A Prose Poem Written in a Fugue State on November the Ninth Two Thousand Sixteen

Today, Donald Trump is the forty fifth President of the United States.

Last night, I slept. Restlessly, but I slept. I slept because I couldn’t watch. I slept because there was nothing left to do.

I woke this morning and Donald Trump is the forty fifth President of the United States.

I already knew. I knew because last night, I awoke at 3am to the sound of sobs. My partner was crying and I knew. See, she is not like me. I am not afraid. Why is that? I am a wealthy, white, straight, cis-gendered male. I do not think in those terms because I do not have to. My partner and people like her can’t afford not to.

My interests are not all interests, but they will be seen to. They will be seen to no matter what. I know this because I did not vote. Let me say that again: I do not vote. I am not a registered voter. Because I can afford not to be. In my lifetime there will not be a need for my voice. My voice, my concerns will be seen to.

I am not afraid. But, my partner is. She is very afraid, as are the people I live with, as are the people I am friends with. The reason being, I am in the minority. In my household, we have more latin voters than black, more black voters than white, and we have no white voters. We have our problems, but we make it work because we see such a wide variety of views. I see such a wide variety of views. They are afraid and I am not.

When the life of a person, not their deeds, nor speech,  but their very existence is a political act, then they have done enough. They are surviving and that is enough. When that is the case it is the responsibility of those who are unafraid to act, to speak, to be a voice, a call to reason and fairness and equality. Because we can afford to be offended; we can afford to be made uncomfortable.

Mint & Juleps

Experimenting--minting--Experiminting--

--Can it be a verb?--

--Mint & juleps--summer tea--

Flowers arranged in soft light, twinkling fireflies are captured in masonic jars, they are used to light the entire night--

--only trees to cover love making--

--love making--making love--

--love is a creative act, something built--does that mean you can contract the work out?--

--Love Architects: designing their dream loves, but always committed to other people’s--

What if there were love poets greater than Shakespeare, Keats, Shelly, Byron, but they were too busy having sex?--

--sex--text--love poems were the original sexting--

--People prised Byron because he burned metaphorical--

--Egyptians were writing on papyrus about how good a girl looked in those silky, silky robes--don’t believe me?--look it up--check out poetry pre-circa 1850 and tell me that humans haven’t always been animals--

--Do animals write poetry?--what would that even look like?--would it be in another language?--

What language do animals tell poetry?--Is it vocal, physical, mental, emotional?--Is it some beautiful combination of all of them?--

--Is that the dirty secret?--Love poems written by animals are written with their bodies--

--They produce young and no one is ashamed by it--

A boy masturbates because he is told it is normal, masturbation stays with him his whole life, unlike his love poems--

Love poems aren’t normal--

--love poems are normal--

--this isn’t a love poem--this is an experiment

The vines are digging

The vines are digging

In brickwork skulls;

Invading portents

Of cities come and gone.

The shattered rims

Of wary eyes

Proliferate:

Nuclear families are undone.

The fractured masses

Are huddled close together now,

Constricting round

The skulls civility has bought,

While seizures wrack

The naked mass

Who wait for news

That neither god nor man hath wrought.

And years of work,

It lies undone

In happy ashes

That cradle children

The kitchen heart,

The bedroom privates,

The foyer tongue,

And basement ruin.

The maw is stopped

By vacancy;

There is no feast

Of furniture,

Not since before

The vermin scurry

Around the hollow

Devoid of visitors.

Where it falls, the tree does grow

Where it falls, the tree does grow,

Though it travels many miles

Seeing wonders on its way

Roots itself one day

Planting flags

In the womb of earth

Cracking open her.

Up it comes,

Who is to say when she will end?

But, the seed is not the tree.

Where is the tree?

I cannot find it still.

I’ll seek no more.

Instead--

Rest under its boughs.

This is never what I wanted

This is never what I wanted

And I keep punishing the both of you

In ways none of us ever imagined

But, things keep vanishing

Between the cracks in communication

And I'm tired of it

I don't want to do badly anymore

But, I don't know other ways to be

I'm trying to learn and I keep failing

Over and over

All I ask is a space to call my own

And every day I am reminded I am not alone

But, I keep hurting

And I keep hurting others

I'm so tired of it

I don't want to do it anymore

So do whatever you think is best

I'll be in the ruins

There is a hallowed field

There is a hallowed field,

Filled with the crushings of stars--

The seeds of all creation

Kept for all to see.

There is no gate about the field,

No fence, no lock, no key, no bar, nor guard.

None, none, none, none, none.

Instead, the field extends everywhere.

All roads, all paths, all journeys

Lead to the field of stars.

It lies in the heart of every journeyman,

Of every trader, crafter, and adventurer.

For this is the place where dreams do grow.

Not all of them sweet, not all of them pleasant,

And yet each is born of a hapless heart.

Therefore, blame not the dream, but the dreamer.

A dream is oft a fragile thing,

Too sweetly made,

It ripens quickly, turns sour and then dies;

Made too stern,

It never grows ripe, but remains green and rings hollow.

Small and precious are the seeds;

They take no space, no water, no soil, nor time

Save love…

Love, love, love, love, love.

The field is a heart, the heart a dream,

The dream is a child, the child is me.

Be careful with the littles ones.

They only require love.

The Trunk

The trunk grows round the center
Ripples rippling round a wound
The core
Round and round and round again
Circles circling circles.
None thought of a seed till now
As a wound.
Creation as a violation...
The trunk is not at fault when the blight sets in.
It suffers as all suffer:
Through pain and pain and blinding pain
That settles in to roost,
Crying loudly in its nest
While the trunk cries loudly
Without escape.
And yet, it stands firm,
Holding up to wind and water
And sun and storm
And cloud and love
Until it falls
As all must fall.
But, the trunk is not the tree.