Eyes Wide Shut.

Laughing, slipping
into the blue, embodying
her Shadow,

sharing shameful secrets
with you, destroying all
you hide in the light
and your sense

of moral superiority,
sending you in a tailspin,

obsessively chasing
down the darkness
for just a taste
of the monster hiding
within, donning

the masque, dangerously
dancing with the primal
on the edge of the blade,
peering into the conspiratorial

to know thyself,
to find your way
back to her once again,
each now whole on your own,
both now wide awake:

trading in illusions
for honesty and trust…

Advertisements

Me2+.

Quick and speedy
trial by media.
Guilty by means
of allegation.

Such a post-truth
landscape now,
red and blue
at each other’s throats
yet resting soles
on this shared ground,

cherry-picking
their alternative facts
with impulsiveness.

Feeling
trumping evidence.

No Pressure (Ode to Hank & Karen).

All mine.
Body and soul.
Or, with respect
to the flesh:

as much
as I’m yours,
anyway,

which now
finally exceeds
the heart
that you stole
so long ago. Finally,

I’ve got you.
No escaping now,

unless,
of course,
you want to

so much you’re willing
to destroy
me once and for all.

Redactions.

Secrets inhibit freedom.

Without knowledge
we cannot make
informed decisions.

Truth need
not be comforting,
but it is necessary
for adaptation, vital
for survival.

You enslave
and endanger
us with your silence,

weaving
deceptions to fill
the vacuum,

to muddy the leaks,
fuel the ridicule.

Conspiracy breeding
further crime,
justifying its continuation.

Just as coverups
separate you from us,

and the disinformation
you spread separates
we, the people,
from each other,

compartmentalization
divides you,

and maybe
that’s what they wanted:

divided, conquered.

Hope, Truth and News.

Keep informed, feed
this anger and fear,
or look away
to salvage dwindling sanity?

I ask myself every day,
curiosity versus hypersensitivity;
my oscillating
answer forever weighing on me.

If truth makes me mad,
I have no one
to blame but myself,
so feed my wound
with this fucking salt.

If you can only nurture
a sense of hope
through selective ignorance,
then its truly false,

so perhaps I should leave
it to bleed,
maybe what is destroyed
by the truth

should be.

Excrement and Absurdities.

Impatience grows.
Inattention, too fleeting.

Astounded
at the lies you can load,
the contradictions
you can cram
into a single sentence.

Blown away
by the sheep still flocking
behind you, holding
you up in ruthless persistence

despite
the ceaseless flow
of excrement and absurdities

given man-birth
by you and broadcast
to the farthest
reaches of our circus
of a globe

in every dizzying, nauseating
news cycle.

Let this insanity end.
Let it not be the new trend.

Let your crooked path
finally deliver
some much-earned
consequence.

Of Elephants and Donkeys.

Colors get bolder,
show their extremes.

Behold:
elephants and donkeys
grown
hypersensitive
and indignant, blades drawn
and lightly kissing
one another’s jugular,
each daring their opponent
through loaded glares.

On the right,
an elephant with a boner
for guns, flags and border walls,
statues and tradition,

a dream to secure
the large scale
version of the kind
of safe space
they condemn as infantile
when it comes
to the left.

To the left,
a donkey
battling prejudice
with prejudice, as if inversion
is any better,
and on a language
nazi campaign,

fighting for censorship
and compelled speech,
demanding penalties

if any item
on it’s list
of cherry-picked words
are uttered,
all as it invents
new words and fights

to shove
them into your mind,
hear them shoot
out your mouth.

No truth
to be found here,
to each
their alternative facts.

Grabbing my parachute.
I’m bailing out.

Both wings
have grown insane.

I’ll take my chances
defying gravity.

Sick of the Symptom.

Initially, just a living,
breathing joke.
One that no one took
seriously enough,

including you.

Then came
Election Day. Never

forget
how you underestimated
the clown,
laughed
at my pessimistic
prediction.

Doubt me?
I know the power
of madness
intimately.

Since then I must confess
I’ve grown numb
to the insanity rising,
’round-the-nauseating-clock
coverage courtesy
of the media.

Wonder how he stirred
the pot today. What might
he have destroyed,

what progression of ours
has he cursed
to a dire retrograde

while my eyes
were closed
and I was away?

So tired of this circus
and its ringleader.

So sick of this symptom.

Stuck cursing
the divisive disease
spreading
throughout the herd,

fearing
what this tweeting twit
may portend.

#NotMe.

Girl meets boy. They seem to hit it off and so start dating, maybe even get married. In any case, they move in together, and this is when boy starts beating girl. Family and friends grow concerned, but girl makes excuses for him and remains with him for an enduring period of time before finally emerging from her insane haze, accepts that this is a problem and manages, perhaps with the help of lived ones, to escape the situation. Safe, secure and free as a bird.

And then girl moves back in with guy. They’re working things out. He’s changed. Things will be different this time. The fairy tale got off to a rough and bumpy start, but it’s all better now. Really, she says.

Predictably, guy then proceeds to beat girl.

This absurd story echoes through the circumstances of countless girls I’ve known and spoken to over the years. Despite the insane behavior of staying with him, I sympathize with her — unless children are involved, for while you have the right to live out your days however you choose, upon entering parenthood it isn’t just about you anymore.

As a whole, though, I simply don’t get it. I’m incapable of wrapping my feeble, little monkey mind around this maddening and disturbingly prevalent pattern. I have a difficult enough time in my efforts to understand how one could be in a relationship with someone they don’t trust, someone who’s phone they break into to make sure they aren’t cheating on them, much less a partner who’s abusive. I am perhaps more than a little bias, however, as I was never beaten, molested or raped as a child — #NotMe — which is a startling rarity, it seems. In that light I should perhaps be thankful that I don’t understand, that those closest to me have relatively healthy and loving relationships — but it does little to ease the confusion and nausea elicited by the far more widespread pattern.

Do and Die.

Powerlessness
feeding resentment
and hopelessness,
withdrawing into isolation
until they succumb

to the last resort,
do and die,
a final effort

to empower themselves,
make a mark,
and gain recognition.

Playing field leveled,
power shifted
with a blade, a car,
a bomb,
through the barrel
of a screaming gun,

through the red staining
their eyes,
they can see the spotlight
shining on them,

and now it’s naked
for all the mad
world to feast upon

so other boiling souls
know how to taste the surge
they’ve been robbed
and get our attention
before they reach
their final destination.

And until we see,
empathize, take the time
to listen,
this will

keep
on
happening.