am I a drag, a bore?
what do I even try for?
all my hopes and dreams of loving,
have hit a snag.

Walking into the building:
Cold parking lot,
****** music blaring from that lifted truck,
People honking;

Glass doors,
Short, insufficient eye contact,
"Good morning!" from the lady who guards the door
With a laptop and a forced smile;

Quick strides,
A pinball-like dance,
Yelling, screaming, arguing, sometimes fighting,
Fake greetings and meaningful silences;

A tiny bubble of social-media-manufactured society,
Without the trials and tribulations
That make one human
Or the experience that makes one sensible;

I can't ******* wait to graduate.

Cough! Cough!Cough!
Ouch!tough,
Try this cough syrup,
In no time you will be up.
No infection, no inflammation, no allergen,
In a jiffy, everything gone.
My onion sugar cough syrup is better,
All you need is an onion and sugar,
And a jar.
Cut the onion into round slices
Round rings, not tiny pieces,
Place an onion ring in a jar,
Cover it with sugar,
Place a second slice on top,
Cover the same with sugar on top,
Till you are done.
Close the jar tight,
Leave it overnight.
The next day, your honey coloured cough syrup is ready,
Wish your recovery is speedy.

The question rings as a rattle on my cage.
"I am writing poetry" I answered.

He mumbled, "I thought you were playing Mahjong."

I exhaled hard, "I was. I won two games. " I said  with a little aggravation.

"Hum..." he said, then all fell silent.
I did not respond.

Only the sound of my fingers typing on the keyboard continued
Until he could not stand it anymore, "There's news today. The USA is pulling out of Syria."

"Hum, that's good." I said.

He said, "I am sure the families of the soldiers that are coming home are happy."

"Yeah, they probably are." I said halfheartedly as I continued to write.

"Israel is still worried about their borders."

Sarcastically I replied, "Maybe they will build  a wall."
The sounds of tap-tap-tap on the keyboard, continuing...

He said, "Yeah, maybe Trump will help them."
I stopped typing.
We laughed and I continued to write.

It was quiet for just a moment.
Then he said, "What'cha doing now?
We both laughed out loud!!!
And I finished this writing.

The talking heads used to sing a lullaby
now everyone dreads when they even sigh.
Creating static that no hands could hope to block out
hiding in the attic but the sealing’s peeled and so has the grout.

I can’t bear to hear another word
of resentment that is undeserved,
even the slightest breath of air
is a kin to irritation I can’t compare.

The talking heads used to compose magic
but now their frowns illuminate something tragic.
A life that pushes me out of place,
my skin, my heart and soul; a waste.

If you’re questioning what these words mean
while you’re reading them on an LED screen
you’ve yet to experience silence’s bliss,
when you do you’ll see it’s something to miss.
Noise cancellation fails the trial,
cars honk and phones dial,
I remember the sound of just the breeze
of damp grass and brushing knees.

The talking heads trapped in my ear
never seem to want to stop.
Telling me all I don’t want to hear,
I beg and plead but each topic they won’t drop

I can’t bear to hear another word
of resentment that is undeserved,
even the slightest hint of a sigh
is too much of an attempt to pry.

I sip coffee,
black, no sugar, no cream,
and hope so badly that you see me
with my arms stiff,
my eyes burning violet,
my throat humming,
buzzing like a swarm of wasps
clearing the area;

I despise coffee
but not as much as I despise
the shame you walk with
or the silent stares
angled in another direction.
Look at me
with coffee that hurts
and twists my stomach;
it exists much like you,
a crutch to feel alive
but it only causes nausea.

What is a sin?
Something foul and loathsome
Something done in ignorance
Not knowing the action
Is considered unsavory
To those who sit on church pews
And listen to the hate spewed
From self-righteous mouths
Of self-proclaimed holy men
Bigots I say
According to them no gay should be gay
No happiness for the queer
They’re not born that way, they’re sick
And they require a cure
A cure that entails “hospitalization”
And endless prescriptions
Of “holy” medication
They preach God hates ****
But their words fall flat
Because it is not God who hates
No
God loves
That’s the whole point of God
But they forget this in their “holy war”
On pure and natural love.