warrentong.com

They got caught
hiking at the wrong place
at the wrong time.
But they did no wrong.

Back home,
their families wait
for news, every day
for nine months.

The prisoners refuse to eat.
Too depressed, too fed up
with the lack of rights.

Help seems long
and far away.
“Tell our families
we love them.”

For Shane Bauer, Sara Shourd and Josh Fattal.
Please sign the petition to free the hikers detained in Iran. Thank you.

what is to be done when we cry,
save us from ourselves,
save us from the things we want,
because nothing ever happens here?

how can you reignite
what you may not have had before?
why do you stay here?
why do you even listen anymore?

I can’t help but wonder
if I made a big mistake,
didn’t say something I should have,
or said something too late.

Lock your doors and close your blinds,
safeguard your reputations!
They’re out for your shame and after your pride.
The miserable misfits are coming!

They’ll hack through your walls,
read all of your mail,
there’s nothing that you can hide–
devious deeds that only these
mishaps could devise.

Don’t count yourself out
from their tarnishing ways.
They’ll get to you soon, they promise.
They’ll treat you how you
treated others before
when you thought nobody was watching.

There’s nothing that you
should ever put past
these misbehaving miscreants.
They’re waiting for you
at every corner and pass
ready to cause you grievances.

They’ll do whatever it takes
and further still
plotting revenge and ridicule.
So you’d better take
a good look around.
They may just be sitting right next to you.

We’re still waiting
for all your promises.
Tender love and youthful buzz,
warm shivers,
sentimental words.

It’s not that I can’t live
without these things.
I just hate being lied to.
So much so that I sometimes
pick up suspicious rocks
to see if you’re hiding underneath.

I wonder if it’s you they write about
when I hear the dying crinkle
of a newspaper or magazine.

Sold my soul to the devil in New York City.
He asked me if I could spare some change.
I smiled sincerely and said, “Of course.
But there are things about me you should know.
I was born in a subway tunnel
underneath Hell’s Kitchen.
Roaring trains masked my cries.
A bearded homeless man hummed a song.
My mother held me tight.”
The devil looked up and wanted to know
what the meaning of my story was.
I was quite honest and resolute.
I looked him in his eyes.
“I’ve forgotten it now,” I said aloud,
“but I’d give anything to hear it again.”
And before I knew it,
he pursed his lips
and began to whistle that tune.