Fodder for Felons

Mar-a-Lago’s a henhouse

guarded by foxes

with top secret files

in taped cardboard boxes

Classified docs

spread all over the floor

fodder for felons

trying to even the score


Millions of lost souls

and Q-cultist bigots

they lap up the lies

from electronic spigots

Looking for purpose

while grasping at straws

praising their savior

despite all his flaws


Empty of knowledge

full of deep longing

Q fits the bill

and their need for belonging


Fingers raised up

they sing and they sway

“The storm is-a-coming”

and so’s judgement day


Engaged in a story

which casts them as heroes

too dumbstruck to know

that they’re dancing to Nero

drinking the Kool-Aid

they’re dope-sick on Q

freebasing lies

and shouting fuck you


There’s fear in not knowing

how this will end

how far Q is going

to strongly defend

the lies of a con man

unwilling to bend

Rise Up

Don’t you ever get

so tired

of all the bullshit

in the air


Politicians

always wired

pretending hard

that they still care


Don’t you long

to get inspired

get this train

back on the track


Aren’t you sick

of being mired

never forward

always back


We’re in need

of revolution

a youth-led promise

towards a day

when our leaders

represent us

no corporate

interests

in the way


Aren’t you tired

of being berated

your world

twisting on a string

all the truths

interrogated

while the lies

go on to sing


Band together

form your power

march into

the voting booth

Turn the day

into your hour

cut down the lies

and raise the truth

What Shining City?

When did it become Ok

In America

for snickering governors

to play politics

with the lives of tired

and desperate human beings?


When did the light

from that shining city

on the hill

become a trick candle?


When did America

erect its Darwinian dome

of indifference towards

the tired and the suffering?


When did we drift from the

Give me your tired and poor

to a cold and callous

Let me show you the door?


When did we

start to fear and hate

the huddled masses

detesting them

while casting a cold

and stony shoulder?


When the humane

treatment of others

takes a backseat to

cheap political stunts

it’s time to look at

the soul of our nation

Tangled up in Black

In the alleys of your heart

In the backstreets of your brain

from the constant buzzing beltway

under rusted lock and chain


In the pain inside your sternum

the boiled marrow in your bones

lurks an ever-growing darkness

over jagged rocks and stones


In dark valleys of depression

and the not so grand delusions

In a vice grip of obsession

In your manic-plagued illusions


With a never-ending stipend

of more than you can bear

an abundant over-ripened

softened fruit

of deep despair


An undefined sad solitude

that something is amiss

always on that taunting edge

of a welcoming abyss


an open-ended sadness

a journey never-ending

exhausted by the battle plan

of constantly pretending


You’re looking for an exit

a respite from the black

An offramp from the sadness

a train that jumps the track


“I can’t believe he did it

I can’t believe he’s gone

no one truly knew

the darkness of his dawn”

Our March Towards the Gallows

Silhouettes and shadows

blurred pictures on the wall

we stumble towards the gallows

our walks turn into crawls

People start to gather

they’re screaming at the sun

hollow eyes and sunken cheeks

blinded, crippled, stunned

Cracked and hardened landscapes

fires all around

sunbaked souls

are full of holes

no water in the ground

Empty silos bellow

a sorrow fills the air

we turn to face our fellow man

and find that he’s not there

Trees that beg for water

dead branches in a field

a loss of social order

our weakened faith revealed

The warning signs were present

we looked the other way

as climate climbs

and mankind falls

what else is there to say?

Souls too weak to whisper

our words fold into prayer

the dead feed off the living

and dust becomes the air

Morning Coffee

His alarm goes off a 6:45 AM.

He looks wearily from his pillow across the room at his desk, where two monitors and a Mac sit framed by a window that overlooks the side yard of his 3 bedroom, one-and-a-half bath cape.

He lays in bed with his dog for another 15 minutes, scratching her behind the ear. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh before rolling over, sitting up, and lowering his feet to the floor.

His 11-year-old Pitbull watches sleepily, yawning and stretching across the center of the bed. He turns to give her one more pat on the head, and her tail thumps the mattress in warm appreciation. Then she lowers her head and closes her eyes. She’ll sleep another hour before heading downstairs to begin her day.

He heads down the staircase from the upstairs bedroom, emptying into the sun-splashed kitchen. It’s one of the things he likes most about the house, but he’s not sure why. He gives this some thought and concludes it’s the practicality of going from a room where sleep still clings to you to a room where the coffee pot awaits. That design makes perfect sense.

“That must be it,” he mutters to himself.

He gets the coffee pot going immediately. He opens the French doors from the kitchen to the cement patio overlooking the yard. The grass is still wet from the morning dew; he walks out, sits on a patio chair, and waits for the coffee to finish brewing.

He starts to rethink why he loves the idea of a staircase connecting the kitchen to the upstairs bedrooms, which has nothing to do with coffee and sleep. He thinks the design decision harkens back to simpler days when the kitchen was the hub of family activity. And even though that was long before his time, the idea of it sits well with him.

In another hour or so, he’ll be back upstairs at his computer, looking at emails and preparing for meetings.

He can’t wait for the day when sitting on the patio is not a prelude to work but rather an interlude to a day without plans or schedules.

Connectionless

Facebook and Snapchat

YouTube and Tik Tok

mad boys on Reddit

Lost sheep in the same flock


Millions of followers

with no one to lead

a whole generation’s

collective brain bleed


Communally living

in woke echo chambers

dimwitted dice-throwing

zombie-like gamers

Vid links and jpegs

the shallow and vain

everyone jumps on

the “look at me!” train


Looking for meaning

in meaningless places

we screen-scroll bikinis

and beautiful faces

With eyes gazing downward

we all barely see

 the world of the living

our humanity


More connected than ever

yet still isolated

we’re captive less active

we’re chained and we’re gated

Networked in sorrow

we borrow from pain

we search for tomorrow

with nothing to gain


We touch screens and tap links

but don’t touch each other

we sniff around porn sites

for sexy stepmothers

Adrift in the wireless

we’re glued to the cam

tireless voyeurs

we wolve for the lamb

The Fame Flame

Fame is potent nectar, and in America particularly, we crave fame more than any other country.

In America, millions believe that celebrity or notoriety can help one overcome a life that feels empty or seems meaningless. There are television shows that celebrate and glorify instant fame. Some social media platforms provide the false promise that all anyone needs to achieve fame is a webcam and an account.

And when attempts to capture fame crumble and the realization that fame by talent or artistry is unreachable, some Americans reach for the gun.

Because in America, a gun is always within reach, and with it, fame and notoriety.

Supremely Out of Touch

Many people are angry today because a constitutional right that’s been in place for more than 50 years and widely supported by the vast majority of Americans was overturned by five conservative justices, three of which were appointed by the most corrupt president in U.S history.

The court’s decision does not align with what most Americans believe and want regarding bodily autonomy and healthcare for women. 

So, what to do? 

Well, for the 2022 midterms, we need to become single-issue voters and do whatever we can to get like-minded individuals to become single-issue voters, and then VOTE!

Vote against any candidate who supports the Supreme court’s decision to do away with a woman’s right to choose. 

It’s important to remember the court’s decision does not make abortion illegal. Instead, the decision says the constitution no longer protects a woman’s right to an abortion. It’s now up to individual states to decide whether abortion is legal or illegal. A woman raped in Missouri might be criminally liable if she tries to terminate her pregnancy in that state. But if that same woman crosses the border into Illinois, her right to terminate her pregnancy is fully protected and legal.

The ruling to overturn Roe will disproportionally affect poor women. Keep your eyes peeled for organizations that will connect women who live in states where abortion is illegal to services in states where abortion is legal — and then support these organizations by donating money and volunteering. Help these organizations provide transportation and a safe place to stay for those who don’t have the means to secure resources on their own.

That Final Hug

She can still feel the imprint of that final hug.

She can still feel the weight of her son’s head on her chest and remembers how she cupped the back of his head and ran her fingers through his dark curls.

She still feels the final squeeze around her rib cage. She remembers her son loosening his embrace, his arms slipping from around her, before letting go and walking through the front doors of his elementary school.

She can still see that carefree smile as he looked over his shoulder back towards her before disappearing forever.

She can’t bear the thought of waking up one day and not feeling the remnants of that final hug.


She has not slept through the night since the incident and cannot forgive herself for letting her boy walk through those doors.

She just wants to close her eyes, stop feeling, and slip into eternal blackness.

Knowing that other mothers suffered before her, and still more mothers will suffer after her, with no substantial changes to gun laws, hollows her out.

Her son was murdered by an 18-year-old boy with an AR-15. His right to purchase that gun was protected by an antiquated and misused 233-year-old amendment to the constitution and a gun-loving governor.

Her son’s right live and grow up was not protected.

Over the last several days she has listened to cold intellectual and academic debates about that amendment and what it means. It doesn’t mean anything to her. It’s all just empty words and platitudes. After all is said and done, her boy is dead.

She walks into her bathroom, places two framed pictures of her son on the sink and runs a hot bath. She takes off her clothes and sits on the tub’s edge, staring at his smiling face.

She remembers the day these pictures were taken.

In one, her son is wearing his Houston Astros baseball cap and clutching his glove to his chest. His first baseball game with his father. His smile bursts through the glass picture frame and she feels a sudden pang in her heart.

Her husband took the other photo and gave it to her last Mother’s Day in a frame with brightly painted flowers. In it, her son is seen squatting in the flower bed on the side of the house, joyously pointing at a snail that he discovered. The sights and sounds of that day are still fresh in her memory. She can still see the mud from the freshly watered garden seeping from the holes in his spiderman crocks — and she still hears all of the questions about this newly discovered creature.

“Mama, does he live in that shell…. is that his home?”

“What happens if he gets too big for his shell? – where does he go then?”

She remembers telling him that the shell protects the snail and keeps him safe from harm. And that memory triggers a flood of emotions. She can’t stop thinking how vulnerable and scared he must have been in those final minutes, and how no one was able to protect him from harm.


She opens the medicine cabinet and takes out a razor blade. She picks up the framed pictures and kisses each one, tears running down her cheeks. Then she turns the pictures away from the tub to face the wall at the back of the sink.

She shuts off the water, slides into the tub, and carefully cuts open the veins running from her wrist up to her forearm. She does this on each arm. Then she drops the razor in the tub and feels it slide along the side of her hip before resting underneath her left buttock.

She takes a deep breath and then closes her eyes.