As I kid I was taught to observe and be silent.
Lessons from the pedagogy telling me to,
"Sit down and shut up," Well that's what I did.

My dad used to take my sister and I on car rides
To the next town over; it was a nexus of commerce
That contrasted our quaint, little town of homes.
The purpose of these rides were to gawk at the
Potpourri of people who patronized the shops.
We would scrutinize people on their appearance,
A practice ill-advised to parents trying to raise
Their children in this society concerned with an
Evermore increasing importance on political-
Correctness. "Look at that jerk!" I once said.
My dad critiqued me, telling me that I should
Only pass judgement on their looks, nothing
Was indicative of being them being a jerk.
This past-time taught me my observant ways,
Which is how I became interested in the
Idiosyncratic behaviours of my fellow humans;
People became another text that I poured over my mind.
Instead of in a library turning pages, I sat in public
Turn my head with each passerby.

Bukowski wrote,
"If you have to sit for hours
Staring at your computer screen
Or hunched over your
Typewriter
Searching for words,
Don't do it."
I don't do it. I live my life
Letting words find me
Through my thoughts and observations
Being in a constant dialogue
With my surroundings, my words
Come with brevity
Or in great length.

Sure I sat down, and I kept my mouth shut.
But I never let one room contain me,
Be my cage, my think-tank; and I never
Gagged my mind's soliloquy while
My tongue lies in silence.
Why sit catatonic, hoping inspiration will come?
When inspiration comes with experience
And experience comes from breaking free
From that banal routine in the doldrums of life.
Now, I only sit when my feet begin to blister.

If there is ever a time to commit a crime, it during a funeral
Of a fallen officer of the law. With such a large line of mourners
Stopping traffic down the Avenue, it raises questions of who is
"Protecting" our not-so-fair city---whose funding is anything but
Ample. Members of the progression are dressed in their uniforms,
Riding in their civilian vehicles with hands clasped solemnly at
"Ten and two," keeping their wheels from veering, anticipating
More white-knuckled grasping when 21 shots are heard overhead
---They'll still flinch with every "fire" despite knowing what to expect.

Witnesses of the parade, may hear a faint cry, before the wails
Of sirens screaming in passing. Their eyes may sting with the flashing
Of red and blue, in front and behind. They may shiver in the reflective
Pools of the sunglasses worn by the motorcade escort; somber, sober,
Sentinels letting you know not to progress too hastily. No one is there
To write up their tickets with charges of impeding traffic.

Even as I thought out these words, I met their grief cordially;
It's normally hard to empathize with an presence you find contemptuous.
Today, I was moved by the spectacle, despite my schedule being stifled.
As I mulled over what I experienced, I defied traffic law;
Running through red lights, I expected to see a lone cruiser, red and blue
Alternating on the roof. What would I tell them I was thinking
While I committed my infraction? Would my words excuse me in the occasion?
"Gee officer, I have no excuse, but I have this poem about y'all."

I coughed so hard I gave myself a black eye.
Trading blows with a sickness, a one-sided fight that I can't win.
With each deep reach into my lungs, I'm struck in the gut,
Air violently passing from my body. Fights like these
Happen daily, and every morning I wake up from being laid out
The night before. Often my hair is askew, each errand tendril reaching,
Stretching out, grasping at a new day; I have to wet it down with reality.
In my feverish delirium I often dream of life uninhibited;
Taking action I would not take while awake, speaking words
That these lips would never utter, and stoking a fire containing flames
That would surely burn if I got too close. Dreams of horror and fantasy;
Genres in which, my imagination is well versed. Lately,
These sleeping hallucinations are a bridge on which we meet.
Lovers reunited, reconciled, embracing passionately over now calm
Water. The tender moment beaten to a pulp long through
The start of the alarm bells ringing, I stir in the first stabs of sunlight,
Rolling over to my disappointment, to find my bed empty
Under an arm reaching for warmth. 

Try sending a smile a stranger's way,
Or sparking up unexpected conversation.
Ultimately, put a smile on someone's face.
Many people exist wrapped in individuality,
Insular to the world that surrounds them.
Be the conduit of kindness that the many need.
There's no point walking around hunched-over,
As if the world is on their shoulders,
Or having that look on their faces,
One as if they're about to burst into tears
---These floors may be dirty
But there's no need to mop them up
With your dewy lashes.
Stash away your egos and
Hold a door open to happiness
Even for a moment, light up this cloudy day
Better than the blocked out Sun ever could.

"Blue" Only Means One Thing To The Sightless

I was bumped by a man's cane.
Swearing at the bruise on my shin,
I said, "Watch where you are going!"
Followed by a question, "Are you blind?"
The peppermint coloring of his cane
Answered my question---it ain't no candy.
Tongue bitten, I should have looked
Before talking; my ire isn't that astute.

That's why they call it a blind rage.

Nobody seems to concerned with the amount of germs they keep
In their wallets, their pockets, their purses and clutches.
The filth that has touched their currency awakens no urgency
To keep their health priority number one. Contaminated
In so many ways they keep their eyes forward and thoughts out of mind.
Sick in body and spirit they continue to pass their contagions
With the belief that every transaction negates the last.
I'd say your money looks a little green but I'd just be stating the obvious.
Don't think me repulsive, just astute towards these infections festering.
Even the cleanest hands get tainted by this irreversible cash flow.
From the church collection plate to profiteering mongers.
From food to clothes to schools to war to taxes to caskets.
How many microbes inhabit your script?
Time to cleanse it with fire.

These fingers work tirelessly to untie the knots in your back---
Those suckers are tougher to untangle than the ones in your hair.
Your dorsal side earned its merit badges like a good scout:
Fastening strands with precision, carrying the load of a nice lady,
Survival in the most extreme of conditions. Two fingers up,
It'll be honored to help another scout out.
Sometimes those laces need to be undone after a good hike.
Weathering the elements for too long can cause monumental stress;
So take off your pack and relax. Those already knotted fibers strained
To the breaking point; frayed around the edges,
Time for a hemming.
This trooper's nimble fingers can thread a needle too,
Don't ya see my badge?