flags

boatloads of pretentious, self-proclaimed poets with dog-eared notebooks from lint-filled pockets sink down smugly into comfy bookstore chairs slurping expensive tea, awkwardly wording their way past the thesis then the anti-thesis seeking a synthesis only to find another thesis waiting like a religious relic silhouetted in the window light of a new year's day sun,

but the best poets line the beds of over-capacity homeless shelters and push stamps over the glass counters of food banks, holding out for another day, another month, another year of inspiration borne of rotted teeth and tear drenched cheeks enduring the new days which sting like busted hearts of lonely misfit kids in an over-capacity world, while quietly humble and grace-full thoughts and deeds are drowned out by the bloated chanting of pop-culture, reckless investors, war makers and chest-beating Christians raising their proud flags in the public square,

but the there is no flag for truth,

it works tirelessly, often alone, in the darkness, feeding on a hopeful honesty, slowly breaking down ramparts and embracing paradox and, like us, it never "ends" because it never "began," it was always regenerating and regenerating again, like the universe does, so when we are gone we are replaced by others,

apocalypses only happen in the soul because we raise flags that block the new year's day sun,

God has no country.

Love has no church.

Truth has no religion.


Let the new year be happy.