All we really want to do is matter

Our lives are spent finding things to do
that give us purpose
either to ourselves, to others or to something higher

Sometimes,
we get so good at one thing
achieving what most do not
that people notice
they begin to look up to us
idolize
think that we are different, special,
somehow more evolved
and the better we become
and the more we separate from everyone else
in this one skill
eventually we become godly

How quickly we become divided from society for succeeding
How quickly society desires the distance

It is difficult not to judge
but those absorbed in the spotlight
to those hiding in the cracks of life
all only want to have their light noticed
if only just once
to know we exist

af

(written on computer)

I heard the news today, oh boy.
The American lottery is almost one billion dollars.
Six numbers.  Six random, inconsequential numbers
will turn a workin’ man into a quittin’ one
Six numbers will turn dreams into realities
suffering into bliss
Six numbers will change the world.
All I need, all any of us need, is a dollar and a dream
…or so it is said.

But I just overheard someone grumble behind me
“After that damn government has its way,
I’d only get half of that money, if that much”
and as I turn on my mental calculator
the hammer of this society is sledged by
this ignorant’s physical instigator’s next line
“Would be nice to win that billion,
but you’d only see three hundred or so million
when all is said and done.”
And then the punchline…
“How fucked up is that?”
I laugh to myself as I turn to these comedians
only, I do not see smiles on their faces,
only seething frowns of frustration and fury,
“Fucking bullshit if you ask me.”

I don’t move, I don’t breathe
I let these last few sentences settle like the dense
Savannah fog devouring the willow,
damp and heavy, weeping silently

Like a bad trip, like an atom bomb sucking all air and sound
from the earth the moment before thermal pulse;
Like the suction extracting the fibers from my ears,
it all goes mumbly silent around me.
I place down my pen and close my eyes and see
zero zero zero, zero zero zero, zero zero
then like a mutated double-mouthed pac-man,
I see that hovering “three” turn itself sideways,
landing gently on top of this expanse of 0s
and devour them, greedily,
up-righting itself then posturing there, alone;
its two bellies now bloated.
“The dollar ain’t what it used to be.”
It echos as I focus on this number, the number these
two lethargic defeatists focus on rather than the endless
abundance that follows it.
“Why.  Even.  Bother?”

I try to take in any air that is left as I cap my pen,
close my notebook and commence my funeral march for mankind.
As I open the door to leave, I notice a family
wrapped in themselves within a mountain of snow and filth,
their coughing trying to extract the poisoned blood in their
veins from malnourishment and dis-ease, clutching to
their worn-out square of cardboard that reads
One dollar might save the life of my child…
        Won’t you help?
How about three?, I ask as I empty my pocket for them.
“What a waste of money” I hear a ghost whisper as
it passes behind me on the sidewalk, shaking its head
while throwing a candy wrapper and cigarette butt on the
concrete, far too close to the only home this family has.

zero zero zero
    zero zero zero
        zero zero

I am shocked back to reality by the sound of crying, brick by brick,
as a small army of children
stand a block away watching their educational institution
collapse to rubble, their parents and teachers standing
among them understanding with melancholy that they
are now mere witnesses to futures that will never happen.

That is when the centrifugal force begins picking
up its pace, trying to keep down in my gut the disgust I
never realized was festering my dismal opinion of humanity.
I begin seeing the faces of homo sapiens peel away revealing
the avarice of the consuming suidae.
That is when the last chords of the beautiful hallelujah
suddenly become satirized in the mucus of the insatiable,
club and mace destroying the balance of the dancer,
realize nature has been painted rather than preserved,
begin gasping, choking violently on the words that have
now imbued the air of the capitalistic
conjuring of consumption as the holy word and blood of ultimate salvation;

and at that precise moment,
I hear the humble secret of the over-whelming avalanche of
mental incongruity and recalcitrance sear with white hot
agony and desperation, melting my mind to napalm and
conversely obliterating my soul that once believed in
goodness and refused to accept evil as a worldly entity:

“I Could, But I Won’t…Why Should I?”

and in the nothingness that followed, in the
zero zero zero, zero zero zero, zero zero of zero worth,
one last wisp from the pure and hallowed soul:
six numbers could change the world…
    but won’t
and all of existence vanished
as if it were never created.

That is the news of the world…
read all about it.

af

((written with pen on paper in response to the waste of the lottery)

of most we complain about, we are guilty of

the problems of humanity
so simple
so easy to solve

a splinter in his eye
vs
the plank in your own

doing little to change the ultimate
but
trying pushing refusing to settle

impulse or routine
regardless
fight forward
indulge, claw
head down
move forward

if it feels right
it is right
continue
if it feels wrong
it is wrong
stop

the problems of humanity
so simple
so easy to solve

af

(written with pen on paper)

an angel’s whisper
lyrics i could never write
your kiss, my poem

first time, needed warmth
weather will change your life, twice
two: ice, nawlin’s love

cherub snow angels
one-eyed snowman, hot cocoa
peace, beauty, omens

lack of sleep, bleeding
breathing heavy, pushing on
will never give up

oh hurt thespian
in the arms of the angel
sleep and bring god joy

af

(written on computer)

The little ones play so as to fill their naivety
no rules and only blanket discrimination
it’s the attention and laugh they crave
to bring joy to those closest to them
…so what if they disregard the rest?
They know only family
not yet burdened down by the subtlety of human interaction.
An emotion is an emotion, an impulse only an impulse.

The little ones explore each other
kiss and fondle and love and consume;
they have no real intentions,
only living within the primal impulses of guttural ecclesia.

The little ones are the magnification of the specie’s love
as well as our recalcitrance
divulging secrets to the scales of social and personal balance
experimenting with no risk
fortunate to have yet to experience the hangover of hindsight.

They dress in adult clothing
borrow our language, steal our swagger
emulate our designs of coolness and cupid…

Most importantly,
the little ones know how to expertly wipe clean the
blackboards us big ones tend to clutter with nonsense.
Their instinct is to emulate us
but we should let them run wild, experiment
and therefore learn all about life from them
not the other way around.

af

(written with pen on paper)

Ringing in the new year as an omen…
Last year was shedding the skin
…this year will begin the journey

There are occurances in life so wonderful
yet still,
during the lulls,
the downtime in-between happenings
I wonder
is life really supposed to be all experience and no purpose?

I am curious about their stares, their curiosity

putting myself on the outside
then
questioning why I end up on the outside

instigating myself to manipulate life…

What is possible at this point?

Life is long
so
who knows what the next forty will bring

af

(written with pen on paper on the new year’s eve)

What is the reward for someone who gives more than she could possibly ever take?

What is the comfort in an empty house when her soul is spent and all she hears are the voices of guilt rather than those of gratitude?

If hungry, you will be fed before you even get the chance to ask; before she eats herself.

She will suffocate in debt just so you never know struggle.

The model of pride under the flag she was born under, honored to live up to what most of us have ignored, give her your hungry, your tired, your poor, she will make sure you will be nevermore, regardless of your prejudices and selfishness.

Whatever the favor, YES is the only answer, always out of her common sense because the haters and takers are those who need the love the most.

And who else is there to turn to when the doors of the physical world are closed and your door to the man upstairs becomes an apparition?

A home for me when I displaced my own, family to me when my blood made me the outcast, a warrior willing to strike me when my fire needed a battle, comfort when I was drowning in my frightened tears.

Understanding, even tirelessly forgiving, when my rhetoric exposed my underbelly of insecurity.

And, in giving life, a path, a purpose to a child not her own, what reparation could this soul on earth receive that is not already awaiting her in heaven?

af

(written in my little notebook)