If ever there was an era
to inspire a revival in poetry
and scare us out of our anxiety
then this horrid decade’s
sense of impending doom should do,
Go now and build your grave
against your life’s pitiful cries,
and when the end is drawing near
Where did they go
when the capstone was finally fitted
and the labor contracts were off in the garbage?
Where did they go
when the Taj Mahal had absorbed its last marble
and the laborers were without their paychecks?
I wanted the world, and I found it,
I poked and I prodded with certain glee.
What I had found was youthful and free,
A boyish desire for wild
And wildernesses within me,
But the world was wicked and cheap
And myself so dumb and naïve
That I had found pills and gold drink.
Around we go again,
around this ancient dance with plague,
and though we have no rose
blotches to mark our perfect skin
You are not an arrow,
nor is your path
flowing like time itself
from birth to death.
Even as newborns
we are defeated
by our very own nerves
I have owned words,
owned them all,
owned them as a suit–
as the newspaper
and anchorman read
I want you to carry my eggs;
I trust you and the care that you take,
yet I know that you are afraid,
Nothing is more disappointing,
nothing so uncared-for
as one that knows let down,
The night comes,
whispering at the eaves,
as if to say,
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.
Everyday was exactly the same,
and the night did nothing,
and staying weighed me like an elephant
There is a gypsy in her hair;
a place where I slip off to breath,
a paradise of spring and new born things,
a playground made of laughter’s glee.
Do not fall for a man like me
I am not blind; I do not see.
I am the reason storms have names
He’s nobody’s hero,
the man that wakes at dawn,
the bagger that packs bags
’till swole with groceries.
Divisions unite us:
The righteous verses all
who dare to dream on false idol
We have engaged in a silence
so profound, it approaches stupidity;
On workdays he’d get up,
worn as the mattress’s springs,
and put on his dad face.
I’d sometimes see him through the cracks