I rolled in Michigan
strapped to a kayak in the namesake lake
vision obscured by freshwater

I plunged under the blue surface
out of my element
panicking as a fish out of water- in water

I reached for the release and
missed
but grasped swelling panic

Dread thoughts of
the end...
my family…
last words…

Still submerged- somehow a semblance of sensibility surfaced,
unlike myself
frightening fantasies flitted-
shot like skeets in the sky and
peace prevailed.

I stretched through the moist blindness,
found the release- my sweet release.

Gasp air.
Freedom from death's clutches

I see
my unpreparedness for death,
ability to survive

Fifteen seconds to find my inner calm, my inner panicked strength, the depth of my composure
fifteen seconds for reevaluation

Fifteen seconds
submarine style
to find who I really was and am

Arguments are made
that safety and tranquility are the best mindsets for
education

But,
safety lacks motivation,
tranquility lacks demand,
Life's trials breed introspection.

We are dying, the world is ending...
The fact is inevitable, yet we pretend that it will never end, we think that nothing will go wrong in our lives, so we ignore the warning signs. We ignore the amounting number of wild fires that burn our neighbourhoods, the ever steady rise in temperature, the ever increasing number of deaths in natural disasters due to our populations. I'm not a "SAVE THE EARTH, SAVE YOURSELVES" person, I just think that we have to wake up from our perfect little dream societies, and at least accept that accidents are imminent and that we don't just do something after the event has happened, but be prepared before it happens so that more people don't have to die from unpreparedness that was at the fault of our governments ignorance towards something that may only happen once.

After hurricane Katrina struck the U.S. Government spent billions on hurricane prevention in that affected area, while the rest of the coasts of the U.S. Stand vulnerable and naked to even the smallest of hurricanes.

Another example is mount Helena in Yoho National Park, we know that anywhere from tomorrow to fifty years that she will erupt. But as the world does everything but pay attention to it, there are unknown scientists taking measurements of the volcanic activity and becoming more anxious by the minute trying to save the uncaring world that live below the mountain.

There are hundreds of examples that I could rant on about, but no one wants to hear it because it conflicts with their tiny little perfect worlds.

says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.

One took the stand on the benefit of the doubt. Even that could not put one’s head to rest. To a break desired by every one of us. And how, that even sleep was no less exhausting than catching one’s breath?

Then,
of the silenced, the ignored. They got all but attention. They got all but to be taken seriously. They got all but respect and a pair of ears. There was not a thing anywhere around. Only of those scents of the silenced and the ignored. Haunting. Lurking.

Then,
an emptiness. A sound. An empty sound. Creaking. Only can be heard in a duration as long as a gunfire. It was, perhaps a gunfire in every possible way of meaning. And yet it killed none. No. It inflicted no wound. None from that.

Then,
an evening. A cherished past. A separation. A doubt. A confusion of the unanswered. A colossal anxiety. A chaotic riot. They rose. They slew. No bullets could have done such scale. And yet it killed. Down and down and down, every reason that kept one’s standing. Even the dearest part of one’s reason to walk all the road: The meaning. And down it did – till all but one: The preacher.

Then,
kept breathing – breathing – though breathing was no easier than anything. No less difficult than to do one thing it always did. “It’s over.” Breathing. “It has already been over.” Breathing. “For long, you knew it from head to heart: It was over”. And the rest was just the preacher’s breath to and fro. Filling the silence left by the wind.

Then,
a breeze. A sound. A silence. A recurring wounds. A grasp of emotions. A thought. An unpreparedness. A heavy head and heavy heart. An unclear pursuit.  A clouded mind. A fiery anger. A crippling grief. A haunting ghost. An empty belief. A void longing. A lethal truth. A restless. A failed attempt. A sleep beyond the reach. A tired man. Of a sound, a silence, a memory.

Then,
the morning has come.

Covid-19 hums and ahs
Move quickly through the slings of unpreparedness
Move carefully through the morgues of horror
Five ten fifteen to seventy five days and over one and a half million people can be infected
Every five days the number can double
There is nothing new under the sun
In the end only love survives

No matter I kept fingers and toes crossed,
and waited with bated breath since January 2, 2025
even converted from skeptic to orthodox Judaism,
and strictly followed the Torah,
Talmud, and traditional Jewish laws,
and made good on the gamut
of my misdeeds considered a shonda,
nevertheless yours truly
courtesy the powers at large fell,
not slated to win
(til death do me part if lucky),
and thus one mediocre
poet from Perkiomen Valley
reduced to a life of panhandling,
(which required a bit of skill let
said modus operandi,
no more lofty a trade
than being a pickpocket)
essential a nobody, outcast
without a podcast, pariah, et cetera),
who plodded himself
along the boulevard of broken dreams
relegated as an American idiot,
no matter a supposed
hidden potential of smarts
attested to be placed in section 7B1
predicated on his native intelligence,
proved the naysayers right,
when nearly failing every class
while in seventh grade
at Methacton Junior High School,
and in fact got demoted to section 8B3
after getting promoted to eighth grade,
and no matter the learning material more my speed,
I vowed to swear off doing homework
and nearly witnessed
complete and utter failure as fait accompli,
but the fickle finger of fate
decreed the writer of these words
destined to weather freshman peers
(psychologically and metaphorically leagues
ahead of one poor boy figurative lost at sea)
getting promoted despite
unpreparedness and emotional unreadiness
as the winds of fate buffeted one sophomoric lad,
who beat a hasty retreat
to his bedroom at 324 Level Road
when the mental going got rough,
and thence found safety and security
playing with imaginary friends Harney and Dinny 
(themselves doppelgangers of him)
subsequently no strangers to academic rigors,
yet always buckled down when most assignments
completed in a timely fashion,
especially prompt with essay assigned
when Mister Bergey (math teacher)
asked students to write composition
why school books ought to be covered,
and said lorthew got a kick
when mine dealt with keeping property
free and clear of getting peanut butter all over,
and additional relative, innovative,
and creative whimsical humor.

Unsuccessful track record,
and a poor sport to boot
(always the last to be chosen
for team sports at recess),
I felt like just another brick in the wall
and loathed every single solitary day
riding the bus (and getting bullied)
to and from storied halls of learning
sought succor thru flights of fancy
particularly when old enough
to gamble away scant resources
allowing, enabling, and providing
fantasies found me to gambol
with illusions of grandeur
where becoming the recipient
of a truckload of monetary largesse,
hence frivolously purchasing lottery tickets
particular penchant prevalent after experiencing
a financial fiasco after getting fleeced
by godless enterprising con artists.

I frequently counted my chickens before they hatch
particularly after purchasing
PowerBall or Mega Million tickets,
which randomly drawn numbers never match
after one of two main types
of lottery-drawing machines applied,
either the former air mix machine
or the latter gravity pick machine:
Now the air mix one
blows numbered ping-pong *****
around in a chamber,
where numbers randomly selected
when they get ******
out of the chamber and displayed.