I think

So I observe my thoughts.

Mindfulness.

Cool.

There they are: my thoughts. Sweet.

Got that part.

But that’s a thought itself:

the thought that I’m observing thoughts

which further breaks things down

so now

I’m free of thoughts themselves.

At least

I think I am.

No, I’m having the thought

I’m thought-free.

No sweat:

that just breaks things down completely

to true,

authentic,

thought-free

being.

I think.

At the cemetery

I was at the cemetery today

and things were in their place.

The iron gate was owlish

—always on nightshift

even at midday.

The crows shrieked

and passing freights came moaning back.

The grey sky

spat

weak rain.

Things in their place

—the world in emo at the cemetery.

But what of the graves?

What of the death

that whispered secrets eternally ignored?

Even there,

Death seemed strange

and out of place.

Even there,

at the cemetery,

Death was impossibly awkward.

America

America,

I miss you

though I’ve not yet left.

America,

Venice Beach beneath

a burning, blasting sun.

My burning heart for you,

America.

How long can you withstand?

America,

buses and deserts

and,

somewhere,

coyotes…

America,

Oklahoma, suburbs

and questions, America.

Fears for you

in my churning gut.

America,

just how

will they loot your legacy?

America,

Texas and longhorns

and NFL with pizza.

Jazz and sweat

in New Orleans

and dirty secrets

of a city

that sweats on a port.

America,

so confident.

I fear for you.

The mob attacks

the shining city upon a hill.

They want to clean you out.

They need to clean their rooms.

America,

the mirror in our rooms

reflecting the image

we see in ourselves.

America,

you fought the Crown

then fought yourself

for a

yet greater

America.

Warrior, liberator

in dark nights of the soul,

you’re Susan B. Anthony,

Dr King,

General Patton.

Are you on your knees,

America?

—Your history, your anthem, your children

mobbed.

America,

if you go

we go.

America,

you’re Jim Crow,

you’re strange diseases like CNN.

But more,

you’re Jefferson, you're Lincoln.

You’re enslaver but,

much more,

emancipator;

a people

that shine a light upon a hill.

America,

you’re the stretched fabrics

of all the world has sewn

and yet remain

the greatest

we’ve ever known.

The Mormons and I

I met the Mormons this eve

as they walked the pavement

and seemed to be

the last of modernity’s baby teeth

—those that refused to drop

and held to the gums

to prevent the poison from seeping in

completely.

I met the Mormons

on their two year assignment.

I was grateful for their suits,

ties

and straight haircuts

waving us into eternity

as the devil prepares

to take those ignoring the call.

Because in any case,

if the Mormons are wrong

it’s just about the devil’s timing

—the devil has already been throwing his party

for one hell of a time.

That is,

the devil of boredom,

conflict

and fear.

So many of us

despise our lives

yet fear a change

—that’s the devil.

Meanwhile,

on these bland secular streets

the colour of purgatory,

Mr and Mr Mormon march on

—just a couple of kids across the world

adventuring for god

and waiting for the world to end.

They may well have their facts bent,

but these lads—for two years at least—

are living.

These Mormons are preaching

something bigger than facts

—something bigger even

than god.