Hamlet vs Hitler

Never should’ve gone to trial. Neither

the prosecution nor defense will rest.

To’ve had the dagger under his Adam’s apple,

hippie Horatio begging me back

from these un-peaceful means: “Think of how it looks, man!”

And though I’ve checked and re-checked my moral

compass against the sparrows and the stars,

the fools all heckle me to reconsider

my reconsiderations. Weigh the fact

I’ll pro’bly die, and ask myself the quest-

ion, “What good, sir, will killing a man bring?”

They argue, “Maybe his death shall only

fortify a greater vengeance unforeseen.”

All reason, at last, is mere weaponry

for our hearts. I’ll not demand you join me

in his slaying—that I’d leave to my own

bloodied hands. I’ll not encourage inaction further.

Now is not the time

when so many of my kinsman are dead

and dying, crying “Save us!” Now is not the time

to question what my heart already knows.

There is no good or bad but thinking makes it so.

And blood makes it so.

And death makes it so.

Being and non-being are of no matter.

If I’m to not-be, then let it be so.

But I'll no longer sit idly by

as this empire makes a black sick tar pit

of all that’s lovely, green, and innocent.

Bang your gavel, judge!

Your dreadful verdict, jurors, bring!

This sentence doesn’t end a thing

Why It's Too Late To Do Anything Great

At twenty years Arthur Rimbaud
had started writing and let it go.

Newton discovered, by twenty-three,
both calculus and gravity.

Wolfgang M. and Ludwig Van
performed in public before they were ten.

Tiger Woods could hit the green,
Bobby Fischer took a king.

T.S. Eliot wrote Alfred P.
while still at university.

At five years Shirley Temple tapped.
Marlowe, Alex Pope, Lovecraft,

Ginsberg, Dylan, Kerouac,
Akiane Kramarik.

Jeremy Bentham and John Stewart Mill
excelled in college when they were still

under fifteen. The young Minout
Drouet was good, but Alex the Great
invaded Persia at twenty-two.
Keats was dead by twenty-eight.

Snow Globes

My parents have never been avid music-listeners--
would choose NPR or silence in car rides--
so, growing up, my exposure to graceful melodies was limited
to the short, wind-up symphonies
of my snow globe collection.
My dad fastened glass shelves to my wall
for me to line them up
like a precious collection of single-track cassette tapes.

At night, I closed my bedroom door
and the blinds,
opened the closet doors,
turned the closet light on,
turned the overhead light off.
In my red and white striped nightgown--
the one that matched that of my American girl doll--
I would select one of the globes,
carefully lift it off the shelf.
I would shake it,
wind it,
and place it on my dresser.
Then, rushing to the center of my room,
only my bare tippy toes touching the rust-hued carpet,
I placed my left hand
on an invisible (yet broad) shoulder;
wrapped the fingers of my right around
the gentle touch of some prince,
right arm bent at a 45 degree angle.
I closed my eyes.

It was always the waltz. Even
When You Wish Upon A Star
was danced to the waltz. Especially
When You Wish Upon A Star
was danced to the waltz.
Not that I had any idea how to,
but none of my stuffed animals did either,
(they watched, impressed, from my bed)
and I was dancing with a man that loved me,
so proper footwork didn’t matter.
Not that I had any idea what romantic love was
(I would study the faces of the several snow globes I had
with dancing, figurine couples;
the tiniest sparkle in their eyes as they looked at each other
with some secret I was “too young to comprehend”)
but then the music stopped,

the glitter settled to the ground.
I felt my partner disappear from my embrace
like a glass shelf disappears into the wall, leaves
its objects floating as though they can take care of themselves.
He was just an idea.
They are always ideas.
I would open my eyes,
be back in my room,
my awkward reality dimly lit
from the light of an elementary school wardrobe.
It was the first time I ever really understood.