Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Weight of The World

When as man chooses to stop learning

Is the day that he truly dies.

 

The herd of the mundane

Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.

 

And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.

“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”

But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.

With eyes closed, he smiles.
He sees
That roaring flame that used to be.

King Can

Kickin’ back with a King Can

of Black Ice.

Everything’s gon’ be alright.

Half a pack of Player’s Red
and the liquor store is open ’til ten.

You call me a feral man,
a leech to society.
But you don’t gotta put nothin’ in my outstretched hand,
so I prefer the word, “free”.

Who the Hell is “Daryl Lect”?
Who the Hell did we elect?
That would let us freeze without Tundra Ice?

Who the Hell asked for your advice?

“Get a job”?
Thanks. I haven’t thought of that!
I can instantly snap out of this,
all it takes to go from slob to snob,
in no time flat!

Winter Is Coming,
and I’m on the 5th season in Game of Loans.
I miss my daughter.
The girl needs her father.
But I’m just kickin’ back
with my King Can of Black
The King without a Queen or a Castle,
dying on his concrete throne.

You call me a bum,
a scourge, a disease.
You don’t put nothin’ in my outstretched hand.
You snarl, you bite, you fit me into God’s plan.

But I smile,
and say, “God Bless”.
You’ve walked an inch as I’ve walked a mile,
but you still win the race, delusional in determination, but I digress.

I may be a chaotic, wild mess.
I may not know the real me.
I still am a brother, a father- just forgotten and seen as less.
I am cold and I cry, but even eye contact is denied.
Let alone a helping hand, I close my outstretched hand.
But have not lost my way, I am not blind I still see
The turned backs of my fellow man deserve dignity.

 

Invisible Enemies

Feminists smash the patriarchy
with the tools of fascism and anarchy.
They destroy their oppressors,
with slogans and letters.
Echo chambers far to the left of sensibility
regurgitate the thoughts that they are told is right,
and what is left of critical thought, of responsibility?
We will worry about that once the patriarchy is on its knees.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

Incels cry and they wail,
that this cruel world has cursed this selection of males.
Women only want the rich, the strong, the handsome, the tall, and the Chads.
Women only want what I do not have.
Instead of spending time with the fairer sex,
they hide in putrid basements, they utter putrid heinous threats.
They sleep on stained mattresses, only to wake to wallowing in self-pity.
Echo chambers feed the entitled, lost without an identity.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

The gays are destroying our morals and families,
the church prescribes with a twisted glee.
They are pushing an agenda, they are here to convert your children
No one is safe, they will not rest until the world is a cauldron of sin.
If they must live that way, do not push it down our throats,
Do not rant and rave, do not shout or gloat.
Your children are safe with us, never-mind that we relocated your priest suddenly.
We are educated enough to know that you can make that choice in secrecy.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

The corporate investor growls and hoards his cache.
He damns the threat of his inconvenient past.
His employees are greedy,
His government is needy.
He had to work hard to get where he is,
His father spent a lot of money to persuade the Yale selection list.
Echo chambers far to the right of sensibility, bicker and tear at the seams,
you can’t deride the boy- he was a good student and a part of the football team!
So what if he made some girls do things they didn’t want to at a few parties?
This is a witch-hunt, the ramblings of a jealous mob seeking to destroy the American Dream.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

It is far easier to point a finger
than to look yourself in the eyes in the mirror.
You may have flaws, but theirs are far worse.
And they are lethal, they must be dispersed.
Onwards we fight,
to slay the creatures of the night.
We believe they are out there, lurking to destroy us.
We need to believe, or else we’d have to look inside, where they dwell and they fuss.
It is our duty to end these atrocities.
To end our invisible enemies.

Planes

As a boy, I would look up to the clear, blue skies
mesmerized
by the screaming white lines and triangle silhouettes.
Miniature and mysterious.
White and grey.

Crawling through the abyss
in slow motion
at blistering speeds
they march,
at altitudes as high as my ungrounded dreams.

 

My head in the clouds.
The pristine cerulean brilliance, once arrogant in its own awe
is now cyan. Tainted by envy.
I longed to pierce the heights, to damn Nature’s law.

 

My head in the clouds.
Someday I would be there.
I would be on one.

One turned to two.
Two became three.
Three.

And many more.

Daydreams of worldly travel died with long, sleepless nights and Oriental Mix.
An international hub of shysters, sore feet and dicks.
A bustling city of the dead. No one stops, no one lives. No one rests.
Creativity thrives amongst thieves and franchises,
demanding inconvenience as the price for the convenience.
Tired, hungry, and drained
forced to fight a war
versus an army of employees
who need to get laid.

BE THERE TWO HOURS EARLY!

They say,

To be two hours delayed.

 

Despite the delays,
the maze,
the twelve hour days
and the employees who need a lay.

Despite it all,
Tell the child in me that I made it,
that the beauty of the flight is worth endurance of the locusts.
I now look down at the billowing, majestic clouds.
Light as a feather,
moving anciently, as if woken from a millennia old slumber.
Flexing, lumbering, and blustering like the authority of the Earth that they are.

Respect is found in my heart,
my true size revealed in this wild tube ride.
Mesmerized
by the yawning white behemoths below,
and their black silhouettes.
Majestic and mysterious.
White and grey.