Right to Write

The orangutan leads bleating sheep

to a cliff lip that stretches

over ignorant oblivion.

He scratches to pretend

he knows what flea bites

fee like, but we know he sleeps

on a cloud of Cleveland’s and Madison’s,

though he doesn’t know who they were, only

that he is better than them.

 

He shouts fake news with a sneer,

forcing all the sheep to hear

solid stupidity in their ears.

It rings like a jackhammer,

relief is not imminent,

and neither is salvation.

If he wants to know what persecution

feels like, he should just speak

in front of a mirror.

 

For he sees color as danger,

all colors represent something

he cannot understand.

He is a blank slate of petrified,

screaming to anyone who will hear

of the great old days

while whispering

of the k

k

k.

 

He screams fake news,

but the news answers him

with scandals

and body counts.

His numbers do not add up

when held up against the saving light

of an informed reality.

 

The orangutan would remove

our right to write,

our right to live,

our right to fabricated happiness.

The sheep will bleat,

and the crows will cackle.

Wish for Wilderness

Creaking crackling metal

runs over clacking tracks.

Lights flashes

through windows

and a voice

announces your arrival.

 

Arrival isn’t steady solid being,

it’s a temporary state

as easy to strip away

as taking a single small step.

Arrival morphs into leaving

much too easily.

 

Give me a moonful serenade,

crickets and frogs competing

with silence.

The shadows of tree branches

my only friends.

The light from fireflies

enough to read by.

 

Whispering rivers my religion

as grass bends and sways

to whistling winds.

 

Give me freedom to dream,

and sleep, and love

something wholly other

than you, or me, or them.

 

Give me silence and deafening sound,

give me hope that no one is around

to steal what shouldn’t be possessed.