For Wayne LaPierre and Uncle Sam

What is stronger—the mind or the gun? Yes, the gun can shoot at point blank range

But the mind made the gun—No different than the egg who made the chicken—

A genetic SNAFU, whose controversy caused bangs and made the people crazed.

“Guns don’t kill people,                         people kill people”           

you say. But if the                                     mind made the gun,

Then the ones to fear                                     are the minds

who promote that the guns be mainstreamed.

But their criminal intent

has been absolved

by their corporate lobbying,

by their inordinate sum of power,

and by our outdated constitution.

So I am sorry Uncle Sam,

People do kill people. And

the people whose hand you

shake, the one whose palms

are sopping with blood,

Is that of the N.R.A.

In case I need to spell it out for you:

By virtue of this logic,

They are the people who kill people.

Bang. Bang.

Solo

Solo

A girl no more than ten years of age,

Has decided to take center stage.

Her father has promised, “I will be there this time!”

Her reaction: elation, she will be seen in her prime.

She practices and plays for hours on end,

In front of a mirror that no one will mend.

And for dinner she sits at a table surrounded by chairs,

But without anyone to look at she simply just stares.

At night she is awoken, many a time,

But hums back to sleep with a special rhyme.

The song was sung as her mother lay dying,

Sadly no one could save her – eventually people stopped trying.

After the fact the violinist sat in a vacant hospital room,

Where she stifled splitting waterfalls of gloom.

But as life kept moving and she found her mother's cracked violin

And chose to master it so she could commemorate her kin.

***

Finally, the concert has begun at half past eight,

Her performance is next, and her heart seems to inflate.

They call her name and she walks up alone,

And by the fifth step the spotlight had shone.

She approaches the center and hopes her nerves will be eased,

Luckily she finds comfort in believing her father will soon be pleased.

She steadies her hand and takes in a gulp of air,

Then strings the first note with magnificent flair.

Minutes flit by and she continues to play with such impeccable cadence,

That even she is impressed by the fruit of her patience.

Eventually her instrument grows weary, and the music slows,

After long last the number has come to a close.

The roaring ovation could easily cause great fright,

But the young violinist beams with delight.

She skims the crowd and their eyes meet,

Alas her gaze falls upon the empty seat.

Kismet

I wrote this poem for my best friend/frosh roommate in college. Today we are no longer close, but I still think the truths of this poem will always be applicable to those each of us hold dear:

In summer we bid goodbye to those who bloomed with us,

In fall we were greeted by a surprising warmth supposedly known as the Indian summer,

In winter we were comforted by changing colors emanating from those around us,

And in spring we wailed as we walked back out into the cold again,

As we simultaneously watched the year evanesce.

Our seasons were altered this year:

None proved a foreseeable outcome

And they were all somehow manipulated to become their predecessor,

In symbiotic tune with earth’s providential but cyclical nature

But perhaps this is the beauty that seasons propel for any life we know

That ineffable excitement and misery we reserve for the future

And the knowledge we always acquire after enduring the seasons that pass

The reality of what I learned throughout the multitude of seasons I have lived,

Is that all of my expectations were radically unmet

And the best part about it

Was that it led me to you.

Gross

The poor man shits

The wealthy man finds a bar of gold at the basin of the toilet bowl.

The poor man pisses

The wealthy man finds a flute of urine topped with champagne bubbles.

The poor man bleeds and guts gush

But the wealthy man has no blood to bleed.

The Antithesis of Fear

I was not afraid to be nourished from my mothers breast.

I had no qualms with her cradling me as we rocked back and forth,

both silenced to sleep.

But I have always been terrified by the sound of her beating heart.