Black Snow (a poem)

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap
And the sensation was so strange,
Like being sucked into a dream
That was not my own, but the
trances of hermits in open
Fields filled with many suns

I am my father’s son, I know,
Because I refuse to believe what
mass media tells me,
Advertisements soak my skull
Like bloody sponges, secreting
Trivial information and data
Collected by régime clerks

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Teeming Masses (a poem)

Like them, I have sought to comfort
But discovered there’s no comfort
Found when hanging on
Edges and screaming into voids

I am devoid of blessings; I wish
I listened to the prayers
Of my grandmother, when she
Gripped her rosary and asked Jesus
To keep me safe on lawless nights

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Scoundrels (a poem)

But must I confess how I liked him
Though he pointed the gun at my head
And told me to give up the charade
Of pretending to enjoy this life

He was tall, slender like
The Slender Man, gruff like
People your mother told you
Not to associate with – scoundrels

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Why the Riddle? (a poem)

Why the riddle?
When we get to the end,
Will the Divine face be revealed?

Or will there be another riddle
Inside of the inside joke
That’s life on this planet?

Let’s peer inside, let’s abide
To directives of love;
Maybe then, a light will shine
From above, and stop us
From digging the crater
That consumes great
Urban centers.

The Divine face is ugly,
We must admit,
To be free from illusion
When the only thing we
Hold onto is our delusions.

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My Face in the Mirror (a poem)

My face in the mirror,
sunken and sad, staring back
into eyes that have seen bad
things rise with resolve
from blotches on skin,
crucifixes on fire,
on fire for the Lord,
who came to deserts
with a sword

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Would you Help me? (a poem)

Would you help me if I was in trouble?

Would you be tender?

Would you be like the good Samaritan in the bible?

Would you wipe the drool off my bruised mouth?

Would you carry me on the battlefield?

Would you feed me?

Would you listen to me talk of how I’ve wasted my life?

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Primordial (a poem)

I am the tramp who wanders American backroads

I am the immigrant who seeks asylum but is denied entry

I am the fool who cries at the drug rehab

I am the fortunate son who squanders wealth

I am the bus driver who drives the Greyhound off the cliff

I am the night-storm that terrorizes the Midwest

I am the space-dust that destroys satellites

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