Unspoken Code
An unspoken code
Keeps them all
In line, sporting
The same clothes —
Physical appearance —
Mores —
Social rules
That keep them
Stuck in a delusion
Of normalcy based
On fearful assumptions
About almost everything.
Misunderstanding
For years and years I thought
I was a certain type of person and
It all came tumbling down one
Normal afternoon when I was
Struggling to do what I thought
I was supposed to do, fighting
Against the current instead of
Enjoying a carefree ride on a
Placid stream on a beautiful day.
All this time hoping I could will
My way into being someone else, a
Different person in the mirror
Bearing not even the most fleeting
Resemblance to me, a passing
Stranger, unsubstantial presence,
Easily scattered with a single gesture,
Moved by fragile strings of ego, fear,
A misunderstanding halted.
Carefully Cultivated
A mob of privileged
Brutes gleefully singing
About never letting
Some (expletive) into
Their clique.
Not an isolated incident,
Yet another typical
Example of the seething
Contempt one group has
For another.
These things don’t appear
Out of nowhere,
Carefully cultivated,
Encouraged by
Role models.
Upstanding citizens in
Places of power
Perpetuating hatred
And division without
The slightest remorse.
The Request
Not sure what to
Say when the request
Is made, perhaps it
Signals the end of a
Brief relationship,
But most likely just
Reflects two beings
On different paths,
Neither better.
Raging Fever
In times of insecurity,
They coalesce into agitated
Swarms, screaming for relief,
Yearning for a big daddy to
Come along and make
Everything all right again.
As is always the case,
Someone or many someones
See the glow of opportunity
And swoop in making empty
Promises that soothe the
Raging fever of uncertainty.
Once the horde has been
Seduced, their masters rub
Their hands together with
Glee and prepare for the
Upcoming bacchanal of
Looting and pillaging.
Angry All the Time
He’s angry all the time.
He’s been this way his
Entire life, as long as
He can remember. He says
It’s because he has passion,
Conviction, but it’s
Really about the other things
He’ll never talk about
To anyone and tries to
Pretend never happened.
Narrative
Torrential blasts of vitriol,
Lashing out uncontrollably,
Hastily concocted plots,
Unfounded, unreal, unimaginably
Daft, void of all connection to
Reality, conspiracists weaving a
Narrative of suspicion.
After work, a family gathers
To share the evening meal,
Peripherally aware of the
Encroaching clouds,
Talking about the events of the day
The dreams of tomorrow.
A rabble gathers across the street.
Not Getting His Way
He’d do this thing
When he was challenged
In some minor fashion,
Become really quiet,
Stare with seething
Hatred — you could see
Condemnations whirling
Around in his head —
His face and body
Twitching, contorting
In discomfort, unable
To deal with the prospect
Of not getting his way.
Until
Step by dreary step,
Trying to finish
Something, anything,
When my mind is elsewhere,
In different times
When things weren’t
So complicated and
I didn’t have to handle
So many things at once.
A persistent fog
Distorting my perception,
Unable to see, feel, clearly.
One movement at a time,
Finish one, begin the next
Until the sun rises.
Outward
She says she’s happy. Long hours
Pass obsessing about others and what
They think. All the while a small voice
Deep inside reminds her of events
She’s desperately trying to forget,
Memories time doesn’t smooth.
Continue looking outward where the
Answers aren’t. Seek solace in attention
From anyone and comfort from mistaken
Sympathy. When the world is about others,
It isn’t about you.