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It was the image of perfection:
ruby red paint
sleek curves
and the power of a beast
contained within its compact form.
I named it Baby Red -
for the color -
and loved ever minute
behind that 0-60 in 3.75 seconds
2000 Honda Civic.
It was the envy of every man,
woman, and child in my small town
and on the campus of my 500 population
school that I sped to as I ran late
every morning from the moment
I bought that slice of heaven on earth.
Then, the gravel came fast to chip
the paint from the side
and the road met window
at 55 miles per hour
as my stack of Compact Discs
bombarded my head as the world
spun around in circles
going so fast but so slow at the same time
like a careening airplane
that's sure of death but no longer afraid
of what is to come as it
plummets so quickly
to the ground that there is no
turning back from what
is going to happen.
Then it stops.
I am sideways.
Hands at 10 and 2.
The car groans its protest beneath me.
I push up against the passenger door
that is suddenly so much heavier than
it ever seemed before.
Gravity's a bitch when you're trapped.
I land on all fours on the gravel road
and cry int the headlights that light both
my feet and my contorted face
as I stare blankly at the carnage
of my once beautiful Baby Red.
I scream out into the night
"Help! HELP! Oh my GOD!
HELP! I just wrecked my car!
Won't somebody help me!"
I cry out in vain at the lonely farm house
and to the rustle in the bushes.
I scream not for the aide but for the comfort
of screaming when the world
has come back to full speed
and the impact finally hits
that my car is not my car
but my pile of scrap metal
for all I know or care:
this is the death of beauty.
The cell phone lights from inside
and I scale the car once more
to reach that heavy metal door
and fall through to the other side,
where my journey both ended and began
once more, to dig for that beacon
of flashing hope beneath the gas pedal,
beneath the black rose pedal that killed
a love and gave birth to a new love
all at the same time.
"Help me! I. Wrecked. My. Car!"
I pant between sobs
"Huh? Dude? What?"
He says in shock and awe.
"I. Wrecked. My. Car."
I repeat for affect.
"Woah. Are you shitting me?
You're late man, get yo ass here!"
He retorts, hoping to see
some way passed my joke
that isn't really a joke at all.
"I. Can't. I. Wrecked. My. Ca-a-a-ar!"
I scream and squeal
and thrash about
until he appeals
to my cry for help,
for him to come my way!
"We're on the way."
Thank God, you're on the way.
Headlights blare from both directions
parents come last, as usual,
but the friends are their pushing
and holding and hugging and praying
that nothing is broken.
But something is broken:
my big-headed pride,
my over-sized stride,
my love of myself
I could not deny.
Until that very moment
when it was all gone.
They came to push it back upright
and there I beheld that horrendous sight:
My Baby Red turned into the Red Beast
the devilish gravel held its devilish feast
on that shiny red paint and that smooth sleek body,
why did this happen to that smooth sleek body?
That night was a daze
The next day a drag
I sat on that bus
and wailed and sagged
in the seat as it bumped
along that same gravel road
where my car marred the surface
of a patch of roughness in the otherwise
quite bumpy road that should never
have been traveled.
That will teach me to speed
on loose gravel!
Two weeks later,
the Red Beast was back
but the stares were of another
sort than the stares of before.
These were of sadness,
pity, and remorse
for the loss of cart
for the loss of its horse!
They wept at the loss
of such superficial beauty:
the red mixed with white,
the ash to douse the flame.
"It was so pretty
But then you had to go
and wreck it all!"
Why do they make me take the fall?
I drive it still today
Some two years later
I drive it still today
But it's become something greater:
A legacy I leave behind
to top my "Tops in Texas"
because long after that
trophy is forgotten,
they'll still remember me:
the boy who rode the gallant steed
That broken piece of former beauty
turned into the ferocious beast!
I leave behind a legacy when I move:
the legacy of Baby Red turned to Red Beast,
the legacy of legend to say the very least.
Wherever I go, people recognize me
But it's not by what I've done
Or who I know
Or what I will do.
Wherever I go, people recognize me
because I'm not afraid to tame the beast
and ride it into the night,
and on through my life.
Monday, March 10, 2008
My Son
You have not yet been born
and I doubt you ever will be
because I won't give you the chance
to turn out just like me.
You see, my son,
I disappoint the world
despite what I have done
and what I have accomplished
because I am not the man they see
in headlines across the front page:
the winner of the great event
the mastermind and the sage.
You see, my son,
what I have done
is left a trail of tears
from day one of my openness
to the last man I left behind
me as I moved on and she won
and I conquered my own desires
to silence them for some time
until I would be free again to feel.
You have not yet been born
and I doubt you ever will be
Because the thing I fear the most
is you'll turn out just like me.
and I doubt you ever will be
because I won't give you the chance
to turn out just like me.
You see, my son,
I disappoint the world
despite what I have done
and what I have accomplished
because I am not the man they see
in headlines across the front page:
the winner of the great event
the mastermind and the sage.
You see, my son,
what I have done
is left a trail of tears
from day one of my openness
to the last man I left behind
me as I moved on and she won
and I conquered my own desires
to silence them for some time
until I would be free again to feel.
You have not yet been born
and I doubt you ever will be
Because the thing I fear the most
is you'll turn out just like me.
My Mother
Her.
It.
She.
Bitch.
My mother, oh how I love her
when she's not tying me down to this hell
I call home in the middle of nowhere,
the middle of a hole I cannot seem to get out of
because she's got me held in place by
chains of the past and chains of the future
and finance and finality of her piercing words
that cut like a knife through my heart
because she cannot love me for who I am
but who she wants me to be: someone
who is utterly and entirely not me.
My mother, how I envy her
for the power she has over her own future
and of mine, for that matter, because who am I
but her precious son? The success of which is all
hers, I assure you that, because how could I have
come to this if not for her love and support in all things
I did right and her proper admonishments when I did not
and her loving insight into the world that is naught?
My mother, how I loathe her
for her archaic beliefs that God didn't create Adam and Steve
he created Adam and Eve, but guess what, Mommy Dearest,
He also created the Birds and the Bees and the wind in the trees
that blew those bees together and those birds apart and that love
in one another that just began to start. That boy met that boy
down by the bay and in the sand they did play as the night faded to day
and the clouds rolled away and the sun shone so bright on his behind
as he took hold and I took flight and I learned to love a man, mother,
a man who I loved so dear as he took hold and took me there.
Guess what, Mother so dear, he took me there. He took me there.
Guess what, dear Mother, you're son's a QUEER.
Mother, I love you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I support you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I adore you.
Unconditionally.
Can you say the same for me?
It.
She.
Bitch.
My mother, oh how I love her
when she's not tying me down to this hell
I call home in the middle of nowhere,
the middle of a hole I cannot seem to get out of
because she's got me held in place by
chains of the past and chains of the future
and finance and finality of her piercing words
that cut like a knife through my heart
because she cannot love me for who I am
but who she wants me to be: someone
who is utterly and entirely not me.
My mother, how I envy her
for the power she has over her own future
and of mine, for that matter, because who am I
but her precious son? The success of which is all
hers, I assure you that, because how could I have
come to this if not for her love and support in all things
I did right and her proper admonishments when I did not
and her loving insight into the world that is naught?
My mother, how I loathe her
for her archaic beliefs that God didn't create Adam and Steve
he created Adam and Eve, but guess what, Mommy Dearest,
He also created the Birds and the Bees and the wind in the trees
that blew those bees together and those birds apart and that love
in one another that just began to start. That boy met that boy
down by the bay and in the sand they did play as the night faded to day
and the clouds rolled away and the sun shone so bright on his behind
as he took hold and I took flight and I learned to love a man, mother,
a man who I loved so dear as he took hold and took me there.
Guess what, Mother so dear, he took me there. He took me there.
Guess what, dear Mother, you're son's a QUEER.
Mother, I love you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I support you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I adore you.
Unconditionally.
Can you say the same for me?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
My Father
I miss him,
my father,
like no other
in the world.
I want to kiss him,
my father,
like any other
boy or girl.
I want to hold him,
my father,
to be kept safe
from this turmoil.
I want him,
my father,
to come back
into this world.
Although he is no longer here
I can still hear him in my times of need
speaking from within me, looking back through
the mirror that shows both his reflection and mine
as I gaze into my past to find the man that bore me
and raised me as a child to know what was right from
what was wrong in this world that he left me all alone in
without the influence of a man to shape my mind and body
into something more than this poor excuse for a man that I am.
Although he is no longer here
I can still remember his voice because it is mine
and the words that escape my lips are borne of what
he taught me to believe in even before I knew I could believe
in anything or nothing at all, because he is the one who instilled in me
the principals of life that I am still living by to this day and to every day henceforth.
Although he is no longer here
I remember him fondly from days gone by
when he took me to the lake and made me fly
on the wings of a speeding boat that sliced through
the waves and stood afloat above the expanse of blue above
and blue below and blue in my eyes that stared into his as I weeped
the tears of joy that pour from my face now that he is with me forever
in my heart and in my mind and in my body and in my whole being because
My father is, no matter what, always going to be a part of me.
What would he say if here were here?
My father, my father, who I hold dear?
What would he say if I were queer?
My father, my father, still love me dear?
I miss him,
my father,
but we'll meet again.
I love him,
my father,
my dearest friend.
my father,
like no other
in the world.
I want to kiss him,
my father,
like any other
boy or girl.
I want to hold him,
my father,
to be kept safe
from this turmoil.
I want him,
my father,
to come back
into this world.
Although he is no longer here
I can still hear him in my times of need
speaking from within me, looking back through
the mirror that shows both his reflection and mine
as I gaze into my past to find the man that bore me
and raised me as a child to know what was right from
what was wrong in this world that he left me all alone in
without the influence of a man to shape my mind and body
into something more than this poor excuse for a man that I am.
Although he is no longer here
I can still remember his voice because it is mine
and the words that escape my lips are borne of what
he taught me to believe in even before I knew I could believe
in anything or nothing at all, because he is the one who instilled in me
the principals of life that I am still living by to this day and to every day henceforth.
Although he is no longer here
I remember him fondly from days gone by
when he took me to the lake and made me fly
on the wings of a speeding boat that sliced through
the waves and stood afloat above the expanse of blue above
and blue below and blue in my eyes that stared into his as I weeped
the tears of joy that pour from my face now that he is with me forever
in my heart and in my mind and in my body and in my whole being because
My father is, no matter what, always going to be a part of me.
What would he say if here were here?
My father, my father, who I hold dear?
What would he say if I were queer?
My father, my father, still love me dear?
I miss him,
my father,
but we'll meet again.
I love him,
my father,
my dearest friend.
Hotel Room
Hotel room beds are like prostitutes:
Every night a different man, woman, or child
spends hundreds of bucks to have the best night
of their lives when they are away
from their husbands and wives.
Hotel rooms are like homes away from home:
A bed, a tv, a broken remote control,
internet that doesn't work,
and an ill-equipped bathroom
with a toilet that only flushes once
every five times and only if you jiggle
the handle just right and force the lid
down while standing on one knee
bent over and whispering lines out
of the Bible that can be found in the
bedside table but is rarely ever used.
Hotels are like one night stands:
there forever if you want to go back
but rarely as good as the first time
because someone else has been there
after you but before you this time
and has defiled the best parts and stolen
something that made it so much more
the first time around when the night
was the best and the memory
even better because the memory
is of a time before that middle-aged man
came and let loose his terror on what
was once a decent place but now
is just that memory of a one-night stand.
This city is asleep but stay awake
avoiding the siren call of the prostitute
as I roam the corridors of my temporary home
before returning for a one night stand in this hell
of a place that I once loved before I altogether realized
I'm just here for the night, anyway.
Every night a different man, woman, or child
spends hundreds of bucks to have the best night
of their lives when they are away
from their husbands and wives.
Hotel rooms are like homes away from home:
A bed, a tv, a broken remote control,
internet that doesn't work,
and an ill-equipped bathroom
with a toilet that only flushes once
every five times and only if you jiggle
the handle just right and force the lid
down while standing on one knee
bent over and whispering lines out
of the Bible that can be found in the
bedside table but is rarely ever used.
Hotels are like one night stands:
there forever if you want to go back
but rarely as good as the first time
because someone else has been there
after you but before you this time
and has defiled the best parts and stolen
something that made it so much more
the first time around when the night
was the best and the memory
even better because the memory
is of a time before that middle-aged man
came and let loose his terror on what
was once a decent place but now
is just that memory of a one-night stand.
This city is asleep but stay awake
avoiding the siren call of the prostitute
as I roam the corridors of my temporary home
before returning for a one night stand in this hell
of a place that I once loved before I altogether realized
I'm just here for the night, anyway.
Remembering You Amounts to Nothing (RYAN)
What we had is spent
in the aisles of black roses
that lines the garden of our Eden
behind the picket row fence of our home
in the depths of Suburbia in which we fed a hunger,
a desire so deep for one another that the world wept
as we rose to the occasion and blacked out all else but
your body and mine as our worlds intertwined into one single
being.
What I need is broken
and tattered and torn in the sheets
of that sweet dream I recollect in times
when I need you the least but also miss you
the most I have ever missed and ever wanted before:
these times when I shouldn't to save you from the wake
of a terrible blade of sorrow and dispair that will blacken
your amber skies as I say my sorrowful goodbyes and head into
the future and away from you who I hold so dear to me now and
forever.
What I want is you
back in my safe and loving arms
that lie cold and frozen without you
and yearn for the warmth of your body
as our lips touch and our cheeks blush a scarlet
so deep that the blood from one razor blade or fourteen
that cut through my heart and yours could never even hope
to compare because that blush is so deep and that hurt even
more that I could never dare dream you could come back to me
because who am I but this poor excuse for a man who left you
alone.
All I wanted was
to stay with you
and hold you
forever
but never could
abandon the dreams
I have or will have
to sacrifice for another
the life I choose to live
and the dreams I dare to give
to none but myself and my own being
even if it means being all alone forever.
But somehow in my sleep
you always come back to remind me:
All I want right now
is you.
All I need is everything
but you.
All my world screams I
miss you.
And in my every dream I
love you.
in the aisles of black roses
that lines the garden of our Eden
behind the picket row fence of our home
in the depths of Suburbia in which we fed a hunger,
a desire so deep for one another that the world wept
as we rose to the occasion and blacked out all else but
your body and mine as our worlds intertwined into one single
being.
What I need is broken
and tattered and torn in the sheets
of that sweet dream I recollect in times
when I need you the least but also miss you
the most I have ever missed and ever wanted before:
these times when I shouldn't to save you from the wake
of a terrible blade of sorrow and dispair that will blacken
your amber skies as I say my sorrowful goodbyes and head into
the future and away from you who I hold so dear to me now and
forever.
What I want is you
back in my safe and loving arms
that lie cold and frozen without you
and yearn for the warmth of your body
as our lips touch and our cheeks blush a scarlet
so deep that the blood from one razor blade or fourteen
that cut through my heart and yours could never even hope
to compare because that blush is so deep and that hurt even
more that I could never dare dream you could come back to me
because who am I but this poor excuse for a man who left you
alone.
All I wanted was
to stay with you
and hold you
forever
but never could
abandon the dreams
I have or will have
to sacrifice for another
the life I choose to live
and the dreams I dare to give
to none but myself and my own being
even if it means being all alone forever.
But somehow in my sleep
you always come back to remind me:
All I want right now
is you.
All I need is everything
but you.
All my world screams I
miss you.
And in my every dream I
love you.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Evolve
The barrier between here and there
is like an insurmountable wall that all others
begin to look at with utter terror and absolute fear,
but not you and I.
We are the ones that evolve from the dust
that settles on their head like the aging gray hairs
that will eventually replace it as they remain in this place
far after you and I are gone.
We are the ones that surpass this pack of mindless
drones as they drone on day after dreary, long, weary day
in their same old routine that never seems to bother them
but makes you and I weep with despair.
We are the ones that want to revolutionize this institutionalized
city we find ourselves currently trapped in behind these jail-cells
of brick prisons that we go to for so long every damn day just to see
that you and I do not belong.
We are evolving from this provincial little world that seems so vast
to the young and ignorant people who remain young and ignorant
even to their deathbeds because they fear what the world can hold
beyond their little homes, but not you and I.
We are leaving this place behind. We are evolving from this time.
Darwin may have been an utter genius and a fool all the same
but he was right about one thing on that controversial theory of his:
We do adapt to our environments, or else you and I move.
We are not meant for this place, for this tar pit of a world that traps
and taunts and bogs them down into their quiet lives that should not
be shaken by their planted feet so that the dust may fall off of them,
but you and I are meant for this world, do believe me that!
You and are bigger than this small space we call life
Because this small space is merely a fraction of the life
we could live beyond the borders of this city of sin and hellfire
and damnation to all but you and I.
You and I will break free.
We. Will. Evolve.
is like an insurmountable wall that all others
begin to look at with utter terror and absolute fear,
but not you and I.
We are the ones that evolve from the dust
that settles on their head like the aging gray hairs
that will eventually replace it as they remain in this place
far after you and I are gone.
We are the ones that surpass this pack of mindless
drones as they drone on day after dreary, long, weary day
in their same old routine that never seems to bother them
but makes you and I weep with despair.
We are the ones that want to revolutionize this institutionalized
city we find ourselves currently trapped in behind these jail-cells
of brick prisons that we go to for so long every damn day just to see
that you and I do not belong.
We are evolving from this provincial little world that seems so vast
to the young and ignorant people who remain young and ignorant
even to their deathbeds because they fear what the world can hold
beyond their little homes, but not you and I.
We are leaving this place behind. We are evolving from this time.
Darwin may have been an utter genius and a fool all the same
but he was right about one thing on that controversial theory of his:
We do adapt to our environments, or else you and I move.
We are not meant for this place, for this tar pit of a world that traps
and taunts and bogs them down into their quiet lives that should not
be shaken by their planted feet so that the dust may fall off of them,
but you and I are meant for this world, do believe me that!
You and are bigger than this small space we call life
Because this small space is merely a fraction of the life
we could live beyond the borders of this city of sin and hellfire
and damnation to all but you and I.
You and I will break free.
We. Will. Evolve.
Where We Were
We have all been there once or twice before
The purgatory-like meadow with a grassy knoll
surrounded by a sea of thorns that means
the only way out is up or down and the only
real feeling is being there and being scared
of what lies beyond the ring of thorns
that daily closes in at us
beaconing to choose
between this life
or another.
Where we were yesterday
is very much the same as today
but somehow different,
like time can make a difference
even in small hourly dosages that
bleed like a pinprick on my finger
as they draw blood from the depths
of my very being to pass on to another:
the only blood I will ever pass to another
be it through loin or vein for I am not sanitary
in their sense of the word for I've lain with another
of the same kind like the bird and the bee and the bee
who stuck to his hive to find a friend in bed and a friend
in head like the lost wasp found a mate among the hornets
nest that swelled and stirred and thought it a jest that someone
other than a bird would ever dare step foot inside their
humble
little
home.
Where we were when I said to you
I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot want your boyfriend
or want to be your boyfriend
or relish in the boyfriend
that I was of yesterday
or forget the places
that never go away
Where we were there
I am no longer there today.
Stoic.
Emotion-
less.
Gone.
You
From
My
Mind.
GONE.
Feel that?
Good.
Bad.
I don't care.
Where we were when I sat alone
Where we were when I sat at home
Where we were when the hours ticked by
Where we were when I felt you cry
Where we were when the votes came in
Where we were when we committed our sin
Where we were through those warm fuzzies
Where we were through those broken lies
Where we were is gone
Where we are is here
in the middle of that parking lot
Staring at the starlight
Waiting for the world
to change and being
that change in the world.
Where we were is nothing compared
to where we soon shall be!
The purgatory-like meadow with a grassy knoll
surrounded by a sea of thorns that means
the only way out is up or down and the only
real feeling is being there and being scared
of what lies beyond the ring of thorns
that daily closes in at us
beaconing to choose
between this life
or another.
Where we were yesterday
is very much the same as today
but somehow different,
like time can make a difference
even in small hourly dosages that
bleed like a pinprick on my finger
as they draw blood from the depths
of my very being to pass on to another:
the only blood I will ever pass to another
be it through loin or vein for I am not sanitary
in their sense of the word for I've lain with another
of the same kind like the bird and the bee and the bee
who stuck to his hive to find a friend in bed and a friend
in head like the lost wasp found a mate among the hornets
nest that swelled and stirred and thought it a jest that someone
other than a bird would ever dare step foot inside their
humble
little
home.
Where we were when I said to you
I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot want your boyfriend
or want to be your boyfriend
or relish in the boyfriend
that I was of yesterday
or forget the places
that never go away
Where we were there
I am no longer there today.
Stoic.
Emotion-
less.
Gone.
You
From
My
Mind.
GONE.
Feel that?
Good.
Bad.
I don't care.
Where we were when I sat alone
Where we were when I sat at home
Where we were when the hours ticked by
Where we were when I felt you cry
Where we were when the votes came in
Where we were when we committed our sin
Where we were through those warm fuzzies
Where we were through those broken lies
Where we were is gone
Where we are is here
in the middle of that parking lot
Staring at the starlight
Waiting for the world
to change and being
that change in the world.
Where we were is nothing compared
to where we soon shall be!
Chivalry Was Found Dead in the Bottom of a Bottle in His Cold and Dreary Hands
What did it take for you to realize you were wrong?
The whirl of the lights or the sound of the throng
of people fleeing the scene in a haze initiated by the
foggiest notion to think to stop to take a small drink
out of that barren draught of false hopes and promises
of respite from this world we call our own but hate to think
about the future of this world that so long stood alone
and undaunted except when this race we call man
took up and took a stand against all that was good
and clean and safe and fun and truly memorable
to forsake it for this one-night-stand with a bottle
in hand and a haze settling in over body and mind.
Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in His cold and dreary hands that took hold of the wheel
whose tires peeled on the pavement as the brake lights
roared into life to light up the night
on that cold and harsh evening
when the cops chased them way
into the night
where courtesy took respite
in the brightest corners
where those roaches dare not wonder
into for fear of being caught
in the blinding stare of reality
as it slaps them in the face.
When the bottles are turned up
and the cuffs turned down
and those once happy faces
turned all into frowns,
Then they will realize
the black they are wearing
is because of that night
when the fools took flight
and didn't know who that was
or when to respond to the lights
that illuminated cold asphalt
as they came to a sudden stop
that sent others on ahead
and dropped them dead
to the grass when their bottles
now lay upside down and empty
like their hearts.
What does it take to realize you're wrong?
The note in the bottom of the bottle
or the voice of the song
at the funeral of a friend?
Is it enough for one night
or all the nights til the end
to see them all suffer
at the loss of your friend?
Is it enough to lose all
and let one another fall
just for one night of fun
none remember -- at all?
Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in those cold and dreary hands
that clutched the wheel
that took the life
that felt surreal
as it sped off into the night.
Chivalry sped into the night.
Chivalry took off in fright.
Chivalry stood dead with a knife
With a knife in the shape of a bottle
The knife that took his own life
In the night.
The whirl of the lights or the sound of the throng
of people fleeing the scene in a haze initiated by the
foggiest notion to think to stop to take a small drink
out of that barren draught of false hopes and promises
of respite from this world we call our own but hate to think
about the future of this world that so long stood alone
and undaunted except when this race we call man
took up and took a stand against all that was good
and clean and safe and fun and truly memorable
to forsake it for this one-night-stand with a bottle
in hand and a haze settling in over body and mind.
Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in His cold and dreary hands that took hold of the wheel
whose tires peeled on the pavement as the brake lights
roared into life to light up the night
on that cold and harsh evening
when the cops chased them way
into the night
where courtesy took respite
in the brightest corners
where those roaches dare not wonder
into for fear of being caught
in the blinding stare of reality
as it slaps them in the face.
When the bottles are turned up
and the cuffs turned down
and those once happy faces
turned all into frowns,
Then they will realize
the black they are wearing
is because of that night
when the fools took flight
and didn't know who that was
or when to respond to the lights
that illuminated cold asphalt
as they came to a sudden stop
that sent others on ahead
and dropped them dead
to the grass when their bottles
now lay upside down and empty
like their hearts.
What does it take to realize you're wrong?
The note in the bottom of the bottle
or the voice of the song
at the funeral of a friend?
Is it enough for one night
or all the nights til the end
to see them all suffer
at the loss of your friend?
Is it enough to lose all
and let one another fall
just for one night of fun
none remember -- at all?
Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in those cold and dreary hands
that clutched the wheel
that took the life
that felt surreal
as it sped off into the night.
Chivalry sped into the night.
Chivalry took off in fright.
Chivalry stood dead with a knife
With a knife in the shape of a bottle
The knife that took his own life
In the night.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Our Assets
The polls are open at 8 a.m.
and the folks line up to commit their sins
On the tiny computer screen that decides who wins
the future of America.
The banners wave,
The flags suspend
in the air and on the wind
and here we go to cast the vote
for who we think could take the toll
of answering a damned phone
at 3 a.m. when the polls are closed
except at the White House he or she is in.
I do not count him or her out
based on race or rant or creed or passion
But I do not count her or him in
just because the news says it's in fashion!
A Black, A Woman, and a Republican
walk into a bar in north Texas
and the mud flies through the air
as the Amazonian Lady-in-Waiting
Flies towards the Presidential Dream
representative of the female species
And the mad black man roars over
barstool and bench and table alike
to scratch out the eyes of Mr. "I did
not have sexual relations with that
woman" himself as the old man settles
in to watch the chaos that ultimately
will lead to his not-so-surprising victory
over the people that built America behind
the scenes:
The woman with dreams
and the black who slaved
to save the dreams of those
who gave their lives before
to build a nation that might
embrace in its arms the thought
of a man of a different color
rising to power -- but who also
must realize that his death
is only a majority away
and then who's to blame
for the tragedy of a nation
falling so shortly after
the election of a man
who stands for what
America always has
and never again will.
With liberty and justice for all
But not for you, or you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or me.
and the folks line up to commit their sins
On the tiny computer screen that decides who wins
the future of America.
The banners wave,
The flags suspend
in the air and on the wind
and here we go to cast the vote
for who we think could take the toll
of answering a damned phone
at 3 a.m. when the polls are closed
except at the White House he or she is in.
I do not count him or her out
based on race or rant or creed or passion
But I do not count her or him in
just because the news says it's in fashion!
A Black, A Woman, and a Republican
walk into a bar in north Texas
and the mud flies through the air
as the Amazonian Lady-in-Waiting
Flies towards the Presidential Dream
representative of the female species
And the mad black man roars over
barstool and bench and table alike
to scratch out the eyes of Mr. "I did
not have sexual relations with that
woman" himself as the old man settles
in to watch the chaos that ultimately
will lead to his not-so-surprising victory
over the people that built America behind
the scenes:
The woman with dreams
and the black who slaved
to save the dreams of those
who gave their lives before
to build a nation that might
embrace in its arms the thought
of a man of a different color
rising to power -- but who also
must realize that his death
is only a majority away
and then who's to blame
for the tragedy of a nation
falling so shortly after
the election of a man
who stands for what
America always has
and never again will.
With liberty and justice for all
But not for you, or you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or me.
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