The dragon Pride hoards

Golden vanities beneath her belly.

And lies sleeping atop the treasure of others.

Her scales are tough, like steel armor,

Shut up so close, air chokes

In its gaps.

And beneath all that is a pale body,

In which resides the endless hunger,

Ravaged and snarling and growling.

Her lungs are bellows of rage,

Her claws are spears of Avarice,

Her teeth,

Glimmering, Glittering, shining like sunlight on the sea,

Shred quickly armor and flesh.

She awakens, her limbs

Creak, she steps with care, but still,

Her bloated feet shatter jewels and jems,

Bend crowns, and smash cups.

Her treasure is a false one.

But she knows not, cares not.

The dragon Pride is blind.

A poet is a thief of thought,

Who, rogue ship at nightfall, sought,

And boarded, to pass the seas of time.

With a cloak of obscurity he veils himself,

And comes from afar,

From an hundred, a thousand, a ten-thousand miles,

To the front stoop of the front door,

And waits.

Quitless.

Quiet.

A bereaved demon,

In a knocked-up,

Scraped-up,

Stopped-up dust jacket,

He stays,

Till the door is opened,

And he leaps from the page,

A hooded figure,

Handed with sword and dagger and,

The reader,

The ignorant, innocent reader,

Unwary of what was released.

He tries to look away, but,

Like the sun, the poet stays,

To bright to see,

To light to look away.

And with each line,

Each lash from the poet’s dying pen,

More intriguing,

More satisfying than the last.

The cocaine of clarity,

Of knowledge, of wisdom, of purpose,

Of being, taunts,

The reader, luring,

Closer, closer to,

The tip of the the poet's last word.

A poet is a killer who kills and is guilty.

Though he does not care for courtrooms,

Or wigs, or peers, much.

Besides,

Who could hang a dead man anyway?

Who would chain his words,

Or noose his pen.

Shoot his papers?

That’s just folly.

But still he kills while he is dead.

Time never quiets what he said.

He means no evil,

Perhaps,

But brings no good,

Either way.

Burdened by bigotry,

He wears a stolen crown.

It has been near six months since that terrible jest was made. It has been near six months since those terrible, tiny hands stripped Liberty’s crown, cape, and torch; left her naked, embarrassed, for the world to watch, leer, and jeer. That November night six months ago: that was the start of something yuge! Not biggly, mind you, but YUGE!

It was me that night. That November night with stars. One of the many nights with stars. One of those many nights with many stars. Bright stars. Bright stars that twinkled. And my family was there too.

We knew the outcome. We knew for certain that the country would go blue, stay blue. It was one of those things taken for granted. The election, that was more of a formality. We knew we would have a queen this year.

The contestant was laughable! A bumbling businessman, more times bankrupt than married, with yellow hair and orange skin reminiscent of my favorite cheddar-cheese corn chip snack. At rallys, his roadies chanted call-back lyrics of vague promises and worn-out racism and an America that was somehow outdated. Down here in southern California, we watched with worryless, condescending eyes the silent minority still caught in the crosshairs of each other’s ignorance.

Election night, what a farce! The cheeto and the queen walk onto stage, votes come pouring in, Florida’s lost by a few thousand, the red fire spreads, engulfs, hilarity ensues! A few months later, broken promises litter the floor. Chants of ‘Build a Wall’ turn to ‘Build a Wall around Trump’. He makes a mess (bless his little soul!), and pretends nobody notices, while screaming for more coverage of his wiretap, or ‘wiretap’, fantasies. It is rather good fun watching! The first thought in everyone’s head when ‘breaking news’ strikes the screen is ‘oh gosh, what did he do this time?’. Hmm, nice pick for Secretary of the Interior. I think his Horror the Grand Wizard would be excellent to lead Race Relations. Through laughing tears you think ‘what more can he do?’. Oh, never ask that. Forget Saturday Night Live, the real news has it beat!

But in this schadenfreude is a sort of sadness. A sadness that comes every day I say the Pledge, watch the flag unfurl and squirm in the wind, and remember one thing: Oh shoot, this is our president.

What is this?

Read it.

It's my name.

I know.

Why?

Because you wrote it.

Compare thee to a summer’s day, you say?

Thou art more scorching and more tedious.

And thou dost dread the question, should I stay?

Oh you’ll be fine, you are gregarious,

After all.

We had such fun, you sparkled summer’s light.

I think I shall compare thee to the string,

Once lit, the powder keg is set alight

So why are you are a fickle, fleeting thing?

That is why.

This inconsistency will last awhile.

And this is why it is that you cannot,

Last, that is. You use too many words,

And trip up love in flattery, I thought.

Oh please remember for the next dunce,

That fireworks can only burn once.

The world’s a stage, set

With wooden men,

With toy guns,

With tin barrels.

When was it time for

The curtain to rise?

And the plaster faces, painted,

To play their clockwork parts?

No emotion, no spark, no

Empathy

For me,

For the outside crowd.

They move,

Huddle,

Like apes for a tree-fruit,

Looking down, backs curled, the sky a nothing.

And up in the stratosphere,

Head light, blood cool, boiling,

I’m looking down,

At the stage, reading their script.

Have you ever stopped to see,

The ecstasy of life before you,

In its roaring colors,

And its startling sensations,

And its technicolor vividness of being?

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Have you ever seen the sheep,

That bleat in their brilliant white fleeces,

That stay for a while,

Then drift away,

In their pale blue pastures above.

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Have you ever stopped to taste the taste,

Of muffins picked fresh from the oven,

With smooth chocolatey chips,

All warm and gooey,

In the cinnamon-spice dough so delightful?

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Have you ever heard the gentle sound,

Of sweet-song birds still chirping past dawn,

And the burbling of the brook,

And the hum-buzz of the bees,

All meeting in orchestral harmony?

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Have you ever stopped to smell the roses,

In their intriguing, sickening sweet,

In their headache scent,

And intoxicating bent,

As the Spring brings forth their bloom.

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Have you ever felt the Autumn wind,

With hands held close to Winter's,

As his icy breath blows,

Through your hair and your clothes,

And creeps like spiders down your spine?

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I pray you do?

Too much, too much, is the ecstasy of life!

In its shouting prism of hues,

That go sadly unnoticed,

By all but the mad and the young.

So I am asking you now,

Will you take the time,

To open you eyes,

To see the world anew?

  I have, and so should you.

    Will you try for me,

      I beg of you?