Airport Art

the traveling song would be
her anthem.
living airport art,
full of heart.
through baggage checks,
see how many issues
she has left
double check exist door,
latch locked,
doesn’t worry
till tires touchdown,
sleeps without making a sound.
played out
one too many goodbyes,
stale side of apologies
not ready to fly
solo
drops at the Kiss & Ride.
waves hello
drying departure’s
last cries.
reads passenger rights,
eight fluid ounces
delayed, not just today.
she boils down to airport art,
looks the part,
easy going in lines,
shuffle, play, repeat
rises on the red-eye,
express check-in,
catching up is a hit or miss,
most nights are non-stop,
spot, on.
and she’s off, even for
being so full of heart,
modern and functional.
conditions reign,
on-the-fly is her religion.
traveling song, her anthem,
living airport art,
full of borrowed heart.

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American Me

assimilate.
accustomed to
various pains,
all for the american dream.
nurtured hate,
in the land of manifest destiny,
brought up on accumulation,
breeding wants over needs.
endless desires
sires millions of…
individualistic mindset
broken and bent
blue blood babies,
hopeless street royalty.
couldn’t not count them,
ones, twos, and threes…
came in droves,
never ending sea
pupils dilated to
see only what we want to be.
reality created by a mediated source,
hollywood studio stupid
expectation, grandiose delusions.
pluralistic society success,
as defined by their own
culture vultures, circle high
for as far as the mind could see.
prejudging,
then stealing your
history.
it’s all his story.
brick by brick
future thick with
ethnocentric bullshit.
and this is the
america we want to be?
this isn’t the american me.

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photo: i took in early 2014 at woodstock opera house in woodstock, il. with an overlay of the United States flag.

Change the Name.

It wasn’t until moments ago that I finally realized how offended by the name “Redskins”.

While at work, a colleague stated, “I’m going to go watch the Redskins and Cowboys, and enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

I am offended.
It’s not an honor.
It’s not okay.
What you permit, you promote.
With a history of genocide and broken treaties, I cannot understand why anyone would try to argue this. The images displays and behavior that accompany the name, are offensive and disrespectful.

It’s wrong.

Change the name.

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photos: instagram, hashtag #notyourmascot.

Virgin

potential for,
sprouted from her fingertips,
a plan, carried out in the design,
but gives it time.
as a child, a young girl,
was faithful and loyal.
grew like wild fire,
created the fruited plain,
watered with angst and endless desire
prospered without much effort,
and it only took one,
one moment,
one man.
counted as a life event,
destroyed the crops,
recoils to this day,
thinking of things to pray.
as if this were an act of bravery,
hasn’t been counting coup
as much as been counting loot.
returns after years,
hides behind overgrowth.
hides behind womanhood.
hides behind the goes-aways.
closure keeps knocking,
wanting to be let in.
begging and borrowing,
time and courage,
she’s explained…
you were just a
life event.
just a life event.
a moment spent.
grown over and pushed
deep into the ground,
without much effort.

Open Sores

composed of recognizable things,
for comfort, you keep going back.
little by little, regressions pile up.
can’t see it, but the feeling persists.
can’t shake it, hit or miss.
can’t claim it, but we strive,
mostly for more.
count casualties,
dress open wounds,
while we pick at healing sores.
implications made,
staggering.
and these are the results?
but i was taught all is love…

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Dirty

my hands are dirty,
calloused, sore from years
of self-inflicted pain.
i wanted to point out
your plot, belittle your spot,
what you spent your money on.
someone made an easy buck…
but then you surprised me.
made me lick my wounds
before they were made,
you spoke up, in hushed tones,
caused a midlife self-review,
quickly turned to a crisis.
and now…
alone,
caught up in a stare down,
dingy mirror,
tortured soul hiding in tousled hair.
mistakes scattered over my feet,
across a hardwood floor.
and there’s the door,
to let myself out.
there’s the door,
under lock and key.
there’s the door,
to leave any time i want.
but i’m too busy cleaning my spot,
to point my finger.
jesus, help me…
my hands are so fucking dirty.

Mannequin

skin, sounds like…something
(ponders) presses thighs together
slaps, skin slaps,
against nothing.
breasts, perk.
flushed, wants slither
and snake in.
perks up, he enters,
room shrinks.
typical, a dime a dozen.
but (her)
legs are longer,
muscles taut.
draws conclusions.
makes assumptions.
longs for,
seeks attention.
needs affection.
clears throat.
breath comes in soft moans,
speaks in hushed tones.
fingertips slip
fabric clings,
thinking about the things
selfishness.
between the emotions
bites her bottom lip
looking for lust,
all the wrong (places).
void of,
feeling frustrated.
empty faces
needs persist,
frustration sinks in…
behavior like this,
rectifies nothing.

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