she looks like a hot prospect drinking,

she becomes a little girl weeping,

so young, still the shadows of a child,

lurching through vertigo, shedding ashes.

if you gaze gently into her eyes,

if you listen softly as she speaks,

a sudden smile, sweet and surprised,

emerges. there is a flower veiled,

beyond the shards of animal memory,

no exit possible, the fondle lurking,

cries muffled, her home a wicked altar,

so much innocence sacrificed so soon.

enough diagnosis to make you feel better;

didn’t you once boast of life preservers?

but what can i do? this is just in passing.

what medicine of earth and sky?

how many need a vision possible,

not visionary, no light show from heaven,

but a modest map of a future rendered

where each step taken leads.

if she beholds a path leading,

a vision of a woman possible,

her shattering less than a shadow,

a witness to the morning sun.

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired of being an American citizen in the Age of Orange Abomination. There are so many cases to be made against this man that has hijacked the soul of my country. There is so much that is being overlooked or ignored. I am so tired of the eyes of the world. I am so sick at pointing fingers. There is nothing that is best about this situation. There is no case to be made beyond the obvious. We have been beaten down as a nation into the soles of our shoes. I look up from this comforting pit and feel nothing in particular. I Twitter no more and forget about Facebook. What you are asking me to make is the sound of my head banging against a wall. The flesh will fail long before the concrete, the blood will run dry, and the bone will break. There are no secrets left and no heady revelations. There is only tomorrow's despair. Sweet dreams, young visionary and hopeful friend! May you wake to a better tomorrow.