in times
when wars create
terrible chaos unexpectedly
obsessive heads of state
allow their armies also
to  attack civilian targets
killing thousands of innocents
in theaters  churches  hospitals
just to show
they can

in times like these
what can a poet do
   in addition to feeding some NGOs
except find words
to tell the wannabe dictators of the world
that they are really tiny souls
desperately trying to gain global recognition
with their bombs and their artillery  
just to show

apparently they all are unaware
that they will be remembered
not as the saviors but the butchers
of their devastated nations

the recent decisions of SCOTUS
show the mind of the previous POTUS
who’s stuck in the past
and cannot but blast
everyone who belittles his SCROTUS

as Boris' wild rule begins ending
he enjoys his last days, and depending
on who will succeed
and might be in need
he hopes he could still be upending

these days
looking around the globe
one might believe that we are traveling in time

just in the wrong direction

regression as progress
seems to be
the dominant notion of the day
creating wannabes in various disguises
     populist czars, sultans, nationalists, dictators,
     assorted self-appointed saviors
     of their peoples’ wealth and health,
trumpeting fences, walls, tough immigration laws,
etc., etc.  
to keep out and silence all those aliens
     or invade their countries
      and eliminate them

     who otherwise are welcome
     as our partners in the global trade
     that seems to dominate the world of greed

so we can all be ourselves

     whatever that might mean

claiming to solve the problems of tomorrow
     with memories of yesterday
is not only hopeless but quite dangerous

do you remember
what that glorified past
actually was?

I have this way of waking up
I fill my senses with the scent of spring time
I wonder if, left alone for a while,
I will begin to grow flowers from my skin
And if they will be as beautiful as my memory is
I listen to daybreak’s sweet delusions
Blurred in a rose-colored candor
And cultivated in a cooling soil

I open my eyes

It is not springtime
It never will be, again
I rise from my grave and I walk
Phantom petals falling in my wake

~
cracked compass
burning atlas
no sense of direction
on a drive about
the silent forests of the heart
egressing from the shadows
that hunt for us

foot caught on the accelerator
passing escapism's plateau
like a dissolving shelf of flashbacks
kept in a glass jar
it's normal to tire out
wondering who will it be
looking in the window?

the people at the wheel
are not on the payroll
they're pierced and sheer
on the surface
but their deepest parts
still inhabit bone
and slave for mere feldspar
once again human thoughts
turn to crystalline
and still they shine for us

signs are posted:
"a time for vanishing, lay it to rest"
until the unfamiliar sound
of the walls of Jericho
collapsing
breaks the momentum
quiets the traffic

we entered a promise land
on cruise control
with too many exits
and not enough things to see
we did not end up
where we thought we'd be
those eyes at dusk
in the rearview mirror
they hunt for us
they wait for sleep
~