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

 

 

suicide notes from america…

suicide notes from america...

i’ve become
more
depressed
lately
by
the
way that ignorance
has
enveloped
the
world around me
my
delusions
of
freedom
have
been
replaced
with such a deep
remorse
for
believing
and
dreaming
that
life
could be
as
promised
they
were always
eggshell hopes
but
gradient moments
of
freedom
kept
the fantasy
alive
but now
as
death
becomes
the main course
of
my future
i’ve
reconsidered
my insanity
as
a bit
of
self-hypnosis
brought on
by
societal spin
which
is
neither
here
nor
there
just
a side reference
for
my
note

a sudden loss of cabin pressure…

a sudden loss of cabin pressure

what shall we place
on
america’s gravestone
here lies
a nation
aborted
by
its greed
and
intolerance
of
its
own history
or
an unborn promise
made
with its fingers crossed
concealed
behind
a back of hate
and
prejudice
all
the while
scripting words
constituting
a justification
for
continuation
of
an oligarchy
but
with
more than
one
king
a feudal state
with
all the trappings
of
the middle ages

 

 

complicity to a crime…

what did you expect
you said nothing but waited
as if the silence
might say what you had not said
but only silence was heard

 

denial of climate change…

 

i’ve
begun
to wonder
if
blindness
is acquired
after living
in
the light
too
long
the question
was
perhaps
engendered by
all
the dark days
with
rain
we’ve
been having
i’ve noticed
how
even
the slightest
ray
of
sunlight
can become
overwhelming
when
one’s eyes
have
become
accustomed
to
the darkness
and
how
the sound
of
rain
like the voices
of
dying children
soon
become
all too
familiar
how
small
pained faces
become
blurred
behind
a fog
of lies
and then
invisible
in the darkness
as
if
they don’t exist
i suppose
you could
call it
a blindness
of
sorts
or
just denial
after
a
brief period
of
true
democracy

 

before their prayers…

 

on a day
with
gathering clouds
those who wore
the mantle of power
chiefs and priests
in
full regalia
climbed
the temple stairs
to speak
to the gods
seeking guidance
for
in their lust
for
life’s treasures
this
chamber of deputies
had lost
the vision
the gods
had bestowed
upon them
when
they reached
the summit
and
stared down
upon the people
that they
had sworn
to serve
as well as
their
future generations
they saw
the underworld
consume
all
who awaited them