Welcome to my poetry...

What it is, what it's not, & where it comes from.

It’s not sponsored by the NEA, 
so it can say whatever it wants to say.

It wasn’t created in any laboratory
or Ivy League schools where poets are
played for fools, groomed not for their 
intelligence but to work in it. Hell, look 
what they did to The Good Shepherd after 
he got out of his coffin and rose from the dead,
leaving a trail of skulls and bones in his wake.

It hasn’t been infiltrated by any of your garden
variety 3-letter agencies to influence societal
behavior, run psychopoetical operations
or ruin the soul of poetry.

It will never qualify for a grant
because its donors will never 
allow me to rant about who 
those donors really are.

It won't win any poetry award
because its supreme mission 
is not to leave you bored.

It wasn’t made safe by the NIH or CDC,
so—who knows—maybe this will 
go viral and infect the masses’
inner eyes and see how they 
were entert(r)ained to 
youth-in-eyes themselves.

It’s not part of the WEF’s (not so) great reset,
but to reset the minds, hearts and souls of humanity
and how we’ve been played like violins by the
psyop media machine with insidious violence.

It didn’t pass inspection by the FDA, 
so it may not be safe for general consumption; 
the only side effects will be critical thinking, 
inspired imagination and Red Sea parting moments.

It wasn’t stripped searched or irradiated by the TSA, 
so these verses are free to fly wherever they want 
and to leave all its baggage behind, spinning in the 
carousel of the past.

It wasn’t made in China like everything else,
in factories with suicide nets, out of cheap plastic
or laced with powdered melamine.

Nor was it taxed by those
Individual
Revenue
Siphoners
because I’m the one who creates
and controls all of my verbal cash flow 
as it circulates into the world, to 
manifest experiences that
materially benefit me 
and my fellow man.

Instead it flows
from the highways of the heart
from the chaos of streets,
from the impatient car horns,
from the blinding sparks spit by the El’s grinding wheels,
from the swirling sounds of Schumann’s 7th etude,
from the birthday balloons someone left in your cubicle,
from the 4 hour telephone conversation to the text message from your boo,
from the meal at Les Nomades to the homeless person sitting on the street holding up his cardboard poem,
from the drunk uncle who’s weird behavior is a last attempt at defying Life,
from the echoing footsteps of your 4:00am walk of shame,
from the politics of office buildings to the bungalows of dysfunctional families,
from the mountain tops to the dilapidated shantytown,
from the last $10.00 you put in your gas tank,
from the empty wallet to stock markets stoned on derivatives,
from subatomic particles to the largest planets,
from lover’s eyes in which they find each other’s home.

It’s poetry at the speed of life…