The Shack

An ode to the changes we need to make in America.

A boy and his gun

Were having some fun

When his dad got home from the army

He took him out back

They shot at his shack

And his dad went back in the morning

They repeated like that

Every year

Every time

A new piece of gear

 

His father was his hero of course

Three tours in Iraq

But more than that

A fourth one he feared

A fourth one to take his dad from his years

 

But he taught him how to respect his guns

And how to shoot and how to have fun

He taught him how to shoot at that shack

Just like his dad had shot in Iraq

 

And then when his parents divorced

And his dad left them

Alone for the course

He had to support his mom

And he said, “I’ll get a gun to protect you mom.”

“I swear.”

 

He struggled as he worked

From store to store

Longing for a weapon

To fight his own wars

But he never got one

He couldn’t afford

Because his mom needed surgery

And there was this girl, who worked at the store…

 

He wanted to provide for them

To control his own ward

Where he’d keep and protect them

And guard from the porch

When they came

He’d pull out his gun

And ward off his ward

To protect his sons

 

But he couldn’t afford one

And so he lost his girl at the store

And a few years later

His mother died too poor

 

His family gone

He now lived alone

Money problems over

He could finally afford

A gun like his father

Had taught him to sport

He’d finally be able

To fight his own wars

 

He got his gun

And he took it back

To where he’d learned to shoot

To shoot like in Iraq

He learned to fire

To care for and clean

His brand new, fully featured AR-15

Collapsible stock and quick magazine release

So he could shoot and protect his streets

And keep on shooting..

 

Modified to repeat repeat repeat

He shot that old shack ’til nothing was left but concrete

 

finally after the deed was done

on that same foundation

where he was cleaning his gun

he thought of his father

and remembered the fun

but his father was gone now

sixteen years weighed a ton

 

he wanted to cry then

but he held back his tears

his father had taught him

“real men don’t cry”

“their fire dries tears”

“they never give up:

they set fire to the world

and enchant the girls with

diamonds and pearls”

 

it was a valuable lesson

he held to its truth

though try

though he might

he cried like a fool

“my father was wrong..”

he thought

“…or might I not be a man?”

 

he stood up and shouldered his tool

to prove

his own truth in this war

to make things like they were before

 

he’d lost his father

and family to (((SJWs)))

who’d taken over his pews

and kept him their tool

he knew what to do

he’d strike at the source

he’d take his country back

and he’d take it by force

he’d stop all the marxists

their ideology

he’d take it all back

with his AR-15

 

and so he marched

with it strapped to his back

ready to shoot it

like he’d been taught by the shack

he took it over to district 67

and marched in the school at 11

 

he shot 7 teachers there dead

and fired 16 more shots

all of which missed

12 ricocheted and tore through the door

where a group of kids hid

twenty and

four

who were shot in cold blood

no way to escape

 

when he saw them lying there he felt

the tears come again

and the lies overcame him

like a bullet to the head

Cipher

go about your business–

there’s nothing to see here–

just a girl in a corner

looking for words–

words to teach of a new way

to see– and define things for

what they truly may be–

 

she’s so close to

meaning

but so far away–

maybe she’ll find it

some sane day

when she takes the time

to find the right rhyme

and the rest of the song

falls into place

 

but the rhyme doesn’t

matter– it only gets in the way

of the rest of the message

she’s grasping to say– to you–

you who she already told

to just go away–

watch some television

or some other thing–

get on Facebook–

look up some porn–

whatever you do

when you find yourself bored–

that’s what life’s about

for you– nothing greater–

nothing more

 

what have you done

to learn how to know

what’s happening– here and now–

what do you know about

the girl in the corner–

who’s writing these lies

about you down– nothing–

nothing, nothing she’d say–

there’s nothing to see here–

just go away

 

[Originally written, 2008]

The Paint

In honor of Valentine’s Day, here’s a poem I wrote with a broken heart.

you were the paint

in my blue, blue sky

the green of my trees

that green from my eyes

a brush stroke passed

and washed away

the blue, blue blends

and turned into gray

you were the paint

that made my world blend

the mix and the hue

that made my blood red

a dead dry brush

hardened by the paint

put to rest in water

soaked up the cup

you were the paint

yellow and scraped

across intangible lines

drawn around and draped

a drip drop dripped

tears down the canvas face

ruining the rhythm

purposing the pace

building down to nothing

the paint devoured all

and rolled up the color

into fat violet balls

you were the paint

that covered my world in fire

the all consuming orange

that blazed my desire

a dancing flame flickered

caught concocted copse

flirted with flesh

and licked the last drop

 

[Originally written, 2012]

The Splits

I want to write it

I know what wonders it can do

To paint with words

That flow fresh into rainless rifts

Becoming resplendent rivers

Like before…

Before

the splits

the splits

the splits

If I could I would fill them with water

I know what wonders it can do

But erasure is a measure

For not just one but two

Water can only fill the rifts,

Beneath, they will remain

Eroded by worded beauty

Only deepening the pain

What’s left on the surface

Is prettier, it’s true

But what true beauty can be left

When the splits have become you?

 

[Originally written, 2011]

Playground

A poem exploring the genderization of an old man at a playground.

The Old Man sits and

ponders all

The little girls play with

little dolls

 

The boys play of

guns and war

The Old Man watches

chapter and verse

 

“Bang, bang,” a boy falls

to the ground

The girls roll their eyes and

begin playing House

 

The Old Man rises

and purses his lips

Children come running

and cling to his hip

 

[Originally written, 2009]

The Whole Elephant

It gets better…

It’s not necessarily true

It doesn’t always get better

But it’s a lie worth telling

Lies can spark fires

Lighting

the way

Through the tunnel to

the garden of life

I’m sure it wasn’t my own

that guided me there

To the colossal proboscidea

majestic but imperceptible

Longing to get better

waiting to become whole

To know the truth

every good liar knows

Inflorescence

Poem I wrote about trees and gender.

“I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit, He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit.” John 15:1-8

if I die, I wanna be a tree,

we all take the Bible so literally,

seems to me God thinks

we should be trees

so let’s let His? will be

when I die I’ll become one

I’ll stand proud and tall

with roots firm in ground

and branches for all

the perfect fruit that I bear

will be ripe and true

a source for all life

to take and consume

my seeds will fall

there they will spread

to strengthen my roots

and empower my spren

 

Tree of Heaven

 

is what I’ll be called

monoecious

to the bane of you all