Be A Racist, It’s Ok, It’s 2017

I walked into a nightmare today,

names were dropped, words were tossed,

I couldn’t get past an,

an, an, an,

omission of a hopeful anomaly,

that turned awful, horrific, debatably


seemed we were all so frivolous,

funny, fanatics.

Seemed we were all lost in the comfort of our


White privilege regarded itself,

and no one else really mattered.

All the doors were closed,

we all looked at each other,

nobody cared, nobody cared,


anyone within a couple of feet with

the ability to see and hear might have thought,

wait a second,

I thought it was the 21st century,

the 21st century – 2017.

Years beyond the days when civil rights

meant understanding there was a need to change,

a need to understand,

a time to respond to the changing mind,

and realize, realize,

real eyes would be watching now,

more cognizant, more genuine …

Have you noticed all the bi-racial advertising,

I mean there’s nothing wrong with it,

just advertising meeting a market,

nothing wrong with it,

the windows are all closed.

Nobody knows,

‘the trouble I’ve seen’,

the long and winding road …

Old man river,

and its four decades later,

we’re still safe though,

nobody heard the word said out loud,


oh wait,

except, except, except,

accept responsibility,

we all heard it and we need all to

open the doors and try to squeeze through,

because we have suddenly narrowed

nearly a half century of effort.

But its ok,

the doors all remain closed.

Simple, right?



Where Is My Window

When looking for a foothold,

the chance of a bargain certainly eats away

integrity as might be imagined.


While walking one evening,

it did suddenly dawn on me, in a rise

of agony, how disturbing is loss.


Perhaps one day when right

an adage so often felt to emote

would be my saving Grace.


I told a friend just the other day,

he agreed with me and the two of us

laughed until we figured out why.


If time is truly a capsule,

I wonder about perhaps hatching

new ideas to squander the old.


I once knew where the open door

would wait for my forever determined

outlook upon open windows.


To feel the necessary energy

capable of creative opportunity,

would be that life is true.

The Hypocrisy of Faith

Steeped in idol trepidation,

an iconic stature,

a reasonably moral conclusion,


a stark reminder

is when we choose to know our side.


Which side, whose side,

why should we decide

what favor we rely upon to gather strength,

when choices made,

become the standard bearer,

the party favorite.


Words bandied about,

tribalism, loyalists, mongering,


A certain repudiation

turns into a bizarre creationist

fable toward standing on firm ground.


Yet the earth underneath my feet

feels unstable, feels temporary,

like a bandaid worn in critical battle,

we are the masses,

we do decide,

whether we choose to believe or we do not.


I am the one with faith,

the I have to readily acknowledge,

I haven’t a clue in what direction,

I choose,

will have any great matter,

when in faith I do choose to lose.

While Digging

With a mental spade in hand,

I broke ground in a volatile land.


It is the sort of tale we often forget,

when suddenly life simply won’t relent.


I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,

only to find I’d still carried a shadow.


There is a reality in knowing the right word

to help move beyond what we might think absurd.


It is a choice,

to dig.


While the atmosphere around us seems trite,

there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.


Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,

once the reality of our lives become serene.


Oh stop again,

for the dig.


Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,

less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.


Seams in the environmental cause will display

while every last item of loss has fallen his way.


Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground

gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.


We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,

its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.


Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,

written by ourselves to discover just what glory


lies in the dig,

where uncovered,


we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place

whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,


while digging,

in search of a likely capsule.


The ground itself in however it may swell,

always uneven, one might never retell.


I Wonder About Love

Oh it is true the feeling you might have,

the moment the mention,

the imagined response to knowing,

wanting, having, believing, sharing,

all the keywords that could be eternal,

always an option,

for it was told,

we could often recall,

the word, the name, the title,

the option,

… and yet we always do somehow return.


I will always remember

when being told,

the actions will speak from afar,

only if I might allow hesitation

to surround my being,

to create an obstacle toward


there is a certain Truth

to believing.


Yet I always return,

whenever the feeling seems right,

there a door opens,

and I do choose to walk,

walk right in,

answer the call,

remind myself of the

the, of the,

of Thee

bigger picture

beyond the wall.


I wonder if it is all so simple,

I do often try to recall.

The Panic

That moment cannot define,

While leisure is blind,

Some heartache not known,

Deliberate havoc the mind.


When we bargain our soul

To help construct a goal

Some manner of conscience

We stammer feeling less whole


I stood in audience of value

A wonder of eyes chaos flew

My hope for redemption

Lost again in the sordid blue.


So seek an answer, a resolve

Shrill anxiety strength dissolve.

Haven’t Heard

I listened only long enough to fear,

the easiest emotion,

that moment when suddenly confusion, our lives,

becomes less about

being in control,

far more about wanting to

run away.

I want that,

more than anything else in the world,

I don’t want to be there when it happens.

I don’t desire definition.

Whether we begin to accept anything at all,

seems relevant only to those who might no longer need hope,

those who are the souls walking the earth tonight.

They are the ghosts in and around our mechanical antics,

fleshing out the reality of our lives,

while we with little regard for our own sanity,

struggle to understand just why hate needs to be a precedent

in our daily lives.

I cannot imagine the horror beyond my own intellectual


to all of the cruelty that exist outside my door,

outside yours, theirs, and wherever I walk tomorrow,

well that could be the right place again …

the wrong time doesn’t really have definition anymore.


Perhaps there is something to the purpose of faith

beyond expectation, beyond us, beyond me.