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No More Gold Gods

No more porcelain gods,
or the prejudice for the painted gods,
or the gods of plastic and oil;
no gods at all,
no temples or palaces filled,
no golden crowned people
or dirty labors unequal,
because we are afraid,
and the products and services
have only lead to divisions,
and the system’s corrupt
and building us more gods
out of the strings of puppet gods,
and the people themselves
have never felt more unequal.

In Summer We Stand Up

Now that the summer’s gone
and the Station Wagon is rusted
into the American lexicon,
and the family is fully adjusted–
two kids, two jobs, and not enough–
we needn’t dream of vacations,
or waste our mileage on the stuff
that our parents had given up,
and there is nothing missing, my son:
not dollars, nor minutes, nor love,
but the old will to simply stand-up.

What if?

What if I made you change
your ideologies today?
there’s babies soft and strange
and hungry human hearts at play
where algorithms dare not go.

I never made you measure
the minutes in a bathroom break
or smiled when all leisure
was the emptying of snake
into bottles poured down drain.

I never made you go
and sell yourself for dreams;
I never made you throw
your humanity to seem
an employee worth the keep

when ideology is chains
that bind the self-esteem
to circuitry brains
that care not of your screams
or what it means to raise a family.

On a Bad Marriage

Everyday was exactly the same,
and the night did nothing,
and staying weighed me like an elephant
that couldn’t slip by the open pantry
just to take the goodies that made him happy,
so like a field mouse I stole the things
needed to keep me sane while I waited,
and then one day everything changed.


This is the law,
the rule of nature eternal,
the force for which we name
and cite maxims today,
not truth but approximate,
surmised through human brains–

We toil and wear our fingers down
precisely to their nubs,
yet the fossil record’s bust,
and for all our endeavors luck
we barely loosed the top.

Oh sure, we’ve discovered
and dug with all our might,
but time will have her way
and with truth there is a maxim:
everything is going to decay.

The Playground of Life

There is a gypsy in her hair;
a place where I slip off to breathe,
a paradise of spring and newborn things,
a playground made of laughter’s glee.

It’s there, among the pair of us,
that fields of white daisies rise up,
and I know that I shall never have want
for a thing that I could not buy–
and a thing that most do not find.

There is a gypsy in her hair
and a fairy beating her wings
against the excited thudding of heart,
beating out it’s inner anxiety,
but how could I not wander forever
among the talk of her and me,
among the paradise of us,
among the playground of life in love?

The ever decreasing minutes of day

The ever decreasing minutes of day
trickle like the granules in an hourglass;

One motion, a grain, and sand spills;

Time dwindles and night eats the past,
to swallow each fallen star
and build colors toward pastel.

This is a very early poem from me, likely around the age of 18.

Do not Fall For a Man Like Me

Do not fall for a man like me
I am not blind; I do not see.
I am the reason storms have names
for I will hit where Cupid aims,
and I will love with all my heart,
give to you my most secret part,
but being so I’ll change you more
than storm on sandy beach or shore,
and I will love your changing coast
as sailor does his loving host.

Perhaps, when I am old and mad,
I will double over the boat
and find myself lips deep afloat
within the spray and troublesome foam,
and then this man you shall know.
I will not leave because of wind;
a sailor seeks his like of kind
and triumphs within the storm,
and though he cannot see the form
which makes up the most painful waves,
he stays because he loves that which he braves.

Darker Than Dismemberment

No candle can stay the cohorts
of human dogmas new or old,
not reason weighed nor goodness shown
would make plain such her hopes;
Hypatia now flayed with oyster shells
and reason ripped as flesh and skin
from those who would see us as more.
Poor Hypatia, her virgin soul,
now stripped to jagged pieces pulled
limb from torso, again, again
limb from torso and head from whole,
until at last they burnt and mocked her toil
and stamped the embers that smoldered,
left over from the burning library
where we humans lost so much more.

Some Say (On Phidias’s Zeus)

Some say that time consumes all,
but Phidias’s statue’s beauty
did not disappear with a thousand falls;
it’s we who took the marble
and chipped until the statue fell;
it’s we who filled empty pockets
and wept when it was gone;
it’s we who cannot remember a beauty
without destroying what we love.

Safe Passage

The world is not enough for us of late;
the rough cold fate of living life to die
exchanged for the spending and getting of time,
the warmth of a fire and a hot plate
rather than the uncertainty of night,
and so we’ve laid waste our sacred birth right.

We are no longer nature or subject
to her, but in that most final moment
that one must face when money fails to buy;
two coins over the eyes and yet we cry
because it is life that we cannot bribe.
We have given away our hearts as coins,
and all the up gathering of missing
and stolen memories whisked to tempest
doesn’t move men’s hearts or make safe the passage.

To My little Spoon

How do you straighten out the human heart
and tell the head that it is truly mad,
mixed up and made for something closer to art
than mathematics and newspaper ads,
and meaningless motions made fast as ‘bots
working robotic shifts at factories?

How do you tell with mind what ties in knots
that all it needs is love and arteries
beating as pulsars between the silk sheets,
beating as lovers, big spoons, and little spoons?

Tom MacDonald The Musical Dragon

Let me tell you ’bout Tom, the musical dragon,
the muse of angels and the fire of hell
a rapper who’s not here to sell you xanex,
music that doesn’t conflict with the truth.
Keep calm, stand tall
the gloves have come off and roof is on fire
and we’re all still alive, just barely breathin’.
Didn’t know what we needed was a musical dragon,
didn’t know it was me he’d be saving
didn’t know there was anything that still meant somethin’,
and so I explode with the rage of a demon. How dare you
short this guy, when it’s you that he’d be savin’.
Keep calm, stand tall, the glove have come off. y’all.

Found in Notes on phone

Beneath the waves a gyre turns it’s gaze.
Awake, at last, that sleeping giant is loosed
once more upon the world. Anarchy is the rule
that sets the center askew; the antichrist is surely near.
The shooter, his rifle, is surely at hand;
surely there’s some terrorist plan,
surely the boogeyman has come to bear
those Freddy claws and leave us turning still
amidst out night of timid sleep and fevered chill.

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