“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
This phrase proceeds repetitively in my mind.
Read from a cheap piece of wood, poorly signed.
In the narrows hallways of ambition, untruthfully lined.
It is a lie, maliciously and hopefully combined
Meant to stir kindness, but reaping a harvest unkind.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
The lie is not in the virtue which I find.
It is in the poor philosophy of these words pined.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
As if you can be anything, but what is predefined.
Decided by you status, your color, your life, your ill mind,
You have little say, I would be inclined not to remind
That you are brought up like those mankind
Who teach you to be a worn down rind
Of the self which they left behind.
Destitute and disinclined.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
A lie, meant to make you complacent and resigned.
I offer a different truth, which I beg you bear in mind.
Be different, unbind, unassigned, and unaligned.

If it wasn’t so windy, we could have a fire.
I sip my bourbon with no worry of desire.
An ant crawls on my leg, I flick it off
With the respect and rigor of Eric Bischoff.
My 1920 Bourbon reminds me of prohibition,
As I smell my neighbor’s cigarette, reprobation.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,
Some admit folly, most won’t.
Nevertheless, it exists in all
As pride cometh before the fall.
The winds passover all who sit outside
For it is the home in which they reside
And if you think for a moment
That you are a worthy opponent,
Remember,
You have no control.

I have my father’s restlessness
A generational habit to be uneasy.
My watching eyes relentless.
Staring, pestering, queasy
As I twiddle my thumbs around.
Accusatory lips bring life
To words once without sound
Cutting like a surgical knife
Putting the Other into ground.
Separating them from myself
By way of insult and overt
Injustice.  I put them on the shelf
Hide from me.  For I know not,
My power.

She sits watching me, pupils growing
Ears tucked back, tail flowing.
Her fur covered face releases a purr.
Ready to strike, she leaps, accuracy sure.
The target?  My ankles- she latches.
I shriek and yell, she runs, and watches.
She watches, waiting for her chance.

Her chance to strike.

You call people worms as insult
Yet in all its wriggality
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

A feeding tube for the resourceful,
A knot for tying for the bored,
A game for the children,
Brought forth by a living cord.

This worm pierced onto a hook
Sacrificed for my brother’s dinner
Caught on the Muskegon river,
I thank you for your life.

You who eat dirt,
Feed my family.

As I sit at my desk,
I stare mine own eye.
I notice the bags below.
I’ve noticed them before.
Today they stay- perpetual.
They mock me with exhaust
Though they beg for rest
My mind reminds them,
They are not in control.

Neither am I.

I punch my pillow
As if it is his fault.
Bills, studies, relationships.
Responsibilities of small weight,
Fall like a drop in a bucket.
They build up into jugs-
-Into bags
under
eyes.

I can do better than this- but this website is called primitive for a reason.

Fish need Oxygen
Though they swim
In water clear
As glassy day
They gulp air
The same way
A human chugs.

Their gills remove
The oxygen from
The crystal water.

Their bodies bloat
Filled with air;
Filled with food;
Lacking of lungs
They produce food.

Food for plants
The plants eat
Like humans soak
They eat carbon
Regardless of form
Making carbon, oxygen.

Fish need oxygen.
Plants need carbon.
The cycle continues
All within my
Fifteen gallon tank.

5-4-3-2-1-2-3-4-5

White pine tree tea boils
In     gray     teapot
Made char black
We sip
Sat
By fire
Beneath trees
With warm stomachs
Warm hands grasping cups.