Injustice

“I don’t believe in injustice!!!!” the protestor cried.
So I punched him in the face.
I think he’s got it.

Injustice comes in several ways.

“I don’t believe in abortion no more,” she said
as her young daughter squatted
in her feces filled underwear on the doorstep
looking at me hungrily
with a hidden hunger in her eyes.

“I don’t want to go in there!,” the old man grunted and shouted
as they hauled him off to the car.
His drool was dribbling down his pants leg,
the car smelled like vomit
that was not his very own.

(Soon it came to smell like him. Or perhaps it was the other way around.)

Injustice, anyone?

Jackbooted thugs knock at my door uninvited,
however I invite them in –
ignoring Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s advice:
“When the wolf knocks on the door the smart rabbit runs!”

I guess I’m not so smart though.
They take me while I’m standing paralyzed by
the injustice of it all
right in my living room.

The frightened rabbit stands alone
only to be herded into a cage full of them.
Run, rabbits run,
from the Injustice of it all.

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Ants.

I sit in the courtyard watching them.  It is square, concrete all around, the pad under my butt.

Grit everywhere.  Sand.  Small pebbles like irregular irises.

Sun beats down. It’s so hot and I’m thirsty but there’s nothing to drink.  I am stuck here, in this roomless cell with its roofless walls, a prisoner of my own making.

I have misbehaved again

and shuffle to the courtyard

head down, eyes narrowed against the strong sunlight streaming into my darkness

as I shuffle out into the courtyard

and sit down.

Counting ants.

Watching them.

Look at them scuttle, run around.

I pick up a small stone – a boulder to him.

and I throw it.

It bounces around, missing him.

I pick up another and throw it again.  Then a handful.

Bombs falling down

in the ant playground

while I sit watching them.


 

 

– This is from my childhood, when I’d get so bored and there was nothing to do.  I don’t know where the courtyard came from, but we were there. Sitting there in the hot sun.  Voices in the distance tell me I am not alone, but there is no one elsewhere that I can detect . . .
I was held prisoner sometimes
in that courtyard in my mind
and ants were the only entertainment I had;
that, and the blazing sun.

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The Bad Guys

If it wasn’t for the bad guys,
there wouldn’t be any good at all.
Just a humdrum life of existence.
Remember that the next time you see
a bad guy fall.

If it wasn’t for the bad guys
there’d be no reason to run.
There’d never be any heroes
that bad guys make of someone.

Bad makes evil, or so they say.
Some suspect genetics, no –
environment they say.
Mean people make mean people
it doesn’t matter which way.
But many learn kindness
when they get burned and betrayed.

So the next time you see a bad man thank him
for the lesson he imparts to you
for without the bad guys
there wouldn’t be bad or good.

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Starkidz

Did you ever wonder . . .


c1995 ~ Matthew

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Hot Fire

Friends come, friends go,
summer’s warm, winter’s cold.
In your heart where the winter’s warm
fires are burning hot
you find yourself standing under a starry sky at night
in the empty snow in an empty field, head up
looking at a million hot pinpricks and wondering:

if one of those pinpricks is looking down at you.

Hot,
love’s desire.
Not
from friendly fire
which takes place
behind enemy lines.

Madness I Am, for
friendly fire is not
if you’re in their aim
and you’ve gotten shot
by love’s betrayal of desire.

Fire
burning hot
like the bullet wounds
of my heart’s desire.
Fire
I want not
but the betrayal of the soul is the heart’s desire,
and betrayal of both sets the mind afire
with thoughts of what you want
but cannot have.

Peace be with you.

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In Our Desire

In our hearts we found our desire,
in our desire we found pain.
In our pain we found our fire,
in our fire we found art again.

In our mind’s eye we defined our goals,
In our hearts our emotions’ fires,
In our eyes our souls hold
our aspirations and desires.

We perceive what is around us,
knowing accurate perception is rare.
What does that say for our pasts,
or of the memories we have there?

We trust in what we know, knowing
what we know is not all that is there.
We see what we see without seeing,
interpreting vibrations in the air.

What is this? What is that?
The object of my desire,
it’s not what I perceive
but what I believe,
that fuels the emotions’ fire.

To see that is to know
that deep in the soul
lays the key to happiness.
Not through greed, nor through gain,
but perception’s true accurateness.

 

 

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The Eggshell People

The Eggshell People live in an Eggshell World
with an eggshell mind in an eggshell house.
They teach their children to be kind,
they wouldn’t hurt a mouse.
But they would be horrified to find one
living in their eggshell house.
They’d buy a sticky board to bind him
or a trap to let him out.

The Eggshell people don’t teach their children about war
or the horrors in the world.
They protect themselves and children
by censoring every word.

TV shows are banned, violence not allowed.
Guns as toys discouraged,
they cling to religious vows
they inspire and they encourage,
their children are terrors to be around.

“Be yourself!”, they say, “Be free in what you do!”
But not too different, and they’ll enforce their rules on you.
To protect their Eggshell World and their eggshell ways,
they will do anything that they can,
shutting out the outside world.
Demanding you be like them.

“Don’t conform!” they say.  But don’t act different from them.
“We treasure individuality!”
As long as it’s indistinguishable from them.

But perhaps you were brought up different,
not in an eggshell world.
Where guns were allowed and horrors abounded
and by five you’d heard every cuss word.
Where the struggle for survival was a struggle to survive
beyond your eggshell world.

The Eggshell people.
Children so unprepared.
Live in ruin around them.
Blind to what they see,
denying all that is around them.
Protecting their culture from reality
in order to build a reality around them.
Like an eggshell world,
their dreams if it comes crumbling down on them.
When reality pokes through,
raising its ugly head,
when faced with pain and horror,
they shrink away in dread.

The Eggshell People.
I have spent my life defending them,
hiding them from the horrors,
telling them “all is all right”
while I died and cried along their borders,
patrolling the world, patrolling the night,
in distant far-off lands,
committing atrocities and horrors
they condemn and can’t understand.

The Eggshell people!
How I envy them,
their minor squabbles and their grace,
not knowing that I died fighting for them,
giving up happiness and my place
peace and contentment
to protect the world they see.
The Eggshell people might condemn me
but without me where would they be?

(the lament of a young soldier . . . a long time ago.)

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