Hijacked

Some days I wonder if I was

taken hostage the traditional way

it would all make some kind of sense

instead of looking around

at this familiar life and realizing

I’m in a prison of my own creation.

Each decision I made

built these walls, which suffocate me.

I’m shackled inside.

And holding the keys.

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We were so good at fighting

We were so good at fighting.

Flinging accusations

like spears and

watching each other deflate.

But we didn’t.

I would fill back up with a bellows of anger

and go back for round two

three, ten.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

the clawing and

scraping

until we both lie

on the floor,

remembering

that there was nothing ever

to actually fight about.

Another reason

to shut everyone out,

a dance.

But there’s no one

to spar with now.

No reason to even fight.

My blood only boils

at the memory.

 

Pirates of the Carribean

I went to see Prokofiev last night

but I had to leave part way through.

It was like that time we were on the

Haunted House ride,

and the pictures elongated.

we were in a different room

the eyes of the statues followed us,

and I saw the ballroom full

of dancing ghosts.

one last waltz.

It was us

in the tiny kitchen,

the one in the downstairs apartment

we shared

with the black and white tiles

a Debussy record playing

or maybe Chucho Valdes.

Just ghosts now.

Perhaps the treasure

I remember finding

was just my old mind

playing tricks on me.

 

From Dusk to Dust

We are stepping into the twilight

of intellectual curiosity,

where enlightenment means only

how high the blue light flashes on our tiny screen.

Reading means checking the blogs,

or perusing those long

instagram posts for events, celebrities, gossip,

brunches, hashtag

hashtag

hashtag.

We have elected a snack food into office,

who gets paid with taxes he doesn’t even pay.

Fuck the monarchy! Oy! Oy! Oy!

Stupid primogeniture,

oh wait. A political de-volution.

Is another revolution in order?

We are 1760, with slaves,

still lynched and separated

by the color of their skin.

Where is Harriet Tubman now?

All I know is that it’s not safe to ride the

trains anymore.

Or drink the water,

depending on the poor city you live in.

Medieval times.

Instead of mead it’s Michelob.

Safer than the leaded reservoir.

And the lies your government tells.

Golding would roll over in his grave

if he knew that the Lord of the Flies

now had guns, and in the schools.

And we sit idly by, watching

twitter like tennis.

The Wimbledon of our undoing,

as World War III rages just beyond

our screens,

and we avert our eyes,

avoiding the struggle

of connecting,

thinking,

humanity.