Matter, 200

Your best friend turns 
into a demon, changes into 
a green monster and
slithers through the grass.
Your enemy saves your soul
and it doesn't matter.

They are both trying to kill you
in their own special way.

The mark on your door is useless.
Your neighbor will be the one 
to come in the night and slay
your young, slaughter your innocents.

The one who drags you from the fire
is no one that you've ever known.

The one that shoots you
in the back of the head
is closest to your heart.

You have not slept with fear.
You have not been carried 
to the bridal chamber of war.
You have not been groomed 
for more than consumption.

Even training for destruction 
gives you more than you know.

You can not feel your own face.
Your eyes are not your own.
Your bones belong to your ancestors
and your voice is a sound offer.

Your matter is energy
over and over again.
Your energy is matter
only once.
It is not your matter.

The stars were never yours.
You are their future.
You are the dust of their deaths.
They will outlive you by the billions. 

You do not have 
even 200 friends.

The brain can not
carry all that wiring.

You do not matter.

Do something

that matters.

19 thoughts on “Matter, 200

  1. This is deep and bleak, haunting and hard punching. This is truth-telling like Joseph’s dream interpretations in Egypt. I love to see poetry for social change. Good one. Keep rocking the poems like this one.


  2. Okay. I had to come back and find this poem of yours again. This isn’t something I do often so I thought I’d better leave another comment.

    This reads like an auricle of Delphi or Revelations to me. it reminds me of so many of the betrayals that life offers up daily as if they are the bread and butter of existence.

    I’m going to send this to myself to look at again. It has set something cooking. I’m not sure what or when it will be done.


    • I am honored and blown away by your words, Alice.
      This reminds me of the old phrase, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” Life can be a hot-ass kitchen sometimes and I think it’s what you cook in there that makes it Creme Brûlée French Toast or Dry White Toast.


  3. Once again we are on the same wavelength. . . is it because we were both born in the same city. . . maybe even the same hospital? Anyway. . . .

    Those last three lines ring very true. I mean it when I say that I think I finally came to understand what that message means yesterday (literally).

    You ended this poem perfectly.


  4. I know what I’ll do, I’ll go to the parlor, leaving fear behind and chop off my long useless tresses.
    Thanks for giving me the courage.


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