Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





4 Days Later: Give Me Water

Every small gesture signals the known

world is a house of cards running down water


spouts out to the gutter you are so used to.  You no

longer have any fear of falling.  Some sort of ending


in a little brown raft is carrying my heart.  What

kind of paradise am I

looking for?  My face painted by the sun


bears my masked words hiding from my tongue, as they

fucking echo in my head: every scream,


all those promises.

Don’t mates


have the primary purpose of keeping their tribe alive

no matter what?  Why is that so hard for us


to understand?  It must be too simple

for such sophisticated things.  Simple truth is I don’t know


shit.  But it’s when someone’s eyes glisten in a new faith

requiring no God, just the word exhaling over my biting


lip.  It’s like the calm beauty of the Bay called Misery

while constellations dance on the sweeping sound of water on sand.

For the Children We Are Killing

The boy as old as your own

walks to the convenience store


to meet his murderer is disremembered, until

it haunts your own eyes.  No rose-


tinted glasses work here.  The mildly


waifish woman—her efforts to remain silently

unseen are in vain because that just makes her more


mysterious.  She steps into another world she

creates with fingers moving along


typeface.  The page forgets nothing

even when the voice which penned it is cold,

is gone, is no more.

Entropy Elegy

To the sum of a battle cry

can you help?  In the different selves


outside of oneself a sickness has taken

hold.  The sad melody of malady


gripping the heart gone

stunned by reality


seen in plain sight that no

one seems to see. I have


not the language to explain—but I try.  Too


many of this city’s people who would

rather go another day not thinking


because the things they cannot unlearn

are too scary.  Ugly truths


refuse to be forgotten climbing like aggressive

clematis choking out everything in its path


only to bloom and die year after year, after life-

times of forgotten ago.  Vines coil tight to find


stability for the rest of itself with violet and magenta

blooms which fall petal by petal, until they look


to the naked eye as to be dead.

This Alien Is Real and He Has a Name You Won’t Bother to Remember

Ten year old boys from Nepal

are all doped up on Risperdal

just to control

their fear.  Getting suspended

from school for sharing

the chewing bark his father

gave him to feel something from home

in this landscape named after Misery. The poor

child was afraid of vegetables

having learned early, in his short life, anything

growing from the ground around the camp is

toxic, and here is

no different from there when you have

witnessed the horrors this child of the Himalayas

has to drag with him through the broken

neighborhood, just missing the drive-by shooting

from the high school aged kids.  Death toll

is rising.  We are all losing.

Everybody Down

Each page reveals little by little

meaning for the tears from Love hating

you.  Salt shed from one set of eyes

for another pair of a dried up carcasses

with traces of crusted puss.  Welcome to the Alien

Nation where all citizens blindly follow directions

to regurgitate belief in denial pointing fingers

at everyone but themselves.  It’s too simple

to see it.  Staring at walls we never see it. We gaze

right past it clicking to something less

depressing. Lackluster boy of three, death shining forever

from his eyes, in the high hot sun covered up with a blue

pom-pom hat.  His name is Muhamad. He is three, not the Trinity

three, more only three years, or months.  Another mother-less

child.  Would you, could you even let yourself care?  Is it

too much to look?  Right here, right now love a dead alien

child with not documented papers?  Such a simple

question of whom believe to be human.  We have

displaced all of our own species.

Places on the Continental Cradle

Soapboxes screaming into sound

systems, “Who would you die


for?”  Time taken away from you

for Money, and all you want


is some more moments

with your Honey.  Who would I


die for to keep my own

sanity?  Now, I am my own


causality.  Out goes the system, long grows

my hair like a handmade hijab.  Hear each rock


of salt crashing on the fibers of phantom

women.  Yell into megaphones, “I’m here to die


for the Base, the Uneducated, The Proletariat.  Live

off the fat of Big Pigs.  It’s time to Rriot!  Come march


with the Untouchables.”

Mortal Morality

Truth is, all of this is so, sad,

scary, superficial, and so fucking


stupid we don’t see it.  It’s the little

Syrian boy whose eyes glazed so much


his hat was positioned over his face,

because your own boy is around


the same age and think how

lucky you are.  People seem to forget


people flee when staying is no longer a choice

if you want to live.  All these wars-as inhumane


as they are—compare not with the moral obligation

to cry over the death of a motherless child.


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