playpens…

playpens

traditionally
a square shaped space
with
solid bars
resembling
a cage
no
flexibility
in
the range
of
movements
but
was excellent
at
teaching
the lesson
that
there was no way out
but
the old-fashioned
bar design
is
long gone
now
modern designs
provide
flexible walls
and
a clearer view
of
what’s beyond
the
horizon
thus
facilitating
the illusion
of
freedom
this sense
of
freedom
can be enhanced
by
a variety
of
extra features
added
to
this
stagnant environment
options
that are
entertaining
and
distracting
thus
heightening
the belief
that all things are possible
but
like
all social playpens
the function
remains
the same
to maintain
confinement
thereby
safety
for
the ruling class

 

 

antitoxin…

antitoxin

club’s
well short
of
a quorum
just
a few old jazzers
with
hearts
pulsating
to
piano notes
no one
but
the musicians
on
stage
seems
to notice
the lack
of
patrons
all that matters
to
the old jazzers
is
the music
the antidote
to
the world outside
it’s
been that way
forever
it seems
music
counteracting
the poison
of
the world
releasing
a flood
of
sweet memories
with
just
a few chords
and
notes

border crossing…

wholesale deli life

normally
he would
have
ignored
the bodies
on the road
from
horseback
one
often
sees
such
dried out forms
along
the border
but
these
were smaller
than
usual
emaciated
hands
and
limbs
of
children
grasping
larger hands
that were
buried
in
the sand
hands
touching
each other
with
such a sense
of
belief
a belief
wanting
to
deny
that
death
could happen
in
this
promised land
of
freedom

we are don quixote…

we are don quixote...

as writers
days are spent
fighting
windmills
writing
words
on
the wind
words
of
unrequited
songs
for
freedom
and
justice
wanting to believe
in
the virtue
of
a less than
virtuous nation
hoping
to shape
the myth
into
reality
a nation
for
all men
judged only
on
their merit
but
that’s
a panglossian dream
the siren’s song
filled
with
vain
and empty
words
of
chivalry
a song
that has led
many
to death’s
stony shores
still
believing
their contributions
to
society
and
their suffering and pain
could not
be
ignored
forever
but
that was
excessively
optimistic
for
most traces
of
their lives
have been
erased
from history
all that remains
are
shadows
of
windmills
and
these few words
cast
into the ether

 

 

a dream we had…

a dream we had...

for a brief
moment in time
we believed
the
dream
could come true
that
our words
could save lives
and
change
the course
of history
but
after all these years
we are still
counting bodies
from
war
and
seeing
women
denied
the rights
to
their own bodies
love
one another
is still
really
just
the lyrics
of
a song
sang
by
a few folks
sipping martinis
at
the club house
a sentimental relic
of
college days
days
when
some of us
watched
our friends
being dragged off
by
the police
some
never
the same person
once returned
from
captivity
some souls
are
perishable
war
rape
and
police batons
can do that they say
just as bullets
can end
life
and when
the white sheets
are replaced
by
dark uniforms
of
blue
or
black
the murders
are
made justifiable
lynchings
without
ropes
nothing has changed
but once
we had
dreams

 

 

ancient bones speak…

ancient bones speak

i lie here
among
severed spines
from
lynchings
and
shattered skulls
from
clubs and shotgun blasts
so
i’ve grown tired
of
all the rhetoric
all
the promises
written
on
the wind
words
i’ve heard
over
and
over
and
over
again
words
that are
no more
than
sterile seeds
so
i’ve learned
there will be no
harvest
of
freedom
for
only the chaff
of hope
has been planted
into
the cracking clay
of
tomorrow
the husk
of
dreams
left there
along side
these
blood stained
bones
of
mine