One Hundred court stenographers,
each trained by
the same online course,
(recorded in a basement in Lincoln, Nebraska)
race to input
the full lyrics of
“Ice, Ice, Baby”
in an attempt
to crown a valedictorian.

One hundred clear glass spheres
(not a cateye among them)
stampede,
God’s marble collection
clattering from leather pouch
into Waterford crystal,
cheap plastic irises
stabilized
by righteous souls.

One Hundred ordinary gray mice
learn ballet
(lacking the rhythm
necessary for tap)
and congregate on a June afternoon
to recite
on the corrugated roof
of a Little League dugout.

One particularly observant mockingbird,
hearing the three hundred,
calls back, reproducing
the sound of raindrops
wetting the shingles above
my attic bedroom.

despite disappointment
dilly dallying
and otherwise minor distress
caused, of course, by others

and plan my overcoming

when I bring you
a different perspective
or outside-the-box idea

instead of detailing
how and why
it could never work

would it kill you
to simply say thanks
for the suggestion?

It was like her mind was preoccupied,
with fantasies of a fairytale world,
beyond everyone’s understanding but hers.

Why do some girls never realize,
you can only be a princess in your dreams?

It’s time to wake up sleeping beauty,
and notice how the makeup made you ugly while you slept.
Mascara dripping from your teary eyes,
and yesterday’s lipstick smudged over your face.

You’re nothing but a cheap streetwalker.

Learn your history,
know your past,
listen to the names,
make them last.

Recognize your home place,
smell the earth that raised you.
Feel the touch of familiar skull,
hold the hands that made you. 

Visit as an immigrant
learning a new culture.
Let the voices sink into your soul,
resonating throughout your nature. 

Invest your heart in forgiving
lives and times that came before. 
Aknowledge the mistakes and glories
without keeping score.

All that you are is a rich combination 
of these names etched in stone,
all the love you can give and
the seeds that you’ve sown.

6/22/25
KW

Social media’s pointing fingers again
and the echo chambers are rumblin’.
People who live in worlds
shrinking within Reddit
are frothing at the mouth
with logical fallacies
and fabricated sources
that they’re still convinced
destroy your argument
no matter how many times
someone has to realitysplain them.

The same blender
of ad hominem labels
and strawmen goons
go to war on the battlegrounds
of buzzwords and bigotry
while ‘Fake News’ flies
every which way, both as
cries against disagreeable truth
and actual misinformation,
not to mention the trolls
getting their jollies
yoinking on your foibles
to keep the follies falling.

Not me, though,
not anymore.
When the new phone asked
what apps to reinstall
I declared
Fuuuuuck no to Facebook.
Writing this poem reminds again
to reduce Reddit to memory;
maelstrom media’s gonna miss me,
but I won’t be missing it.
We’re purifying the newsgathering
talking to real people
having real conversations
engaging with the real world.

And the effects are instant.
I’m more at peace with myself
if not exactly at peace
with the way things are
but when the shit’s
not in your face so much
everything smells a little bit nicer–
think I’m gonna stay here.

‘Cause you’re never gonna change a mind on the Internet
but you’ll certainly change your soul
going outside
and touchin’ some grass.

A slight smile cut his wrinkled face.
Slowly he nudges several long grains
from his worn lacquer bowl onto the granite surface.

His longtime companion wing-flapped
and claw-hopped to perch next to him,
grey beak airborne after each eaten piece.

Six bald orange-robed figures strode
quietly to his side. Nodding to them, he rose
and stood by while they bowed, then lifted
the limestone cover of his mausoleum.

Every day a young acolyte places
a tiny bowl of rice on the aging stone.
Every day a crow eats the rice, and flips
the bowl over with a clatter when finished.

A decade passes. A small boy in orange
places the bowl, and sits to wait. The crow
arrives, almost blind now, with a stone
clutched in its gray beak.

Ignoring the bowl, the crow taps the limestone with its pebble.
The young boy nods when he hears the return tapping from below.

beckons us 

to soak up sunne

and grow

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she walks away from me
after saying this:
“You wait right here.
I’ll be right back. I promise.”

one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore

how many more times
will we reunite
here in this life–
I ask myself tonight

one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore

her return today means
separation will come
just as my present breath
assures my final one

one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore

one day will be different:
she will not return or
upon returning find
no one’s waiting anymore
no one’s waiting anymore