Welcome to America,

Come join our circus show.

The price for admission?

Only your soul.

Choose wisely, my friend,

For the costume you wear.

For donkey or elephant,

Each ticket seals despair.

For the war is unjust,

Declared by the proudly uncivil.

Enemies press forward,

Deaf to war’s red vigil.

The puppet masters pull

On heart and fear strings,

While the oligarchs call,

And Lady Liberty screams.

The crowd bellows,

While the world holds its breath—

Will we side against the right foe,

Or choose our country’s death?

We can hold to our roles,

And the villains we’ve been sold,

Or collapse the tent,

And step out of the fold.

Gatekeep history —

truth turned to mystery.

America, now shrouded

by the tales we find most proud.

The Smithsonian cracks,

as memory backtracks —

as if forgetting the past

dissolves the caste.

Colleges crumble,

while intellect stumbles.

Aimed attacks,

on diversity — and facts.

Erase the Natives,

our theft of their land.

Deny Black history,

immigrants’ hands.

End women’s choice,

silence her voice.

Let gender studies cease —

our story’s up for lease.

So gatekeep, if you must,

in a future built on patriotic lust.

For the gatekeeper holds a crown unjust,

built on lies and broken trust.

For every gate he seals with pride

marks a truth he tried to hide.

Curtains of smoke...

But his eyes can’t disguise—

a lawless soul.

Cold.

Unkind.

Unwise.

History echoes

while Orwell sleeps.

The past repeats

in the silence it keeps.

In this history...

the past returns to call.

Tariffs starve the masses—

the same whose names

they disgrace:

of history’s queer, BIPOC, and displaced—

erased.

Doublethink festers,

and truth is replaced.

Gerrymandering sharpens—

a blade in disguise.

Voices suppressed

beneath patriotic lies.

History’s corpse

is dressed up in “choice,”

while power distorts

the will of your voice.

In this history...

propaganda wins.

A dictator speaks

of "protecting the land,"

through orange-tinted schemes

and veiled commands.

Oligarchs strike

with gold-drenched fists,

rewriting the truth

with imperial twists.

In this history...

the truth is dismissed.

Come all...

heed the call.

Before this nation

stumbles and falls.

Rise as one—

both big and small.

Stand.

Face the tyrant’s wall.

For silence

is a tyrant’s friend.

And history breaks

where we won’t bend.

But truth still burns—

it won’t rescind...

If we choose to stand.

And fight.

Anchored,

stuck,

no escape.

Your obsession seals my fate.

Desperate,

clinging,

shadows creeping-

a hollow fixation stripped of meaning.

Cold-hearted,

almost departed,

shackled to your rage.

Love-

the mask that hides the cage.

Breath in fragments,

fingers seething,

submerged by your lust,

suffocated in infatuation.

With a final breath

I combust.

In this life you’re bound to find

Love of many shapes and kind.

Some strike fast, a moth to flames,

Some move slow, safe and tame.

There is love of mind and love of face,

A fleeting touch, a warm embrace.

Some build slowly, a steady light,

While others flare and burn too bright.

Obsessive love dances through your mind,

Consumes your heart, leaves breath behind.

Shakes the ground beneath your feet,

Unstable, fierce, and burning heat.

There is love of a deeper soul,

Drenched in the beauty that they hold.

Late nights lost in conversation,

Hearts alight with meaningful elation.

Some are safe and steady, a patient tide,

Trusting always, forever wide.

A love that never leaves you blind,

For it is of both heart and mind.

Some are mirrors, showing who you are,

Each strength, each wound, each hidden scar.

But if your heart can’t face the sight,

A shattered mirror turns love to blight.

Some you'll leave with quiet grace,

But others time cannot erase.

The hardest yet to endure

Is the weight of love that feels unsure.

Listen close, the fuse is yours.

Each spark will open hidden doors.

Beware the glass of tinted rose.

Not all it shows is what it knows.

So listen close for signs of life,

And pick the love worth the strife.

He calls me “woman”

but cares not what it means,

seeking to entrap someone

in XX or XY genes.

Forgetting that Jesus began as a she,

but then again, so did he,

at least according to biology.

But that doesn’t matter

in religious histories,

those evangelical fantasies

dripping with fallacies.

Social constructs? “Matter not!”

His version of Woman is taut.

Meekness sewn into corset strings,

silence a hymn

from which her life springs.

Shackles forged in scriptured alliance,

all to secure their holy compliance.

Science and scripture

he waves like a cross,

all while erasing the souls he’s lost.

“Stand down, woman! Show me your degree!”

Why are you so unfit to battle me?

Could it be my straw man fallacies,

or my cheap black-and-white fantasies?”

Drenched in privilege,

yet forever he whines.

Pity, he doesn’t taste

like Jesus’s wine.

Tell me this- just answer me plain:

Is she more than her gender, her title, her name?

Will she always plead for your sacred grace,

living unseen, without a true place-

save for the home and the children she bears,

lost in your dominion of chores and prayers?

A craving that's aching

Your essence, no mistaking -

The scent of a summons,

But there is no escaping.

The coffee consumes me

In the way that it woos me.

The energy, a promise,

Of something that moves me.

Her hands are stained russet red-

timeless,

fluid,

and yet lifeless.

The mother molds with the coarse clay,

sculpting her masterpiece from life’s salt spray,

remaking the sanctuary that was once lost,

using the tools of MoltenFire and frost.

Her creation grows with each passing spin,

building up to the inborn sin.

Tempest and alluvium will sculpt this lake

until the earth’s wait will quake,

and with a thread of fate,

this pot she'll collapse-

and in the subversion,

time will lapse.

The moon’s phases will pass again,

and beneath them,

a mother will re-sculpt her kin.

Slipping from my memory,

devastated dreams of what our love could be.

Like shattered glass from old energy-

I only wish you could see.

The demons you mistook for chemistry

were fleeting sparks of ecstasy-

a mask to dodge vulnerability.

As we drifted out of fantasy,

no longer sure

what love could be-

the nail in the coffin

of our matrimony.