Hermit

I see no purpose

In going outside

 

To the lying and deceiving

The yelling and the crimes

 

I prefer to sit here, inside

my head resting on airplane cover pillow

 

were I remain in my imagination

my naivety, where the sun is pink

and the grass is blue

 

where others laugh and smile and speak

of pleasantries,  cupcakes, and treats

 

where when I’m having a bad day

i drift to my mind and find solace

in those manufactured hallmark words

 

where violence and guns and tears and

frowns and pain and other nasty things

aren’t found

 

but every now and then

i exit my shell.

to that dark horrid hell, America

where children bleed once a month

like menstruation

a constant reminder that were a red nation

 

and you’d think we’ve been around so long

menopause was bound to be found, but we

continue to bleed and bleed and bleed

our free will and awareness rammed

by the tampon of corporate and political agenda

 

it’s what keeps liberty up

her invisible third leg

a symbol of freedom.

hypocrisy is a funny thing. 

 

 

like frosting on treats our eyes gleam

for that momentary delight

and we forget the past, the present, and the future

“Did you see that guy on American Idol last night?”

 

the worst is the taste of that ideological meal

its bitter and false and a bit salty 

and its seasoning makes me hate

the “enemy”

one tablespoon of propaganda

 

but I question my government

for they conquer terror aboard

and ignore the fear on our shores

poverty

hunger

homelessness  

unemployment

the fear of those who live check by check

or those who’ve lost their jobs

or those evicted to the cold streets

or the children who sit with their siblings in there small project home

wondering when mommy is going to return.

 

but Mommy

is working that overnight shift

missing their youth, as her children grow without the warmth

and instead of feeling sad, we judge her

---It was in our meal--- Or we claim that the financial struggles are hers.

for mommy never received her high school degree.

but when you’re pregnant and sixteen, and abortion considered obscene

there is very little.

 

or we look at Pablo, young, Mexican

who arrived to the land of the free 

he wears Yankee fitted and enjoys a hotdog or two

but on a daily basis he prowls the streets shadowed,

curving in and out, remaining unseen

like a ground hog running from the sun

La migra, La migra, La migra

 

O powerful western falling star!

so death you cannot hear your screams

or notice the cat slopping its milk all day,

looking for milk in gas tank

O powerful western falling star!

you fall like petticoats spread wide

and how I wish you fell within the falling

where the mind is without fear

where knowledge is free;

where the world has not been broken up into fragments

where words come out from the depth of truth;

where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary

desert sand of dead habit;

you become a horse for an evening

inspiring painting

a bonbon

and a true Christmas eve

 

and as with other flowers you’re given a name

you call it. Thought.

 

O wild west wind,

how I dreamed a dream thou breath of autumn begin.