Harmoniously together we stand alone
And preach our lack of dogma via trendy microphone
Assert our individuality and blazing independence
Tolerance and equality with fashionable transcendence
You’re my fellow human, father, mother, sister, brother
Draw a circle around all of us who are nothing like each other
But who coined the clichés and the stereotypes?
And why are you so far left if everybody’s right?
What did all these abbreviations stand for originally?
Who are we indigenously,
Homo sapiens and individually?
Who are “we the people,” specifically?
And what are the ideals realistically? Pluralistically?
What’s the rule if it’s all an exception?
Or was that just a suggestion?
And where’s the real image of all these reflections?
We’re all so good at avoiding projection,
Going green and turning out at elections
Open minds leave thoughts free for convection
So we can hide and deny our fear of rejection
How are we to compromise when nothing’s left to give?
And how to catch liquid truths with holy mental sieves?
And what if I can’t tolerate anymore?
Who had the most points seven and four score?
What’s the playing field tomorrow, now, and before?
Antebellum, antecedent, anaphor
Broken hearts and lipitor
And if living the dream was so majestic
Why am I disgusted by this product gross domestic?
How to manufacture organic
Suffer accident, act like we planned it?
Loop holes and black holes
Left us less than whole
What’s the profit margin if you gain the world?

The Chromatic Portent

Martin’s eyes shifted quickly to the left. It was there, in the pale, electric glow cast by the lamp rod, that he saw the strange blur, the crimson fluttering of wings that caused the rare disruption of his thoughts. It was indeed an uncommon thing in this city to see anything worth turning your glance for. The source of the crimson fluttering had disappeared leaving nothing but the vague image in Martin’s mind of a bird flying off through the smog.
Martin’s eyes shifted back to the lamp rod, the supposed evidence of progress. What was progress anyway? Because it surely had not hit this city yet. The lamp rod just floated there above the sidewalk, bouncing subtly in the slight breeze. The light it cast was a dead white, electric, no color, just like the city. Why did they even place those lights along the streets? No one really wanted to see each other anyway. The whole population’s past had been spent building up steel walls around themselves, hiding who they are and showing who they “ought” to be. All this city really was, in fact, was a masquerade ball without the festivities or the color. The day was as dark as the night and filled with the connect-the-dot hustle and bustle of hollow souls. The night life was a poor imitation of life and even more hollow than “life” during the day.
Martin lifted his eyes to the so-called “majestic” skyline. It was really nothing but a bunch of pale, electric lights in the midst of a hazy layer of thick smog. Dark and hollow. Those were the two words that summed up the entire city. Martin wondered if genuine life would ever come to Thanopolis.
A cold raindrop hit his nose.
Someone above him was weeping.

Behind the Ribcage

This burning
paper dreams
kindled
brittle leaves and twigs
fell after all was
lush and green before
the season began to undress.
Dying, drying
but now fuel for fire
raging, growing
lustfully consuming
blaze of purging tenacity.
Ashes drift upward
burn throat and eyes
make tears fall downward.
Smoke dances
into the night
into the atmosphere
i breathe
you breathe
and fills the lungs
joined to windpipes
conduit of vocals
yet to listen
faces
yet to touch.