In Explanation

Trust does not give a damn about me.
I misread the fine print.

Forgiveness is a joke told at my expense
and charged to my line of credit—I only have cold cash.

Understand men tick and tock.
Swing and miss.

Guilt is the boulder Sisyphus repeatedly
pushed up hill and watched roll back down.

Blame is a finger pointing every which way
before turning to my chesty north.

In explanation, I tell you
I begged for my life to become a story

worthy of the Greeks
so astute readers learn from my outrageous decisions.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Warriors

I painted my enemies’ feet
my favorite shade of blue.
The blue harkened to the Celts and Scots of yore.
Pantone three-o-one-five-C.

This act earned me a swift kick.
Painting my enemies’ feet blue
was meant to immobilize them
so I could speak to them without fear.

I feared they would attack.
I feared they would run away.
I should have picked red.
Stop sign red.

My goal was to build a foundation of trust
so we could set down our weapons.
We had many weapons.
Every imaginable type of weapon.

We even turned tools into weapons.
I suggested we turn them back into tools.
They feared my fire was
part of a smoke and mirror scheme.

It was really passion, but they knew passion
mostly through their hatred.
I talked to them until they were blue in the face.
I mean, I took up all the oxygen in the room.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney