Pantoum (Untitled)

An assignment inspired by the Human Rights art exhibit at the Claude Pepper Center:

Fire truck red as the siren's glare
when the eye perceives lime most readily
the patriot's red, we stole with defiance
Why have we always conformed?

Orange is the shade of humid air
fire truck red as the siren's glare
orange is the shade of stagnant sand
when the eye perceives lime most readily

Humans marching toward orange
orange is the shade of humid air
drawn by the pheromones of a cosmic queen
orange is the shade of stagnant sand

Our minds are molded, constrained before me know
humans marching toward orange
and blister-footed children cry out
drawn by the pheromones of a cosmic queen

And smooth-skinned boys are camouflaged as men
our minds are molded, constrained before we know
red eyes, red blood, Red Flag
and blister-footed children cry out

And smooth-skinned boys are camouflaged as men
the patriot's red, we stole with defiance
and blister-footed children cry out
Fire truck red as a siren's glare.

I'm thankful for...

The clear blue of the Tallahassee sky.
A breezy, 65 degrees.
FSU maintenance staff who revel in what they understand as progress in American politics.
Starbucks sweetened, iced coffee (it's delicious; you should try it).
Letting go of petty regrets. All regrets are kind of petty in the long run.
Leftovers from TGI Fridays.
The way the sun shines through my movie posters plastered to Rogers' giant windows.
Poetry.
The ability to pray.
My yellow keds.

"O send out your light and your truth; let them lead me; let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling. Then I will go to the altar of God, to God my exceeding joy; and I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God. Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God." - Psalm 43:3-5

Butterfly

The delicate
hollows of her skeleton
exhale an untainted beauty
as this southern cold front
traces ripples onto
spotted wings;
she obeys her fate,
to direct eyes wearied by
the bloodshot of modern monotony
to the perfect imperfection of
scented flowers,
but in the flurry of her anxious
dance
she takes the magic
she possesses, she touches,
for granted.