I tasted the ocean between your lips—it was dark and I couldn’t see
but I tired to vacuums out any unhappy memories with my naivety.
They lay at the the spirit bottom
but we both know a vacuums can’t eliminate the pressure that holds your hope down.
All peace and war begins in the mind.
Every battle begins with a General Perception leading men who are made to love
into men trained to kill.
To those who say war is natural:
War is not natural, conflict is natural.
If war is human nature, then why do people suffer from PTSD?
MLK said, “the organizers of peace have to be as effective as the organizers of war.”
We need to begin to strategize.
First, with out smiles.
Aim directly at human target.
Target will be innocent civilian.
Hit them with your smile and watch their bad day die.
When Cupid saw the he sorrow borne,
From lovers separated
By death or quarrel or lust or scorn,
He took up his bow and arrow,
And let his instrument pierce
His heart to rid it of life,
Only to find on the other side of strife,
He was free again,
And fell in love with all of life.
I saw the pit of humanity
ripe inside a curve.
Her smile did not need language,
her soul spoke clear.
love fertile wandered into my eyes,
with warm hands reefed around warm belly she said:
“my baby is ready.”
A few flickers develop, the image appears: a woman screaming a breathless scream, crying grey paint masses of tears.
He stands helplessly in front of her (not even 20 feet away) offering a hand. Neither of them move. Nothing separates them. Except for the dust.
The histories between their stories get lost in time and memory. Nothing physical lies between the two. Only the metaphysical which turns out to be just as parting as the sun and moon. Or mountains with rainwater, mossy high and porous desert. Or armies of enemies and allies of angels. Or barbed wire fences and the nations’ on each side.
No, it is none of those things that separated them. What got between them was a moment that went wrong. A time that was less than flashes of white.
Now she will never be forgiven. She screams eternal grabbing at her words, and setting them free again:
I am sorry.
He holds his hand out but never reaches out. He could have reached out. Or taken a step. To move closer.
But instead he extends a feigned acceptance.
She disappears, scream still lingering.
You can hear her in any pure white song you associate with a past love.
Being human is rotten tears that roll down past rounded, thin checks. If Luck is close by, it will be cloaked in human skin who catches the tears or the words needed to be spoken. Proclaimed or professed, there is no other form of expression.