No One is Going Home

Not again,

Not again, 

Not again. 

Red lines drawn around cast aside communities.

A reckless action which shakes us to our core.

Breaking apart the filaments that’s held us together. 

Sons and daughters who will never return home. 

Not again,

Not again. 

This archetypal trauma of chasms unable to heal, 

Exposing the cruelty permeating the system. 

Doors remain locked, bed sheets turn cold. 

No one is going home tonight.

No one is going home. 

Not again.

We Are Multitudes

To ponder what it took
To get us here, right now.
How the infinite multitude
Of causal events
In the theatre of
Universal happenings
Led us to the scene
Currently at play.

How perfectly imperfect
The dominoes fell,
As evolution moved through
The lexicon of consciousness.
From singular-celled
To complexities
Still too vast
To understand.

We are born ancient
With millions of years
Inhabiting our DNA.
Spores and seeds,
Pollen and eggs.
Our biological family
Extending to include
Everything biological.

We are born multitudes.
Lineages of lives
Lived fully,  extraordinarily.
With their ancestral stories
Imbedded within us;
Their geographies,
Mythologies,
Plights and triumphs.

*

It is in our aloneness
That we find
We are not truly alone,
Yet we will
Only ever truly know
This aloneness
Which is
Ourselves.

And within ourselves.
There coexists
A multitude of selves.
The young self, the old self;
The remembered self, the projected self;
The female self, the male self;
The genderless self;
The loved self, the loathed self;
The lost self, the found self;
The distracted self, the meditating no-self;
The sober self, the intoxicated self;
The peaceful self, the vengeful self;
The depressed self, the inspired self;
The political self, the apathetic self;
The hungry self, the satiated self;
The selfish self, the martyred self...

All of our competing
Disparate selves
Co-inhabiting together
Vying for recognition.
This complicated relationship
Asks for
What all relationships
Ask for:

The gentle hand
Of compassion.
A gift
We can
Only give
To ourselves.

An Age

We live in an age
Where loving yourself
Or your multiple selves
Is an act
Of true defiance.

We live in an age
Where knowing what
You put in your body
Is an act
Of true wisdom.

We live in an age
Where time spent in
Undivided attention with another
Is an act
Of true love.

We live in an age
Where our physical health
is worth more
than decimal points
or additional zeros.

We live in an age
Where a sense of belonging
in our community
is a privilege
to be appreciated.

We live in an age
Where we are living in
Homes we don't own
While the rich get richer
And the poor get poorer.

We live in an age
Where our leaders
Are not held accountable
As the cracks in the foundation
Continue to grow wider.

We live in an age
Where being rebellious
Now means
Bringing people together
For the sake of peace.

We live in an age
Where we are finding out
That the health of our planet
Is more important
Than gadgets or money.

We live in an age
Where the globe must
dissolve all divisions
And work together
to curb our shared crisis.

We live in an age
Where home means
Earth
And we
Are all
in this
together.

Untitled (The Existential Homeless)

It is said that when one dies
It feels like a return home,
Back to that expansive nothingness
Where we originally came from.

Within the universe's embrace
We are lonely multitudes, longing to belong
Our bodies composed from debris of dead stars:
Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen and Carbon.

Millennia after millennia,
Through grasslands we would roam.
Until an ambivalent trick of fate
Led us to wall-in designated zones.

Self declared victors of the land
Made tools with wood and stone,
Until Earth herself was parsed apart,
Her inhabitants, each to their own.

Divisions expand between inside and out,
Land becomes property of the throne.
Purpose redefined as service,
And responsibilities disowned.

Illusion of plentitude and abundance,
From the hands of those who've sewn.
Widening the disparity of prosperity,
Between those who own vs. loan.

The machine of mass production
Respects neither tooth nor bone.
Corrupted is our mission,
We are losing our only home.

Wanting Is

Wanting is

Yearning to fill a void with 

Something

That is

Missing 

From it’s place of 

Origin

We forget where we 

Belong 

Where we come from 

Is not always safe 

Here 

You have to find 

Something

That will protect 

You

Suitcase Childhood

I know the cadence of many-a-shore,

Particular light and coolness of shadow.

Airports, shopping malls, alleyways. 

All in haste, all the same.

In hotel rooms, news on the television 

Describing the weather of the region.

It’s entertaining because it’s not mine.

“Waking up to some frost and fog.”

Trauma of birth, 

Removal from safe oblivion.

Dad smells like Vaseline, 

Mom smells like Nivea Cream. 

Two parts of one pulverized whole.
Dormant memories blossoming in my poetry.

My childhood in a suitcase. 

City

Heavy accumulation collecting. 

Layers of sadness in this

Feverish city, Los Angeles. 

Below the sediment of wasted dreams 

Her slow and steady heart beats,

Like the final pulsation of 

A dehydrated whale.

Washed up; toxic waste from

The years of consumption. 

Famished and exhausted,

Small bodies lay tormented 

Beneath shrouds of weak immunity.

Whilst vessels overhead draw despair 

Into the hazy atmosphere.