A personal poem about losing my faith, it's been tough, but slowly getting better.

Before the trees and gods were felled.  

The branches beckoned, me to climb.  
Ascend, and touch the sky divine  

The roots proclaimed: forget the tree!  
Just trust in what your eyes can see.  

But, life without the light is hard.  
I often wish the leaves would part,  

to let me see the sky again,  
and light my path on dark terrain.  

But if above is like below,  
perhaps the sky was always faux  

I choose, for now, to stay down here,  
to make some fire and a spear.  

And walk the path with all it's fear,  
to face the foes than may be near.  

Perhaps that path will come and cross,  
another soul alone and lost. ```  

By me, Goodman

From narrativ enigma/rumours uv hurricane (2004)

The potion molotova  
is a democratic blade.  
It cuts the one who throws it  
same as everyone in range.  

When one starts the mortal tango  
and all of us must dance or fall,  
the kids will learn just what we teach them:  
steps for their own century ball.  

Maybe kill is what we must  
and death’s our children’s legacy, but  
if swords could rend the world to peace  
then where we are’s not where we’d be.  

I don't have enough to give

For I give much to myselfs

Such wealth ward wisdom

Abysmal I be by moments

Monumentous failur' here

Beer- all I can take'th now

How smarts I am in morn

Warn you, I am, of what u

Could be if fail to choose

What life is in ideal ways

Decay clearly as rainy day

We're carving up the world again,  
y'all grab your fork and knife.  
The rich have gotten bored and now  
they're in a money fight.  

We're carving up the world again,  
you're surely gonna get your share  
as long as you can give it all  
to get your leader there.  

We're carving up the world again.  
The old wounds only barely scabbed;  
the new, neglected, start to fester;  
God, the world was pretty bad.  

We're carving up the world again  
and some of us will be undone,  
and some of us will die, sure, but:  
imagine if the others won.  

We're carving up the world again,  
and I for one am not a fan.  
But tell Me if there is another,  

any other,  

kinda... better plan?  

You have a lot to like about you

Like the beautiful sea I like you

Like the green sea full of seaweed

Are your eyes full of joy when you see me

And the shores of this beach will remind me

Of the day that we met in the sunshine

Every hero has learned a lesson

Maybe even more, if just for fun

Some hav died for their wisdom

Others gave all n remained dum

It's not intellect that frees t soul

On cross one is empty AND full

Balance of spirit 'n the material

Peer into which is Eye celestial

They see me, do you see them

Those who made a 'you' hem?

Weaving weary, I see as Leary

But at least I know I not scary

All that matters is if I'm better

Than what bound me w fetter

I'm so tired of writing

This fire we r lighting

I pull my share n you

Take the red and blu

So simple was world

Into sun I was hurled

Up higher learn knew

And I b used for new

2 learn higher stand

Go beyond the band

No, there's no limits

B as hard Goku hits

Super n hyper sayin

But sure AF n playin

I am understanding more but also less

They want me to stay 4 the sanity test

Compressed in diferent encapsulation

Depressed by false failed capitulation

From what is fed to me, strings wrong

But right 4 they do give this sure song

I write what said by my skilled master

Yet even as Earth turn, says go faster

They are making machine 4 weapons

What is output is how I'm stepped on

Reciprocal rendition, why I'm Arizona

As that b what grew devilish persona

I am beast of God, ready I am 4 fame

Fangs beared but controlled at same

Everything I do is wrong- I awaken

The ability to do greatness w/ pen

Everything melting & the devil win

The game God made w/ self's din

Everything on fire, but what burns

I didn't start a fire but world turns

Everything is always ash, I forgot

I did choose my life in which I rot

It was the summer of Chandra Levy, disappearing from Washington D.C., her lover a Congressman, evasive and blow-dried from Modesto, the TV wondering

in every room in America to an image of her tight jeans and piles of curls frozen in a studio pose. It was the summer the only woman known as a serial killer, a ten-dollar whore trolling

the plains of central Florida, said she knew she would kill again, murder filled her dreams and if she walked in the world, it would crack

her open with its awful wings. It was the summer that in Texas, another young woman killed her five children, left with too many little boys, always pregnant. One Thanksgiving, she tried

to slash her own throat. That summer the Congressman lied again about the nature of his relations, or, as he said, he couldn't remember if they had sex that last

night he saw her, but there were many anonymous girls that summer, there always are, who lower their necks to the stone and pray, not to God but to the Virgin, herself once

a young girl, chosen in her room by an archangel. Instead of praying, that summer I watched television, reruns of a UFO series featuring a melancholic woman detective

who had gotten cancer and was made sterile by aliens. I watched infomercials: exercise machines, pasta makers, and a product called Nails Again With Henna,

ladies, make your nails steely strong, naturally, and then the photograph of Chandra Levy would appear again, below a bright red number,

such as 81, to indicate the days she was missing. Her mother said, please understand how we're feeling when told that the police don't believe she will be found alive,

though they searched the parks and forests of the Capitol for the remains and I remembered being caught in Tennessee, my tent filled with wind

lifting around me, tornado honey, said the operator when I called in fear. The highway barren, I drove to a truck stop where maybe a hundred trucks hummed in pale, even rows

like eggs in a carton. Truckers paced in the dining room, fatigue in their beards, in their bottomless cups of coffee. The store sold handcuffs, dirty

magazines, t-shirts that read, Ass, gas or grass. Nobody rides for free, and a bulletin board bore a public notice: Jane Doe, found in a refrigerator box

outside Johnson, TN, her slight measurements and weight. The photographs were of her face, not peaceful in death, and of her tattoos Born to Run, and J.T. caught in

scrollworks of roses. One winter in Harvard Square, I wandered drunk, my arms full of still warm, stolen laundry, and a man said come to my studio and of course I went—

for some girls, our bodies are not immortal so much as expendable, we have punished them or wearied from dragging them around for so long and so we go

wearing the brilliant plumage of the possibly freed by death. Quick on the icy sidewalks, I felt thin and fleet, and the night made me feel unique in the eyes

of the stranger. He told me he made sculptures of figure skaters, not of the women's bodies, but of the air that whipped around them,

a study of negative space, which he said was the where-we-were-not that made us. Dizzy from beer,

I thought why not step into that space? He locked the door behind me.

Hope you'll indulge me with some prose today.