Seeks a monopoly,
On the one thing,
He doesn’t own.
The billionaire,
Builds rockets — burns,
Money, the fuel,
Pushing him farther,
Into his own orbit,
Earth already his,
The billionaire,
Reaches for the stars,
Just so the world will look
Up,
At him.
A twisted plant,
Following the spotlight,
An invasive species,
Taking root in your attention.
The billionaire,
Thrives on your energy,
Do not give him your sun,
But the shade cast from your back,
As you turn away.
Men with so much,
Are men who want more,
And what,
The billionaire,
Wants now,
Is to be a shareholder —
In your life,
To purchase,
The priceless.
I tell you to stop,
Then dodge your response,
You speak in fists,
A second language,
And the shape of your words.
I am afraid,
Of you,
For you.
The world is professional violence,
A heavyweight,
And you in kid gloves.
Our sparring,
Is training,
For a rigged fight.
You the fuse,
But am I the match?
My fire —
Extinguished,
But still smoldering.
I am supposed to have the answers,
To know what you need,
The teacher,
A substitute,
Who doesn’t understand the lesson.
Loving you,
Brings out the worst,
In me,
In you.
This fight,
Is within us,
Not between us.
This combustible anger,
Fuel,
Temptation,
For arsonists,
Who burn,
Who wound,
What can’t be repaired,
What won’t heal.
Notice the book, a James Patterson thriller. The cover cresting at the edges, a wave curling back on itself. Ripped corners. Crease marks wind like rivers across a woman dressed in red, her back arched, her eyes closed, her mouth open in anticipation.
To the left of her in small, inflammable text, “Paris is burning and only Private can control the inferno.”
On the back an endorsement, “No one gets this big…”
Inside, eight pages of endorsements from past lovers.
Their words on paper street corners,
Call to you.
Seduce.
Used, but not damaged.
Run your finger down the spine.
Let your gaze fall.
Let it linger on the dust jacket.
Be tempted,
Aroused by this word lingerie.
Will Jack Morgan and his elite team connect the dots before the smoldering power keg explodes?
Be the woman in red.
Light the match.
Burn.
Chalk tallies on the board
Chalk outlines on the floor
The grisly math
13+9+5+32+5+7+27+6+4+9+17+10+4+21.
Doesn’t add up
The sum
Is more than we can bear.
The right to bear arms
Is the sum of us.
The second is the first
King of the Republic
Its assassins' sight set on us.
The scope of history
Nowhere to hide
When you’re always within range.
A dark theater
Will not conceal you
A church, mosque, synagogue
Hell on Earth
When the symbol of your religion
Is a crosshair.
Every school
A target
And all we have
Are words
Thoughts and prayers —
Blanks
Aimed at guns
Themselves wrapped in Kevlar and cowardice,
The latter,
Bulletproof.
The same lesson
Taught every year
A subject we know
But still fail the test.
And so the tally marks grow
The chalk outline
Drawn around a body
Its shape
A nation.
It’s my birthday,
I don’t need a card,
Or tickets to a play,
No money please,
Or art for the yard.
I have one wish,
And it is this…
Say gay,
During the month of May.
Say gay,
To counter all the hate.
Say gay,
Coming from the Sunshine State.
Say gay,
While drinking a cabernet,
At a chalet,
With your fiancé.
Say gay,
While watching Bobby Flay.
Say gay,
While you belay.
Say gay,
While driving a Chevrolet.
Say gay,
Don’t obey.
Say gay,
It’s really not risque.
Say gay,
To Ron DeSantis.
Say gay,
He can kiss all the asses.
Say gay,
While eating a Benet,
While watching the film “JFK,”
While taking a survey,
While wearing a toupee,
While getting an x-ray.
Say gay,
In your house,
Or the home of Mickey Mouse.
Say gay,
Everyday,
It’s okay,
To say gay.
