Distant at first, the slap tap-tapping

of shoes clicking hardwood clacking

the floor of a dance hall absent

of inhibitions.

Stop, and swallow the rising and falling hills with your iris.

Feast on a slow setting Connemara sun.

Small at first, the rushing of the

breeze blowing blades into

a frenzy of perpetual rolling green.

Swallow, and take a mental note;

mist from the sea on buds of tongue.

Microscopic, they bountifully burst with

Aran Islands flavors, facing westward towards

the Atlantic, floating an arm’s length from the Bay.

Listen, and decipher the brogue of an extinct

language, dead and gone like ancestors.

Difficult to read, the words delicately brush

the ear, making it difficult to be away from the distant

island, floating further than arm’s length from here.

If I am a liberal snowflake,

then you reek of conservative red.

If I jive with a joint in my face,

you’ll suggest that I’m next to be dead.

If you really think you’re the good guy,

then maybe you stop fake being happy.

She will be the reason you die,

all because you got way too sappy.

If I am right then you are wrong.

I stroll into work with my gun drawn.

I walk to the beat of my own song.

Some day I’ll have a a picket fenced lawn,

earning money for me and my fawn.

We fight and we argue but when it’s all said and done,

you’ll still be the Godfather of my first born son.

I nibble my nails when things are unsteady.

The sun’s on my back, but I bite them today

and will walk the stage before I am ready.

An adulthood beginning in disarray.

Learning, reading Kant on a white page forever?

Putting the book away just feels wrong in spring.

In the summer, I’ll remember this endeavor

Painting myself to portray talents I bring.

I recall the sun shining down on my spine.

Dreams are anchored down for the next few seasons.

Trapped in grey, and like an animal, confined,

you’ll sit at a desk for all the wrong reasons.

I have to ask myself if this is my fate,

stuck in a cubicle that fits no one’s tastes.

You:

My tiny fist will crush your barren land,

with skin glowing above your hungry heads.

You’ll wear my “Made In-” clothes and rep the brand,

or on your empty soil you’ll be dead.

Bombs will rain, destroy the phony palace,

recall the Cold War and our nation’s win.

The rounds will not be shot with any malice,

but now it’s time to answer for your sins.

Him:

I am a God to all of my people,

subjects think I control the light and rain.

You’re the ones who should go towards the steeple,

praying your heads don’t fall to Earth in vain.

Us:

America may take the shorter battle,

but nukes will soon be riding in the saddle.