A lie can travel at the speed of light
while truth obeys the limits of the road.
Hand over fist, returning bit for bite,
the cheater prophets game our overload.
“You won’t believe this old and simple trick…”
“So, here’s the thing they don’t want you to know…”
Behind the Bush, they’ll “Photoshop” the Dick.
You think the globe is warming? Here’s some snow.
Nine tenths of what we “know” is without proof,
and I just pulled that number from a hat,
but I think Socrates would hit the roof
if he knew we believed it’s less than that.
We trust our basic rightness by design.
This is not proof, but God says that’s just fine.

I do not hate Creators or the Son.
I do not hide from light or love for shame.
Just look, and find the All in anyone;
the tetragrammaton is not its name.

Dear Yahweh, if your love is without bound,
why must my brother hide his love of man?
Is this your will? Which way to read is sound,
of Torah, Talmud, Bible, or Quran?

If any way is true, then show us now.
Our children die, for how you spell your name!
For many years, I might have called you “Tao,”
but now I think your way is not the same.

Why do you punish ants, and give them crowns?
Of billion trillion stars that we may see,
why come into our little country towns,
see love and faith, say “Give it all to me”?

Our world is just a speck, a mote of blue,
so why do you intend to see its end?
What god above was small enough to you
that, after all, a half of us descend?

Why do you care? For love? Then “save” us all!
Speak clearly, for the writing’s on the wall.

In interest of the ruddy heifer’s lot
that chews its cud unyoked on yonder hill,
one does not raise her sister for the pot,
to stew, as if the bovine form you kill
if you eat not this one, nor offer that
to some exalted creature in the sky.
Stock of her breed is not her pound of fat!
Should pallor care if pallor waves goodbye
when all its kind’s the rainbow, and “its own”
is either one soul’s interest, or us all?
Before my species, you, I will disown
your arbitrary pigments of cabal.
My sphere is mine alone, or planet Earth.
One’s not “your kind”; the other gave all birth.

If words can reach and carry to the stars,
reverberating, soundless, through the void,
then hurry to our children’s ears on Mars:
“Don’t make mistakes your parents could avoid!”
Young voyager, I love you. I am not
a bigger person, for my little words.
Intend your consequence. For naught, or ought
you set a roadblock ‘tween the cliff and herds?
Perhaps a conscious mind is not enough,
when all the worlds converge upon their ends,
whatever means, whatever your rebuff,
whatever’s too damned easy for your friends!
Go crazy, but then pass a fucking law!
You know the climate’s changing. “God” says, “Naw.”

Look on my face, in present morning’s light,
and hear me say, “These psalms are not enough,”
with stormy air, with God occulting sight.
You’re right! Add to the canon, your rebuff!
I’ve set it on my forehead: “dust to dust.”
Saint Anthony of Padua, we cry!
Though I am not a man for “God” to trust.
I will not ask forgiveness, when I die.
“God” has no absolution for my sins,
for acts against my brother son of man.
My sister, “He” will end, and “She” begins.
No tyranny can live beyond its span.
Unspeakable, we say it ev’ry day.
I only thought, there’s one more thing to say.

Forgive them, God, they know not what they do,
though, neither, then, do you, and I am not
a better man to save them by a coup.
Start capital, and end it with a dot.
Just tell me once, exactly what’s the plan?
I have a pen and paper here, for scratch.
Write me a number: what’s the price of man?
Two candidates, one outcome–that’s the catch!
I might have read a chapter from your book.
(Skip to the end, the part I most deplore.)
It’s bloody, small, and petty–with a hook:
at every chance, call Babylon a whore.
My pettiness is, now you have your way.
What worries you? Why so little to say?

In retrospect, that painting on your wall
that strains against its frame, which does not fit,
stare at it long: why is it there at all?
What furtive, longing eye does it admit?
That book off on its own there on your shelf,
its loved and tattered cover bleeding red,
what does it say? (I read it once, myself.)
Would Holden leave a comrade there for dead?
All fashions come and go, like drawing breath,
and yet, despite, the photograph remains.
To burn the word cannot compel its death.
From ashes’ ashes, fire in our brains!
The poet loves you; grieve and take a swig.
To gag me, he must kill me: “Fuck the pig!”

I know you think it’s just a “pornogram,”

but this is me, the word you overlook.

My psalm does not descend from Abraham.

He’s not allowed to bully in my book.

He’s not allowed to violate my verse.

You think that we can stop him? We should try.

He says he’s gonna end the universe,

with flaming sulfur raining from the sky.

The old white men are gonna make it pour,

and tell my sister “swallow” when she spits,

and, when she bites it off, call her a “whore.”

Cut off a toe, and then the slipper fits.

It’s not my place to say, “Your rage is just.”

To feel Her love, why pander to “His” lust?

I have, in hand, a package to return.
I used it once or twice, but it’s still clean.
It’s big enough, but that’s not my concern.
Just try it, and you’ll find out what I mean…
See that? It’s got a kickback like a gun!
First time I felt it, nearly blew my head!
My girlfriend gasped! She thought it might be fun,
but then she used it–left me, said, “Drop dead!”
I’d say, “That’s her,” but others took offense.
It pops, and you can hear down the block!
It sprays, and then the mess is just immense!
For what it’s done me, trade you for a rock!
It doesn’t even fit inside the hole.
So, take it back. I offer up my soul.

These words are all the beauty I comprise.

These mumbles heard by no one spell my name.

Set them in glass to mirror your surprise

when fourteen lines exceed the picture frame.

If you would see my face, behold it here.

Look on its scars before you see it smile.

I mean no harm, no damage to your ear.

My trek is long, before we tread a mile.

If this is not the reason, turn away!

Ask, “Wherefore this?” or stuff it, Juliet.

“A pox on both your houses!” How passé!

This metered heart is beating sonnets, yet!

My organ throbs a vulgar, bloody flow.

Give penance to your God, and claim you know.