damn thing as clear, the very claim that He is in any way human sent offspring for slaughter, laughable war at whom with what, but our own arrogance to need such mutilation.  We tell tales of sheep and lambs bloody on concrete with reverent praise in books and do the same with a man on lumber; and yet if one soul were to do this in the streets today we dub him insane as a man speaking into a mushroom; take away the mushroom and it is the self-soothing of prayer!   

Pray, pray, speak, but realize the journey is internal into you; the He to which ye speak is innate to all beings in unison, requesting a partitioned partiality is limited to one’s deeds reflecting onto the other, which is burrowing consequence and reverberation into one’s self.  To define is to limit and ignore the magnanimous by the constraints of ego.  

All religions had a deadline for registration named video tape; no more to start,

but how do we rid our planet of these vile diseases? 

Oh what be it of a world willing to drop all these parlor games!

Every practicum of idiocy: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Communism, Buddhism unfolding into the night taboo after taboo instigating blasphemy on course!

What be it if every choice was made to set aside these cults for the simple embrace

Of love! 

What be you without your Lamb to cuddle, without the name or the manger or the story lines; what be Israel’s march into Gaza or Mohammad Atta into New York?

What be the sphincters of altar servers? What be the hours of praise turned to service? 

Need not this segregation this act of conversion of proving that there is a myth about this goodness and allow the skin of all of these practicums to sit honesty naked for what attracted you to them at the impetus of choosing at your assumed maturity?  

Ah, the removal of this yoke is so lonely, for in slavery the company was an infinitude!

What shall thou do with arms, with tongue without a box to meander?

What does one do on weekends and when does one begin to see that actions unbound open the mind to wander into the recognition that these emperors were but fallow Earth! 

Fertile is the crescent of the mind in that God is rooted to each and every akin and alike

Beyond the reach of their gilded ring fingers clawing at the inscription upon forehead after forehead from birth they will claim you at auction in their waters; be free now to drink; drink born anew absent the fear and enveloped in love 

Go about these respirations to be at peace in that goodness is unbranded, unfiltered like ground water, that I to you and you to I interact and in that choice is the everything of intent or worry that thou ever shall need concern; for in only this do we see His face in every iteration color, remaining creed or iteration we are but one to that we do in the damaging or loving name of supposition we do onto ourselves  

In this the folly justice of assumed recompense, of allocation and reconciliation comes due in the act itself, for what are we but the accumulation of dust in other graveyards piloting a volition; without the freedom of that election we are but dust waiting to be dust, damning grain into wind; blown about into nutrient or poison fed into ourselves to produce fruit or rot into the collective orchard. 

What need of you of your emperor to be love?

Bad Obsession

Bad Obsession (always messing the mind) 

America you are such a slut

Obsessed with what is under the Christian dress

Petraeus and mistress; public safety and cunilingus

Dirty words of mal intent to bomb websites with the sacrosanct 

Adultery and national security, re-stitch Monica’s stain

Impress a British tabloid with a motor oil diesel drone

Bomb some citizens and worry about four in Benghazi that are not coming home

Kill every day obsess over the flags, colors running and starting  

Biographer lady on the Daily Show chatting with Stewart

Out in the public if it was such a grand conspiracy that the woman

Doing a god-damn biography on the top military man

Was somehow not vetted, not under surveillance to begin with by the CIA  

Secrets leaking with the sperm, conduct detrimental

Fuck-skin, but do not speak the word

Blood like a river in the streets, but do not call it a suburb

Somebody’s home; the meandered truths of monitoring the monitor  

The U.S. Police on the U.S., CIA what have we left

Under rocks on hard drives bodies and besmirched wives

Reputations, demonstrations, think of the children and the manifestations

Of Conduct detrimental; got to bicker with the sentimental  

Take on keeping us safe; would one choose his penis or his country?

Are we protecting marriage or the sense; that We Are a Christian Nation!

We have standards, laws enamored with who is banging who

Who gets to touch, asking the press why does it matter so much? 

Ratings sure, but behind it all the puritanism that American was founded to flee

Is back on display in this feast on four stars and flesh meat

Nothing, but religious indoctrination would allow a leader of untold military understanding and consciousness of our globe to be taken down by his testicles

How is it that a full investigation of classified information is underway on hard drives of a reporter that published a book; if we were slipping secrets to the Russians what an obvious Trojan horse, but then again most spouses know who their mate is sleeping with?

In the Vessel;

In the Vessel; Lighting the Lamp Three weeks before Thanksgiving 2012 

Ingersoll’s lamp of the mind

Twain’s acid in the vessel

Anger, anger, where to put the blackness

So that it is does not light afire and burn its carrier to cinders 

I am struggling this morning with that very dilemma

Thanksgiving is coming

I have a schedule to see my only breathing child

Scripted by lawyers, revised, stamped by a court 

Or well I have a copy before the final revision

Year A, Year B holiday rotations, this November

One begins the Wednesday before turkey Thursday; the type says six p.m.

The scan revision states nine a.m. to balance out a seventy-two hour period

Resulting in a return on Saturday at nine a.m. 

So I assume this change got filed

I was at my daughter’s soccer game at nine a.m. today

Ex has the stroller with her one year old; husband is assistant coaching  

I don’t say hello; I just walk over to the bleachers

Not being rude; long story, or maybe old story, or you probably know

If you are over the age of five; kid is in pigtails on the field prepped 

I have one of those fold-out chairs; but that is in storage

Because I am half-moved to New Orleans since April

I am still on job search and well my chair is over there

Changed the custody schedule; battled in court for a year after the cuckold

To get three out of every seven days; and yet this spring the dam broke inside of me 

You see, this soccer field ain’t in New Orleans; it’s out in rural

Where-her-mom-grew-up-hurricane-Katrina-round-about-through-Dallas evacuation

Nowhere, except everybody knows everybody’s story, as long as it’s told

By someone you know; so that it is how these things go; so no, I don’t say hello 

So since this Spring; I made a choice; to live, to try a real life,

 to attempt to move back to my Crescent City;

to converse with an eight-year old instead of a four-year old

that the building blocks of this purgatory might make transition possible;  

I gave up what I went to war for; I just gave it back,

because all war really does is kill;

I only see her every other weekend now;

 

I am the stereotype her mother wants

Perceiving what she assumed,

yet these mathematics now exist for another purpose altogether;

to maintain my meager rate of respiration 

Explaining would be futile; feckless hypothetical exhaustion to a woman in a bubble

So I watch the whole game; daughter spots me by minute five; they lose four to one 

There was this email about Thanksgiving I sent the ex the week before

About having my kid to see her grandparents and her cousin for the first few days 

On her week off for Thanksgiving;

So effectively Monday to a Saturday I would get to see my kid

 

Not even a whole week, Days I am legally entitled to anyway 

Not even more than the regular iteration

Her mother consumes in time; Her mother emails,

“Maybe if we can switch the Friday out so I can have ‘Holiday Time’” 

I can’t’ email back; there is no use; there is no discuss; there is no empathy

Who has the idea what it is like to feel the ache, the absent handshake with time

That a child is not there; I am playing catch with a breeze or sinister gasp,

The ex has him there demanding daughter call him dad as she is with him 

So after the final whistle, I wait, I always wait; for mother to hug daughter first

To say hello; to not butt heads or dare attempt to step a foot in front the cafeteria line

Anger has this way of being washed away by patience and recognition

That defining victory tends to keep the anger at bay;  

For me victory is the pleasantry of knowing; my daughter knows I love her

I am there in this space, watching, listening, comforting her in these windows of sunrays

We get popping through the canopy of time; when they come we embrace the warmth

Rather than I try to burn away the forest to have a chance at my own oak 

I will eat their muddy acorns for my sapling; I will be the fern

 

So her mother says; “Did you get a chance to read my email; is that going to work?”

I say, “No, I’ll pick her up at nine on Wednesday.”

She says, ”Well I want her to see baby Ava and its six p.m. not nine a.m.”

I say, “Cousin Ava is not a baby anymore; and whatever I’ll be there at six.” 

I gave my daughter a hug; there is another game at three p.m.; it’s the playoffs.