So, have a good life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It’s easy to rise on the called-for occasion…
signs don’t help.
White. European. Straight. Cisgendered. Wealthy. Males. For them – the sky’s the limit.
There once was a day they stormed Congress.
we might’s well drink the brew.
measure the passing of our existence
If only Coleridge had given Okeonos to that Mariner of olden days…
He worked hard to look strong
policy lures some
We yell from both sides of the room
~ and only hear what echoes back
~ a world that’s only white or black
graphs mean nothing now.
I need you to see some flesh on the jagged bones of the life themes I’ve expressed in my poetry.
“we only want you”
this poem becomes a witch’s brew
Reality is a harsh mistress.
She seems straight-up at first
but then she throws a curve
and a sharp angle. Downward.
With eyes of ping pong balls puppets are blind to the distress of the defenseless
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I make no claim of being more correct than another in theology or orthodoxy, and in no way will I intend to belittle or judge anyone else’s theology, orthodoxy, or lack thereof.
Who I am today is still a work in progress. I think I’ve finally realized I will always be in progress, and accepting that is freeing me to sit at my laptop and tell you (and myself) where I’ve been and where I am, even if that means admitting I DON’T HAVE IT ALL FIGURED OUT.