Ground

There are painted words on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER.
Yellow on black.

There are injured people on the ground
screaming from the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
Red on black.

There are desperate people marching,
screaming along the hot summer asphalt
BLACK LIVES MATTER
They read the names of those killed
even as they are shoved
sprayed
pelted
knocked off bicycles and off their feet
by officers of the law.

My kindergarten, first grade teacher's voices
ring in my memory "Police officers are the helpers".
I whitely believed.
Naive.

Now I see video clip memes
of officers  shaking hands, patting shoulders,
being the neighbors and friends
but never clearly denouncing
what their battle-armored enforcement brethren are doing.

Brethren.

Red on black
old people with canes knocked to the ground,
passersby on bikes swarmed and beaten,
peaceful protesters with billy clubbed cracked jaws, missing teeth,
rubber bullets ricocheting off the bodies of reporters,
collateral damage of
pepper sprayed children--
all and more the victims of  battle frenzied police officers
that school children are still
supposed to believe
are the helpers.

Lies.

Lies.

And the proof is in the blood on the ground
all around.

Outsider

In Japan 

my gaijin face branded me an outsider

every second of every minute of every hour of  every day

and yet it was there

I felt the embrace of home

and wanted to stay.

Instead  I flew away

back to this place of my birth.

I am unremarkable here, forgettable here,

another face in the crowd here,

but I do not feel at home here.

Here the willful hatred  of so many erodes me more each day

And I wonder how hollow my soul will be

by the time I can 

return  to Japan

with  my gaijin face. 

In Loving Memory

 

March 15th, 2025

In loving memory of

American democracy.

A 248 year imperfect experiment

demolished in two months

by a supremely damaged man.

This democracy fueled by dreams,

now murdered by greed,

had undeniable flaws

that needed repair to be sure.

However this democracy also

had hope.

Hope now dimmed

at our own hand.

The supremely damaged man

was given the power of destruction

by us--all of us.

Those who despised him stayed silent

with each stab of the knife.

Those who adored him screamed their joy

to the heavens

with each vile illegal, immoral action he took.

Now we are remorseful individuals

for we are no longer a nation.

All of us accomplices

to the murder

of American democracy. 

Broken Toys

 

Young boy, you have

all the toys,

ALL THE TOYS

you could ever need or want.

And all day, every day

you break them,

BREAK THEM

just because you can.

With each broken toy

you howl

until you receive

a new toy to replace the broken.

And you break that new toy

and so it goes. 

AND SO IT GOES.

You grow into a man.

A man who has ALL THE THINGS

you could want,

and yet you want more.

More power,

More money.

More things.

More shiny friends to show off.

But like the child you were,

like the child you are,

you break these too,

believing you need--

no, worse, that you DESERVE more.

But people are not toys,

and power and money are as fickle as as 

life,

and in one fleeting moment

you may find yourself

broken.

3.1.25 

CHM

Karma

 

This is karma you see.

How could it not be?

A country built on stolen land and slaughtered people,

cities constructed on sacred sites and burial grounds.

How could it not be karma?

Pale  male immigrants wanting the freedom to worship and live

as they wished

now, 248 years later

pale male  immigrants want to deny others the freedom to worship and live

as they wish.

Now, 248 years later

the descendants of these pale male  immigrants 

want to burn away the constitution,

outlaw science,

bind and gag women,

annihilate anyone different.

Maybe the natural human state 

is one of hatred and war,

a giant trading game  of fleeting power and riches

for a  quick and pointless death.

I'd say the joke was on them

for all the power and wealth

cannot be taken past the grave.

But the joke is on all of us.

This too, is karma.

CHM

2.28.25

Math

 Math

 

 

I woke up this New Year’s Eve morning and realized

I hadn’t seen my father’s’ face in 30 years.

 

I hadn’t heard my brother’s laugh in 28 years.

 

I hadn’t felt my mother’s arms around me in 6 years.

 

It seems I am now measuring time with a new mathematical formula.

 

Each day, week, month, year now demands to be calculated in

Losses

Misses

Silent voices

Phantom hugs and kisses.

 

This new math uses ephemeral numbers made up of

Memories

Regrets

And irreversible changes. 

 

I could get lost in these calculations, 

Subtracting and dividing out the rest of my life. 

 

But I won’t.

 

I have, after all, always been more of words than numbers-

more imagination than calculation.

 

Instead of counting my losses,

I will weave the stories of and within my life,

Letting my words breathe warmth

Into the cold, cold tallies of time.

 

12/31/2023

Down to the Wire for 2022

 2022 was a year of

barely. Writing. Anything. At. All.

Odd for me.

The lack of pen to paper

(or more often, fingers to keyboard) 

wasn't due to a lack of imagination.

My tales never stopped flowing.

Blips of news, half-petaled flowers,

odd human glances from squirrels outside my window

continued to inspire me to open up a Word doc

and type in sentences,

a paragraph,

a page.

But this was all.

Fragments.

Maybe I was too busy

with jobs

that fed me a steady stream of

beautiful words to read,

beautiful books to share.

Maybe I was devouring more stories than I could create.

Maybe it was simmering pandemic mania

that continued, continues, to pit us against each other.

Maybe it was bone-crushing shudders

that stopped me cold

every time an angry person with a gun

exercised their misinterpreted rights

to siphon unhappiness

into random killing.

Maybe it was the  smashing down,

hammering down,

of anyone

everyone

who wasn't 

a straight rich white guy

a straight political white guy

a straight powerful white guy

an straight old white guy

a straight young white guy

a straight stupid white guy

an straight ignorant white guy

any straight  white guy.

Like possession of

estrogen 

glowed from  foreheads

in red skull and crossbones

warnings.

Like possession of

melanin

was a poisonous elixir

demanding to be poured out

onto bloody ground.

Like loving who

we were meant to love

was its own plague.

Like being who

we were meant to be

was a raw, seething, curse.

Maybe I simply didn't have

enough words

the right words

to make sense of it all.

But a new year is peeking at me over the horizon,

tempting me once again to

throw my words into the void.

Maybe I will.