The misfit finds his rebel cause.

Goes to war, defies all the laws.

How a ripe peach of which to pluck

Is the rebel’s cause loved so much.

 

I? I sit, also, misfit too

Unabashed from eternal youth.

My creative means dries so much

My country dies, the one I love.

 

Is the rifle my fated way?

To lose myself in coup d’é tat?

Will it suffice this longing heart?

Will I in glory play my part?

 

No! I say, in my angry gloom.

My vengeance shall be bloody noon.

I would rather let life depart

From my nostrils than play my part.

 

I will laugh at the wretched dogs

As my body swings o’er the logs.

I died, your hope for freedom last.

Because you’d not free me, I laughed.

You have a pretty face,

It guarantees you 15,000 views a video.

You have a cat, it guarantees you 1,000,000 more.

First read, see if you think she’s beautiful.

Second read, see if you think she’s smart.

Third read, see if she makes you wonder.

Fourth read, see if you will agree.

Fifth read, you have clasped her chin.

Sixth read, you have kissed her.

Seventh read, you have known her.

We can know much about a man’s emotional state

By the music they chose to listen to.

 

How things were happy

Then frustrated

Then angry

Then sad

Then jaded.

Some prophets never were saved.

Nietzsche, Yeats and Byron all wrote

Songs of what Earth would be

If no Christianity.

 

I don’t ask whether they rose

But that their spirits were wrong

That when they spoke war or peace

So they had a little yeast.

 

It would rise in bitterness;

It did rise angry at God.

Whether war or peace, they wrought

Bloodshed, for only blood’s bought

 

The foundation of reason.

Whether fairy or the gun

Men within themselves would catch

The trains to power; at last

 

They would, in all likelihood

Turn back to shaman with the

Blood of infants in their soup,

Whether or not they did coup.

 

I look at them to know aught

About my brothers gone wrong.

To have peace means right must win.

Right religion’s without sin.

 

That when Christ had brought the sword

It was good reason He did.

All other religions, sin’s

The core of their holy writ.

As a tender seed is she in a woman

Until her soil is made fertile.

She grows in the womb, a little sprout.

She then peaks up from the soil, a little green stem

And when she comes of the age of lovemaking

She is a beautiful, supple flower.

She becomes pollinated,

And her flower wilts, sags, droops

Until it becomes a fruit.

Her fruits drop to the earth

Each with their own seeds

To sink into the soil

With nutrient fresh fruit.

She withers and dies

And her fruit repeat the process all over again.

Athena, your wisdom accrued th’ou’ght the generations

And sufficient unto itself were the measurements of Pi.

You saw you broke the moral law of mankind’s herds of white sheep.

Instead of finding Grace, you found her name’s etymology.

You said to yourself, “There can be no God, for Line’s upon Line.”

You looked upon Solomon’s wisdom and said, “I may now steal.”

You looked upon Moses’ wisdom, and said, “I shall now kill.”

You spoke about David, “I may enter another man’s wife.”

Then the scripture became a license to do numerous crimes.

Grace, you figured, by her etymology, was made by Greeks.

So with that, you forgot wisdom. So with that, you forgot Who

Charity is. You defined her as Desire. Like Plato.

You said, “There can be nothing certain, except what is measured.”

Is not love measured? Is not kindness? Is not Joy and peace? Friend?

Yet you could not see them anymore to measure them. Could you, friend?

For words are more than etymologies. They are what they mean.

I will not take your crown, Athena. For it is suffering.

It is living with no knowledge, for wisdom annulled it all.

To be in love is life’s greatest gift.

To feel, to know, to have the pleasure

Of lovemaking, to move the earth

To be enraptured by the form of your naked spouse.

 

It someday wanes away.

And cherished ought to be the friend

You have made

That you have had sex with

That you have made children with

That you have kissed, and shared in the most embarrassing moments.

 

Never do I say that love is bad.

For, it is God’s greatest gift to man

To feel in love for those four years

You have it.

Soon, the opium should turn

To peace. And friendship ought to be made

And conversations should be made.

 

Newlyweds in naked embrace feel so much.

Old couples in naked embrace say so much.

For, friendship ought to be the manner by which

A man and woman formed their bond.

 

Do not say to the little ones who are friends

Do not convince them of this

That it is imprudent to marry one you’ve been friends with for years.

Do not tell a man that he is a friend

That there can be no manner by which he may enter into your heart.

Whether he is ugly or beautiful

Or simply seen in a light…

Shed light on the promise of friendship

That it is more valuable than the opium of love.

For, friendship is true love.

Love is useless as a passion.

It turns knitted hearts astray.

Walking through the deserts

The children one bore to that woman

Stood, with their halved lives.

They said, “Mother, do you love papa?”

She, being a fool said, “No.”

It was that uttered word that caused

The children to suffer so much ill.

Love was just a chemical—

And once the salts were made

From the Lemon and Soda

There was no more love.

 

The man, having fallen out of love with her long ago

Was at work, turning the leather upon a spoke

Dipping it in his tanning juice

Heating it,—he was content to come home

And see his wife, make love to only her,

Provide for his children.

But, when he got home the fool said to him,

“I do not love you.”

At that moment a passion erupted in the man

Which revolted her, for she could feel no such passion.

 

Though, it wasn’t the broken heart of lost endorphins.

It was a happy life, and doing what man and woman had always done,

That was taken from him.

And so with his children.

 

If I ever find a woman,

I hope she understands this.