Today was not a good day.

Some people never seem to think,
and weep with soft eyes
when you tell them you do not
fear men that torment you.

They try to establish a dangerous consistency,
as you talk with people about
Camus, Dickinson and Bukowski
all examined and returned again.

They laugh at you because you
know what happened in Guernica,
Nanjing and My Lai

“Only we know this truth” they cry

And as for how truth and love have been lost
time and time again.
Well…they know nothing of this.

I try to hum a tune
or write a poem, but it becomes
a fixed subject.
Because I care and know that
hope will be encountered.

So…my friend Sophia, a radiant
point in this indifferent place
took me for coffee, and told me to

“Grow your fixed ideas,
because you are true”

So, we drank the coffee,
and I bought some flowers.
I put them next to my Bukowski books.
A form of resistance
in this deep-rooted time.