Categories
Poems

A Refutation

Every building

is a prison.

 

Every tree

is a bell.

 

Poetry is an attempt

to own the environment.

 

Before the written word

there was speech.

 

Before Speech

there was the body.

 

Before the body

there was essence.

Categories
Poems

The Third Coming  

Here it is! At our well-worn feet

the third coming lies prostrate

because the second coming

wasn’t nearly enough

the third time’s the charm

surely, the third time will fix

planet earth. Or is it merely

that the second coming still lingers

in the vast desert that is our spent world

where imperial monuments crumble

from within, when each booming sound

in the sky is a premonition of every

commercial airliner falling out of the heavens

at once. Of our very brains being stolen

out of our heads while we sleep in bed.

Here it is! The end of the world, once again.

Categories
Poems

Baseball

That’s a man who knows how much a baseball means.

The dirt in the grooves all caked in like tiny mesas

on white plains. An old man who caught a foul ball

now feeling it between his fingers thinking about men

on the field with bodies stronger and faster than most 

of the world. The same ball that touched the very ground 

not ten seconds before and held by a millionaire. 

That’s a man who knows how much a baseball means. 

The great American past time now decried as a dying sport 

just like the failing empire destined to fall. 

To watch baseball is to watch America’s demise. 

No time. Just space. And dirt destroying everything.

Categories
Poems

Call to Action

Freedom derives from the Lord’s eyes, but leaves

a bloody trail in his wake. For forests burn

and plastic congests oceans suffocating

Earth. This is the greatest violence ever

seen by man. The destruction of our home-

the only home we humans have ever known.

Hunger, thirst, pollution, extinction, death

all the symptoms stem from the same bane-

a golden bull in New York drenched in black sludge.

Billionaires slyly desire escape to space

as a solution, but there’s only one road

to salvation, and it lies on the ground.

It is easy to say but hard to do:

erect a guillotine to bloody each crown.

Categories
Poems

Statement on a Birthplace

Born on farmland

but furthest from a farmer.

Born by a humble woman bearing twins

in a hospital since demolished.

Born in a town no one knows the meaning

of, a town by the name of Voorhees.

Sounds Scandinavian

makes sense

since the Swedes

were the first Europeans to colonize

where I was raised.

Western New Jersey

in West Jersey Hospital

a now archaic demonym

West Jersyian, a term once used

to denote Quaker lands

along the dark Delaware River

where Norsemen killed and conquered

Lenape until the British asserted their power.

A people pillaged by Norsemen then Englishmen.

My Irish ancestors can empathize

and how the hell does one acquire

the rights to ransack a history?

And I, a descendant of death

feel the descent from a green rock

unto the New World as if a curse

as Europe’s outcast thrust upon

a foreign bosom poisonous

being between both continents

as if lost betwixt breasts unbound

as I know who raped my ancestors

but don’t know my ancestors.

I, born on foreign farmland

don’t feel home anywhere

which is why I am attached to nowhere.