"ending homelessness"

placing "skin tone" Bandaids on compound fractures
bandages designed, manufactured, and profited off by the breaker-of-the-bone
none of us know how to swim, or what direction the stream is flowing

all hallows' eve

Sama (endearing grimace of desire): "What costume would you wear every day -- and you can't say yourself?"

Gena (eavesdropping reply): "Other than this one i currently wear every day?"

how are you?

i find myself a person looking at a piece of art wondering what the creator felt when they made it (and after), what folks might feel when they view it, and asking myself what make this art? i am the type of person who forgets to ask how i feel about things, from time to time. 

the last ten steps, over some leaves

in a place without seasons, beyond the rod-iron gate, one mile and ten paces left, the prison sits quietly on downstream haunches.
there are no license plates stamped in max.
if I could insect my way in I would roam the panopticon halls, sniffing for graphite scribed lists titled "should have" and "shouldn't have".

should: write Rachel a letter, learn to swim, start a memoir, request photos of my dog, know what pineapple smells like, be able to remember outside.

shouldn't: have stopped, have been caught, told that story, answer questions that begin with "why", given Reggie my keys.   

a wall is the line

someone created a line; some what arbitrary, and the other what strategic.
for native folks, whom the line jumped over, it was time to move south.
military factions sent to force whole tribes and villages to pack up and flee the fertile land they had learned to love.
today the line is more of a fortress than a semaphore of power.
what are the fortress builders so afraid of?
what did it feel like to draw that line the first time?
can it be fixed/

paper clip zipper

holes born on the other side of fences are in this.
several tears from several friends soaked in and dried in the shoulders.
burns of errant ember dot the ball-pitted sleeves.
pockets that even a quarter can't cling to.
the scent of coffee, campfire, grease, and travel wrap softly; holding it all together.
winter, spring, summer, and fall have slept here.
everything I know, apart from laundry, has shared itself with my messy shirt.

please fool me, so i don't have to pretend

-sometimes police officers are punished for compassion. more often for misconduct. 

=a young boy was chided, in the forest, for refusing to shoot a squirrel. all of the friends laughed, and took their turn shooting the squirrel's jumping body. the refusing boy's sister said he should not have supper that evening. 

=-in the center of one ill-lit suburban casino, it all went right. now to buy all the weapons, cars, sex, and sport-fan aisle-attendant popcorn. 

sometimes watching fingers dance in the sunlight over keys to say, "i feel like you are the kindest person i have met, summer" is a really warm way to also thank the season for tricking us for so long. i hope it continues. i hope we all do. 

for the warmest summer tricks today.