Stray

How in God’s name
does the ivy continue to grow
look at me I know you
I know what happened
I know exactly what you did
prayers bounce off
your shell-shocked skull
tell me what’s in the bag
say it
say the words
the ice is very thin
this far away from home
take another step
I fucking dare you
the bricks are starting to fall
just like you predicted
I wonder, I just have to wonder
how the hell you knew…

– Kurt Poleet

woman-and-baby-2

“At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,’ was his mildly cadaverous reply.” – Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener

You can’t grow roses in cement

If you’re looking for justice, just turn away,
somewhere, there must be a better game to play,
like an egg salad sandwich left outside to rot,
the have-nots languish
in a hopeless state of anguish.

To try to greet the day with a smile is a chore,
is there food to feed the children?
Not today, not no more,
enough schools to teach the children?
Not today, not no more.

The sun never seems to shine
in this lonely jail of mine,
there’s no reason to lament,
you can’t grow roses in cement…

– Kurt Poleet

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Atticus Finch: If you just learn a single trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. – To Kill a Mockingbird

Seaweed

Darkness fades as solar flares

peal forth, never knowing, ever-growing

toward a childhood no one dares

seek; sleek as a slick oilspill-victimed duckling

rising from the ashes of humility

who will willingly see humanity’s

search for a sister planet, built to sustain

Judgement Day’s cast-offs,

lest they wrest fate’s finest hour

from the mighty death-grip of power.

We’ll give them hybrids, no more;

let the exuberant soar

on the floor, head tucked between your knees

pleas bounce off His Majesty’s conscience

and the porridge is neither too hot or cold

we all fall into the fold

we all fall into the fold…

You people

I have no desire to enter into the political debate, however recent events have forced me to at least address a singular issue that won’t seem to go away. The horrific tragedy in Aurora, Colorado has sparked heated, sometimes incomprehensible, words being thrown back and forth, as if whoever is on the receiving end is as evil a person as James Holmes himself.

I was just lambasted by an individual outside the United States, condemned as a violent sociopath because all Americans are gun-toting folks who shoot first and ask questions, well, never. Even after my attempts to dissuade this person from his beliefs, I was rebuffed.

Humans are a social species. We require contact with others of our own kind. Ah, but what constitutes “our kind”? If you were dropped into the middle of a jungle, you would run toward the first human you saw, no matter the color of the skin, or religious tilt. If, however, you met that same individual in different circumstances, such as a political rally, and you were of opposing camps, you would inevitably distance yourself from him.

We are a simple people. We all see the world as black or white, good or evil. If you’re a climate change denier, all climate change believers are less intelligent, less “good” than yourself and those with whom you agree. Conservatives are somehow “less” than liberals, if that’s what you happen to be. Yet, if you’re both Yankees fans and are at the park, you’re best buddies.

The point of this post is that I hope to see, and be seen, as more than just a part of a group. We must see each other as a people whose tendencies, feelings, hopes and dreams are more the same than they are different. The future of our society, nay, our species, demands it.

Undiluted

Violet rose petals

clutched in a death-grip

deep within the reservoirs

of musty old books

and dirty laundry,

wailing unrepentantly

yet focused like a laser,

the pathos represented by the reprehensible

sigil marking the dreaded forehead

headed for the River Styx.

“Begone!”

Still, fire-breathing marshmallows

wrap their seedy sinews

round the last superego

beckoning hell to fell the Tree

and none will ever see the snow fall again.

Thanks a lot, Heraclitus…

The Calling

Deep within the seismographic enigma

the stigma of holographic weeping

keeping faith in the corner of the pantry

never to be seen or heard

never to know as another knows not

hot for the truth to disappear

sphere whipping round endlessly

going nowhere

shoving love in my back pocket

save it for a rainy day

and say those magic words

one last time

like a panther crouched to strike

might makes right

but wrong lasts forever.