my words...

Dear Reader,

2008-04-10T18:39:00.000-07:00

I think there’s at least about a dozen of you
Semi sorta dedicated readers of residue scraped from the inside of my mind after too long spent cyber surfing
These extrapolations of thoughts rendered into ambiguously bold statements like:
“Of course she’s a lesbian”
Randomly entered at the next space provided after a clear and concise personal analysis of something relevant
Or at least I think it’s relevant
To whatever exactly I glean from publishing these pages of my daily routine, romantic collisions, work stress, general instability issues and my growing disillusionment with this whole reality thing
A fair portion of which were very inaccurately, yet carefully, typed in varying degrees of drunken stupor and extraordinarily colorful THC benders
And yet, dear readers, you still humor me
In sparse but wonderfully anonymous heartfelt comments posted sometimes just minutes after my last illustrious listing of,,, whatever the hell it may be
Like the most perfect and honest form of conversation
Where two parties with absolutely no connection past boredom and similar stopping points on the information superhighway can simply say to someone else
“wow… that sucks.”
Or: “hopefully she’s bi”
Which is all we’re really looking for anyway
We don’t want answers because there’s never a question asked in earnest
We’re bloggers
Meticulous archivists of our generation’s most wonderful failing:
Our brilliance
And complete lack of desire to utilize it to any significant benefit
So we turn to livejournal for that utterly impersonal pat on the back and virtual thumbs up
Myspace to inform our Friends with up to the minute status updates punctuated with smiley or sad faces
Or sometimes cocked slightly sideways with strange facial expressions faces that the genius Tom, or Rupert Murdoch, felt most perfectly defines the moods available in the easy to use dropdown menu
I still haven’t quite felt right to update mine with Ninja yet, but I’m waiting anxiously for it
In the meantime I’ll keep checking my online Friends listing to see if my ex girlfriends are around
Blocking friend requests from Rosalina who lives in Schenectedy who really, really wants me to join her and her naughty friends in their new online community
Just follow the link
To the other side of the monitor’s looking glass
And see what’s really underneath all that late night text posted in hopes that someone, anyone will just follow the same link you did and read it
It’s our own reflection staring back at us as we type the volumes of our lives out on empty entry fields
We’re all sitting in the biggest café ever
reading books, or magazines, or painting our nails, or playing with the straw in our cup and listening, waiting
for someone in our general vicinity to say something devastatingly interesting
or heart wrenchingly personal so you can validate a dwindling hope in humanity and know that there are still humans out there
but instead of tableside conversation we interact with strangers through post comment buttons
just follow the link
forward, reply or, in the worst case, block user
just follow the link
and find me
typing out the immediate inspiration of my ups and downs daily
maybe check out my photoblog
just, if only to say nothing more than “hi (dot dot dot)”
follow the link
and talk to me

haikus

2007-11-23T08:26:00.000-08:00

1
Offer one more smile
Open up the sky with it
Make bright my dark days

2
want to be numb
stop nerve endings from feeling
too much fire in me

3
Words carry the soul
Your breath is the chariot
Let free your own voice

4
valentine’s haiku
hallmark made this holiday
so trite and empty

5
sometimes i find it's
easier to hurt out loud
than just in silence

6
i find more ways to
distract myself daily from
what i know too well

7
i want to gaze at
her for so long my eyes burn
like she was the sun

8
i burn like the sun
smoldering ashes of red
crimson; douse me, please

9
a small boy stares out
from inside my eyes watching
the world around me

10
i wish the wind would
take me elsewhere; soaring high
above this strange place

11
my radiator
blew up and spurt thick, grey smoke
while i smiled and ate

12
keys click away all
day; there is no stop to this
incessant tapping

comfortable

2007-10-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

Poets don’t live life on the edge
We’ve already broken ourselves over the cold steel at the corners of our senses
Cut to ribbons lying in the refuse bin at the bottom
Our pens like needles threaded through with the bits of ourselves still
remaining
We make of our lives a patchwork
Sewn together from scraps and shown to the world
like the collected and roughly thrown together perfection we present
to open minds dangling over their own edges waiting to be felled upon
just waiting to cut deeply with no safety nets below to catch what falls torn
heaving the weighted pieces on scraped shoulders
never strong enough to carry the entire load, so some of Us gets left behind
to be returned to later
ink-laden needle in hand
puncturing tattered edges of torn heart trying to create some flimsy mural
of unburdened ideals
shattered against the steel of reality…
is what we make of it
so what does your world look like poet?
Mine’s a hand-me-down thriftstore cardigan suit jacket
Custom-tailored to fit like perfection
To fit like sacramental garments and funeral shroud
With holes in the elbows covered by mismatched patches:
Left side sun-bleached to nearly pink retro paisley,
Right side pinstripes skewed at the center and bending inwards
Breast pocket with a hole at the bottom
So I can never hold onto the 2 cents some poet spared me unwittingly
Tossed in to save for later
When my own thoughts come up short-changed
Frayed sleeves just a little too short to cover my wrists when arms reach out for a grasp onto something new
So I find it’s more becoming to keep my hands at my sides
holding onto what I know best:
Just me
missing a few buttons so no matter how tightly I wrap myself up
It’s always open to chill, biting winds ripping through the strained seams
Too hot to wear on these humid florida days
And never much cover on the coldest
But this suit jacket’s comfort comes not from style, but familiarity
Wrapping over my shoulders like the ever so tight embrace I yearn for in so many words whispered
When not worn I rest my jacket on a thick wooden hanger on the outside of my closet door
Like the slightly swaying profile of a close friend, ever vigilant, and waiting for conversation
Or the faceless adversary of countless problems always there
For those too stressful days when you just need some prick in a tacky suit to stand up to and shout unanswered expletives at
And through this all it still hangs there
on the hook of my closet door waiting
For when I need to wrap myself in my own personalized patchwork perspective
Clothe myself in the reality I create in words sewn together
Threaded through pentips to rework the broken dreams still shattered at my feet
So what does your reality look like poet?
What do you call it?
I call mine comfortable
Like childhood memories of a 5 year old me holding my favorite teddy bear
The one dad bought for me the day I was gifted into this world
Treading nervously onto the orange carpet of a new room in a new house
And after just a single step in I knew I had found my room and so,
Seated on the windowsill overlooking the street on which I’d soon spend so much of my childhood my teddy bear stayed
While I went and told my father I found “My Room”
Comfortable like a solitary drunk night spent stumbling down empty streets
Greeted only by a midnight breeze
grazing both cheeks with a slight kiss before being whisked away to leave the smile of a city on another
comfortable like the soft purring of my cat’s greeting each day i return home
where that same tarnished hook hangs on my closet door
holding my silent and weather-worn best friend, confidante, lover, enemy and family
just waiting to be slipped on
so what does your world look like, poet?
What do you call it, poet?
How do you wear your word-built world so you can stand tall comfortably despite the weather?
Me?
over the left arm, then the right
fit to the nape of the neck and adjust the collar
comfortable

home

2007-10-30T21:59:00.003-07:00

babbling idiot prosleytizers and drunken overly-forward 20 somethings
homeless sputtering words to a friend long lost, or who was maybe never there in the first place
strange, dark alleys holding what no god wants to claim knowledge of
lonely streets and desolate avenues
passerby with poured on smiles worn in double dosage in order to appear more convincing
wandering unfamiliar staggered pathways with strangers on arm close enough to be best friendship
city of lost love, lavish lust and lackluster lullabies of car horns and sirens, wind whistling through unfinished condo towers
and the cumulative sigh of a city restless
and in the midst of it all i still search madly for more of my self

random

2007-10-30T21:59:00.001-07:00

do i pour myself out onto pages for your benefit,
or my own?
is this some semblence of cynicism dressed up in detailed regalia to get an applause
or an actual outlet of expression?
so many questions and not nearly enough answers spoken from the voice inside me to finish the statements listed along text entry fields previously left empty until i reached deep into the pit of myself to fill them
this piece,
this particular punctuation of pain pressed into layers of skin like tattoos delivered by a sadist sociopath is not for me;
this is for you
this is me making up for lost time,
making up for lost breath
spent wasted on the excrements of my various distractions,
this is not profound,
simply pitiful.
simply placing words on pages to try and fill the empty space left inside of me
beyond metaphor of melted pens and burned pages
this is not the normal heat i exude
this is me doing something i hate to admit
writing for writing's sake
and stopping here won't halt the fact that this treason was commited in the first place
saying so much without saying what needs stating
i speak too much
without writing what i feel to back it up
can't stand behind the words i display to you
yet ask you to read them dolefully anyway
without question
my outlook is without question
as there are no means of defining my choices
just words
left over like day old pizza
moldy, forgotten beyond crushed cans and littered cigarette butts
what sort of legacy is this for me to leave?

untitled

2007-09-21T12:24:00.001-07:00

disconnect, disassociate, dissolve
every bit of what once was me
let it drip down fingers still twitching as the last coils of self slip past the pentip
and onto the page
i think i forgot how to cry somewhere in the catharsis
so i'll let these thoughts seep through ink
feelings through punching keyboard keys
unlocking some semblence of explanation beyond simple metaphor
if you, dear reader, fail to understand it, don't fret;
neither do i
pouring sentiments for a lost sense of understanding
listing in dripping statements the abstract that inches its way across my thoughts every waking moment
and lingers past the closing of eyelids and system standby of slumber
pervading subconscious and painting it in garish tones i couldn't ignore if i wanted to
and so that's why this shit tends to be so very oddball
i could blame it on the drugs:
nicotine intake level is at an all-time high this year
THC reading is off the chart and still climbing
there's too much blood in my alcohol stream so you better make it a double bartender
doctor, therapist, lover and nemesis
prescribe me a glassfull of momentary distraction
i need this
continued existence subsisting on substance
not just the stuff of my own experiential reflections
but the refined variety available from street corner to liquor store countertop
disconnect, disassociate, dissolve
reduce myself to thought only
a whisper of a thought carried away on a cloud of smoke
a mere memory of a thought of a poem once uttered
too quiet to be remembered verbatim
but the intent remains past the poet's expiration
so i hope that,
in whatever this newfound me might accomplish throughout the tenure of my expressive rantings,
you will remember me
smiling,
despite my
disconnect and disassociation with reality
and the dissolving of self i still stutter through

Desert Rose

2007-08-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

Think of me as a pause between point a and b
A minor hiccup in plans
A popped tire on the tourbus of your life
just when you needed to step out for a cigarette
so stand with me for just a moment longer
pursed lips blowing smoke rings to the wind
smiling in the face of fate
closing our eyes to the fact that this stop along your journey is a short one
but you have another minute, at least, so let’s smoke another
talk with me
late night hazy giggling conversations over flat, warm whiskey and soda
we forgot about
early morning fingers twisted in my hair
and our lips meeting
parting
tasting of one another all we can in the short time shared together
I want to remember this every way that I can
Trace fingers along the length of your lithe frame so my skin can recall the route taken to make you sigh into my shoulder
Plant a hundred kisses from your knees to your neck along supple landscape
like a memory of me might grow from them
Blooming flowers reaching up to your ears and whispering
When those Arizona nights might be too cold
And my arms surround empty space in my st pete apartment
I’d like to think you might miss this sudden weekend
This unexpected detour
Because I know I will
When swans fly west for soothing winds blowing over desert sands
I’ll still be sitting here
Smoking cigarettes under banyon trees overlooking the bay
And wondering how far across the horizon I’ll have to stare
Before I can see my desert rose again

we wander (AKA after drinking sangria w/ Lizz)

2007-07-28T15:41:00.000-07:00

We wander
Across the barren landscape of our own selves
Lost to the wind blowing through a world we perceive as near dead and yearning for resuscitation
We wander
We being those who share only a generation born into
combined with a thorough and profound lack of self
We can’t find ourselves
So we wander
Through our lives with eyes turned down from the sunlight
Can’t keep a level gaze at the horizon before us
It seems too far off for us to reach in one life spent squandered on the empty words our souls belch forth to keep us moving
Forward
Calloused heels and broken toenails our benchmarks of experience
Blistered feet bleeding beneath the weight of a soul like iron
Contained in a body of mere flesh yet so heavy
Each step seems to drag us farther into the planet
So we must keep moving
Pacing the steps of our life along lines of spoken contradictions
And unspoken promises to the self we still search for
So walk with me
Hand in hand
To the horizon so far off we refuse to acknowledge
Yet keep plodding one foot in front of the other towards
like the final destination will give us the answer we’ve been waiting for
Our entire lifetimes
Entire lifelines of generations forgotten though they stand right before you
Eyes glazed and dried spit-spattered lips mouthing the same lies our own mimic
When the end of your journey seems so bright you won’t look up at it
So we talk to our feet
Bruised and bleeding
Beneath sneakers battered to shreds through the strife of our life’s travels
But continue we must
Into the blistering of the sun burning away leathered skin like epiphany to writer’s block
Peel back the surface and stare forward with no eyelids
Because if one never faces their future they won’t know how to reach for it
Clutch it
In palms cut too deeply the scars never discolor
Garish crimson
Staring back at us every time our eyes continue their inevitable downward journey into our hands
Like the tears we won’t let hit ground can soak into our broken hands and renew us
Like existence would let you pause for a moment if it knew you were trying to hide weakness
But it never will
Biting at our heels
Teeth gnashing at the bits of our selves trailing behind us when we don’t walk fast enough
Or wander far enough
To try and meet the horizon when walking blindly forward
Keep moving
Wrapping arms around self and holding tightly
Like it’s the only way to keep it together
Speak louder
Whether face towards floor or eyes open embracing the bright skyline stinging at tear-soaked cheeks
Let it warm you
The acceptance of your own doubts and insecurities
The knowledge of not only your imminent mortality but the instruments that hail the inevitable final chapter of you
Use them to write the lines walked upon daily to continue towards what you know lies ahead
Just past the end of your vision
Just past the horizon
Just after that last step taken
Eyes to the ground
Hands interlaced at the end of arms encircled tightly around ourselves
Hold yourself up
Even if your chin won’t raise to face the day keep holding yourself up
Above feet battered and blistered
Plodding each step towards whatever may be
You won’t know what it is until you face it
Open your eyes and face it
And take hold of your life’s path
Between criss-cross scarred palms and direct it
Be beacon to others still searching for the sky under rocks they kick over
Let the light of not only a new day but the million more to follow guide you
To the zenith of this generation’s desire to be fulfilled in something more than simplicity
Complicity can kill you
But in order to beat a path past
You must break down every bit of yourself first
Before you can rebuild
Bathed in the sun
Smiling at the sky
Eyes open and shedding tears for the welcoming of a new day
Not wandered to
But knowingly traveled to
With feet calloused but no longer bleeding

you a.r.e.

2007-05-23T13:07:00.000-07:00

You are
Like sunshine I could actually stare at
For moments that lasted longer than lifetimes
In your eyes I could see a semblance of what could only have been family
Ours
You are
That burning spot in the recesses of my heart
Still aflame and raging wildly
Never a memory to just remain dormant
You are
Fanning the flames without trying
Standing outside the range of my peripheral but still standing there
Burning images into my retinas when eyes close
You are
The sunshine I stared at too long
Basked in too casually
This was nothing as simple as a game but we kept playing
So I’ll play the shoe, stepping too harshly on our delicate balance
I took my powerful step for granted and tread too much
You be the racecar
Speeding away from the echoing of my footsteps
Too fast to catch up with
You are
Gone without even so much as tire marks burned into concrete so I could follow
So I wander
Through the days smiling at the sunshine that won’t warm me as much as yours did
I am
Not broken, but definitely bruised deeply
Purple black painted over with a smile so bright
It’s almost infectious
Like my memories of you have become
It hurts so magnificently because I don’t have to shut my eyes to remember how beautiful

you are

women on fire

2007-05-11T10:28:00.000-07:00

I want a woman of fire who speaks like she keeps the sun tucked under her tongue
words reaching from lungs, approaching air and igniting
flames scorching skies like blunts burning flags burning patience burning down to embers
tongues lashing backs like whips torn from hands of masters
call them tricks, chickens, or bitches at your own risk
chins held high with a fist clenched supporting the fight from the street up
the other hand cupping full bellies holding the seed of tomorrow's revolution
enough passion in one palm to fill the city with heat and burn it down
but demure, so she responds to honest compliments smiling with a slight blush
warrior women
jaw set and staring down the barrel of a new day determined to survive
catching bullets in teeth grinning
swallowing teargas and never shedding a tear
swelling the frontlines of the fight
breasts swollen with words and the pain of bearing life as looked down upon by the majority before you even factor in the skin color
swollen with fury and ever-burning
women on fire
each step leaving smoking craters on sidewalks littered with cremation ashes from the mothers of battles long past
weaker sex my fucking ass
let’s see any man bleed from the dick for a week straight and still stand tall
birth children and breastfeed with sixteen stitches fixed from slit to asshole
sized up by how much tits you show or how rapidly those cheeks shake to the club hit
back that ass up
bitch, back that ass up
commonplace phrases gracing the ears of those who walk streets proudly despite deadbeat dads, incomparable wages, trifling girls with no sense of self-worth encouraging this behavior
and surviving the fangs of rapists
in this profession of dick swinging pissing contests between purported revolutionaries with kids they don’t support
beatniks living on their parent’s plastic assets
and boozed up, chain smoking assholes, like myself, chasing tail like that actually meant something
cherish those few women strong enough to stand at the mic and speak fire from tongues this world has tried day after day to cut out
but couldn’t
we can B Boy stance and look strong in the face of the spotlights but it’s a female of dignity and poise that I envision when I think revolution
change
growth
poetry is…
every woman who reaches out to the hands of the forthcoming generation of girls struggling to remain strong
stuck in the current of radio rappers and MT-video hoes
anti-abortion legislation and refusal of contraceptive supplies from religious right-wings
women on fire, keep burning
keep bleeding life from a body gifted with the wonder of creation
keep lifting voices to the heavens
whether it’s ecstatic fits of mid-coital convulsions, conversation
or poetry
demand yours in a fair share from those too scared to see a woman’s worth
slap knowledge into the heads of little boys who think a set of balls alone is enough needed to demand respect
I am by no means blasting my own gender
because the brothers in my set elevate our ladies from the depths of darkness descended into daily towards the light of a new day named equality
spit in the face of those who would demean a strong woman for being simply that
strong
in the face of religions that would wrap them head to toe decreeing their bodies as unsightly and unholy
demanding three steps behind husband as the position to stay in
saying education and profession are no places for women to be in
if I never have to hear another story of persecution pressed onto the sex of a young woman frightened to be what she was born as I would be able to sleep better
when I don’t feel the need to concern myself with walking a friend home at night, not because she can’t protect herself, but because I fear for what this world might do to her over the span of just a few blocks I’ll be able to breathe easier
when I can open my eyes and look into the face of a word blind to anything but the worth of a person regardless of appearance I’ll know that enough women have burned brightly enough to cast off this shadow of ignorance and let the light of the next step towards bettering everyone shine in
women on fire
don’t ever stop burning regardless of gallons poured onto your flames trying to douse you
don’t ever stop speaking heat into mics hot enough to burn stages to ashes
and please, don’t ever forget that the worth of a woman is what she sees herself as
and not what this world deems you
women on fire
burn me
rebirth me in the heat of a thousand suns so I might move past my previous transgressions and honor thee
as a poet
as a priestess
as precious
as a woman on fire should be

fuck a poet

2007-04-25T05:50:00.001-07:00

i used to write out of some grim necessity
like poetry was my clot to stop the bleeding
as if in pouring into pens my experiences
and insignificant insecurities
would tie off some cosmic knot
and stop life from being so very mean to me sometimes
like bitching in retrospect was the sum total of my assertion to artistry
as if there isn't enough ex girlfriend poetry in the world already
or angsty, self-righteous calls to the indignity of american culture
delivered by some loudmouthed ass who can sure call out the bad points
but doesn't know step one in the direction of good
this is not another interview poem
this is a poem protesting poetry
presented like a picket sign held proudly front row centre at the venue reading
"fuck a poet"
for trying so badly to be what the crowd wants
trying to make sure you model your inflection best fitted for whatever demographic might be in front of you at that moment
poetic marketing, some make the stage a board room table
microphones a power point presentation of possible ploys to parley
pursuint to pushing puffed up plagerisms of personal proclivities and perspectives too pussy to please passing pedestrians purely off the proof of their own personage
and especially those who abuse alliteration
for thinking that revolution starts behind a microphone
when this isn't even the wick to spark fire on
the streets are the canvas on which to paint change
so if you really want to see those so-called egalitarian laws you keep spouting off about so much actually put in place
march to the white house, not to the stage
after a while, it's just fucking boring
for poets who think that angry scowls are the best gameface to approach a person with
like being intelligent and well-spoken are excuses to act like an asshole to those you don't know
or thinking you get to pick who in the crowd most appreciates your words
fuck a poet
for taking themselves so seriously they even start to hear their own words as truth
fuck a poet
for treating crowds like they owe poets shit
don't get pissed if you can't garner enough attention
that should tell you something about the performance
not the participants
fuck a poet
for assuming word placement alone marks you above anyone else
most of the poets i know can't accomplish shit else but poetry
so where the hell did we develop these collossus egoes from?
thinking we stand above the rest of civilization like some literary gods of man
and with each resounding breath we can change the flow of life itself
and reset the spinning of the earth to a more pleasing pitch
when most of us can't balance our checkbooks, significant others, jobs, bills, performance schedules and family affairs
without twisting completely out of focus
but finally, and most importantly
fuck a poet for simply being a poet
for being underappreciated and underpaid
misunderstood but very well stated
third string entertainers with first rate presentation
broke from day one but never trying to get fixed
existing if only through persistence
linguists and wordsmiths
hammering verses into the minds of a generation
pounding out the heartbeat of an entire generation
and very rarely getting that simple and very much needed honest
Thank You
so instead, poets, i offer a fuck you
but only because i love you

America

2007-03-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

I’m as American as rotten apple pie left forgotten on the windowsill
because there’s a new Idol scandal on the idiot box
and the whole family’s so much more concerned with what Simon says than what momma might’ve slaved over all afternoon
driving in a big ass convertible Cadillac
top down at over a 100 plus miles per hour
belly full of cheap whisky, lungs full of unfiltered lucky strikes
one hand white-knuckled gripping the vinyl steering wheel
and the other graciously giving the bird to the picturesque American landscape blazing by in a blur of browns and greens
dotted here and there by a billboard no wider than maybe a half inch at the speeds I’m going
but I don’t need to pause to read the message, they’re all the stating same thing: welcome to America, now sit down, shut up, strap in and hold on
tuck your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye because I am American
not imperialism and warfare, I’m the more subtle, more poisonous America
the America that creeps into the minds of your young boys keeping them up late at night watching scrambled porno hoping like hell for that moment when they might make out a clear nipple in the midst of all that static
I’m the America that slinks up the miniskirt of your teenage daughter
you know the one she’s not supposed to be wearing but snuck out of the house beneath baggy sweat pants saying she’s off to a friend’s house to do homework
when the only studying she’s doing is in the backseat of some sweaty-palmed senior’s daddy’s buick lesaber hoping she can grope herself into some sort of conformed social acceptance
I’m the America that keeps on keeping on by keeping us all down
ground under the palm of big brother, corporate America and the man in whatever color or gender he may come in
the America that turns a blind eye to fair and balanced because injustice is more honest
you don’t get more hitting the nail on the head bullseye than bullshitting your fellow man for a quick buck or just some shits and giggles
the America that won’t ever let two men marry but loves to watch two girls making out
the nation of corpulent couch potato pseudo-pundits packing their fat mouths with potato chips and beer watching worldwide wrestling federation talking about how the greasy Mexicans are taking all the good white man’s jobs
then bitching because his welfare check hasn’t come in the mail yet
the America who travels overseas and gripes because nobody sounds like me and I can’t get a good cheeseburger; I mean what the fuck is a royale with cheese
the America who hands over its rights gift-wrapped with a big fucking bow tied right on the top so I don’t have to worry too much about being too free
and I can enjoy my freedom fries and supersized styrofoam happy meal at the expense of some third world child who’s name I couldn’t possibly even pronounce if I gave enough of a shit to try
just keep making sneakers that fall apart in a few months and underwear elastic that stretches way out of proportion so when I reach back to scratch my white hairy American ass it’s easily accessible
give me shitty, vapid, mindless entertainment 24 hours a day 7 days a week 4 weeks a month and 12 months a year so I can inhabit my lazyboy sucking back pork rinds and screaming at my wife for a blowjob and a sandwich
if I didn’t even have to move to take a shit, I’d be the fucking Buddha
content being ignorant?
Shit, I’m so fucking happy to be so fucking stupid I don’t even know where to start
The middle east: bomb those fuckers and make it a parking lot
Poverty and homelessness: get a job or get off my lawn
Racism: I’ll just move to a nice lily white neighborhood where I can mow my lawn smiling like the biggest asshole in the whole world talking over my white picket fence about the “other side of the tracks”
You know, where all the black people live
this is the America we’ve all worked so very hard to build and is now toppling off its own axis and crushing us in the rubble
the most perfect analogy for our nation; 9/11
we watch twin towers crash and fall and the best fucking course of action we can take
bomb the shit out of some brown people
and sell lots of cheap plastic American flags to hang from our SUV antennas
only 4.99 right now at your local wal mart
let’s not take a closer look at where our problems originated, no
we’ve got the bombs, the guns, and a much, much bigger dick than anyone else on this planet
and when America swings its pendulous penis around like a fleshy warhammer
you better get the fuck out of its way or start swinging along with us
stay the course
if you’re not with us, you’re against us
god bless America
because considering all these facts
we really fucking need it

swallow

2007-03-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

today i've decided to weep words instead
let verse run down the palm of my hand and catch it
rivers running through pens like wet ink will dry the tears i'm determined not to shed
and applying to pages the pain jabbing at my eyes demanding to drink flowing water will wash away my thoughts and leave me adrift on the sea of inspiration
just trying to fill this empty space inside with volume
like the rushing of wept words can drown out the screams i'm holding in the back of my throat
taking shots to choke it back like it's the only antidote
but ask any poet for truth and they'll tell you
poured libations can only fill so long before you find yourself parched again
empty bottles don't yield enough refund to payback the expense of making them so
and no matter how many pens run dry or pages get filled
we remain thirsting for enough spit to fill that empty space inside
with volume
let crash together the torrents of your frustrations like empty ears are decanters and nothing but your words can fill them so we all might drink together
spend your last breath swimming through the ocean of each day reaching for the surface
and when you've finally come above the crushing weight of life trying to drown you inhale that first breath deeply
and swallow
be filled with the bounty of simply surviving
if only to weep words and spit verses
emptying ourselves just to remain thirsty for that next day's first breath
now swallow
just be filled with just being here
like life itself is water
knocking it back in double and triple pour doses
drowning empty gullets to the fill line
then swallow
give me pain on the rocks with a heartbreak chaser and two shots of uncertainty
smacking the table and shouting
like god's a bartender and tonight
she's pouring real heavy
lining up glasses so i can fill palms to empty them
and swallow
immerse me in existence if only to ride the highest crests and dive to its lowest depths
keep my vision blurred like staring out from a street puddle during a rainstorm
keep me staggering drunk so i can sway like the current at nighttime
weaving back and forth
and if i crash like tidal waves into empty space
then let me fall freely
full of life poured lavishly

memory of a touch

2007-03-01T11:08:00.001-08:00

in my mind i'm still tracing my fingertip across the curve of your chin
just below your lips
probably the spot i miss most
the base of your smile
the point pressing into my chest as you slept so comfortably next to me
head tucked under my own chin
hair splayed out across my chest when not tied back
the most passionate moment caught in complete stillness
and though i'm a man of movement
almost constant kinetic action
i ache, longing for those seemingly unending unconscious hours
of you entwined in my arms
breathing evenly against my neck
completely asleep
yet smiling
i'm not sure if i ever told you that
you smile in your sleep, almost all the time
sometimes you would nearly wake
only long enough to kiss me gently and resituate yourself closer
or grip me tightly and look up into my eyes
still smiling
only to make those perfect lips and shining eyes beam even brighter
for just a moment
before you silently fell back to sleep again
smiling
in that perfect stillness
when the rays of morning sun would start radiating through the blinds
trying desperately to interrupt your slumber
you'd use me as a shield against waking
burying your face in my chest so no light would breech the security of your eyelids and wake you
most mornings i'd lie awake and just let you fitfully fight against facing the day
sometimes well into the afternoon
content to just lie beside you
clothed in nothing more than your radiating beauty
the soft slope of your hips
the valley of the arch in your back
i would trace these landscapes with my fingertips and smile
kissing your stomach or shoulders softly
so as not to wake you
just let you remain there
in perfectly silent stillness
but i am a man of movement
and these thoughts cause me to linger too long at what once was
and probably won't ever be again
my hands now travel the length of blank pages and pens
the only stillness:
my words left wet and drying between blue lines
i cannot remain here
caught in limbo between pressing on to the next day
and letting the past leave such an impression on me that this day
seems to stay still forever
and though i've preached proudly to keep moving
i'm teetering on toetips
unable to take that next step and just forget you
still tracing fingertips across the curve of your chin in my thoughts
nearly nightly
sometimes, almost on the hour each hour
i can't move past the meeting of my touch and your smile
so i suppose i must walk forward with eyes closed
and sunshine painted across the backs of my eyelids
hoping my memories of you will be bright enough to keep me from tripping
one step after another towards whatever tomorrow will hold for me
my path illuminated by the light of what yesterday held
i'll always cherish the glow you bestowed upon me
i'll keep it tucked tightly away in a pocket in the back of my mind
only to be brought out when these uncertain steps forward lead me into darkness
to help light my way

annihilate me please

2007-02-26T05:51:00.003-08:00

today i want to tear off my eyelids and stare at the sun until my eyes burn out of my skull
i want to scratch concrete with raw fingers until my nails bend back and snap
bloody fingertips gripping ground and still running rivers of blood down pavement to paint pictures of the loss of my patience
i'm spent
but not so much that i won't stretch myself even thinner
make miles of laps from my body for daily toil to tread upon harshly
run the course of my spine like a track meet
pounding out my back and breaking it with each plodding step
stomp me underfoot and facedown in the dirt
i'll sit deep in the earth half buried and not dead just
silent
trying to shroud myself in silence
stop the screaming of my own thoughts
too many to control or even listen to
i'm driving myself out of my own head and looking for vacancy elsewhere
tether a sign to my ear saying:
"Do Not Disturb...
He's Already Fucked Up Enough."
just heed the warning and press on past me
leave not a minute of your day to waste on my ranting
unless you wanted these blood painted fingers digging into the recesses of your soul and finding the light left there so i can darken it
make dim the eyes of those around me if need be
i'll suck the last bit of life from existence itself if it would snuff out the fire burning in the pit of my being
or at least quench the heat just a little bit
i'm burning
writhing in silent agony and smiling like life is a grammy performance
i'm trying to get nominated for best drunken attempt to forget things
let the academy decide if my performance is suitable
i can keep smiling as long as you need me to
faked it this far so i'll just toddle along tapdancing out my aggravation and grinning
smirking
laughing
and stuffing everything i want to scream in the face of the world so deep down inside me that even i can fool myself into thinking
i'm better now
grating at my sanity
peel the skin back and bare raw flesh to the pain just to get past the worst of it
if i could bleed this out it'd be worth spending a day nearly dying
but i can't cut deep enough to find the infection
so i'll continue on screaming from behind this actor's smile
penning poetry into concrete with blood stained fingers
press hard enough to chip the bone
breaking off more of myself into each sentence
ground my fingers to stubs
like patience worn paper thin
i write these words on the scraps of what's left not torn
please, annihilate me
break my body asunder and scatter my thoughts to the far reaches of reality
make waste of the memory of me and let words alone speak in my stead
just destroy me
if only so i simply have to rebuild myself
or cease to exist
give me that option
just please, annihilate me
because i can't do it alone

i don't know

2007-02-26T05:51:00.001-08:00

bright eyes and longing stares falling towards the sidewalk
eyes can't stand the strain of contact so they downturn towards feet
hit floor and shatter
smiles have to hide themsleves for fear of comfort
just getting comfortable again in my own skin
used to the lack of yours pressed against it
but it just took one glance and i'm burning again
like your flesh is fire and i need nothing more than to be consumed in you
wrapped in the warmth of that same smiling gaze now twisted
turning in air as it plummets past the patience we've both run out of
in mid air we both sigh averting our eyes as whatever might have been follows suit and strikes sidewalk
i'm shattered
sent sprawling out in a thousand pieces of divided heart and mind
lungful of words choking back screams and holding hand tight over my eyes like my memories of you are too blinding
the sun really is too bright to stare directly into
i tried several times to will myself to just keep your eyes locked in mine but we both stuttered
turned heads and looked away like children
we should've lauged it off
shrugged and smirked, continued our cigarettes and just relaxed
but we couldn't
too uncomfortable in your own skin to even meet my gaze but it doesn't help not to look because everytime i close my eyes i can still feel you
fingers laced between mine and that smiling gaze placed upon me
laughing with my arms around your waist holding you closer
we almost had that, if only for just a moment
then our eyes fell towards the floor again
and that time almost shared shattered
sitting at our feet in pieces, it gave us something to look at
besides what's right in front of us both
but i guess looking back at the broken past is easier than a future that might be hard to glue back together

waking up drunk after...

2007-02-26T05:50:00.000-08:00

this morning i woke up still drunk
after an evening of trying to wrap myself in the night
it was so close, just a matter of mere seconds
but in that span of time preoccupations intervened
probably for the better
but, really just for amusement's sake
see i've spent so much of my time chasing the sunshine at daybreak
i've been burned by the rays, so
now i only come out when the starlit shroud of the evening surrounds me
holding onto the ink black canopy of the midnight sky and smiling
intoxicated on the scent of it
almost like the breeze rolling in off the moonlit tides carries sweeter perfume
and new webs waiting to entangle wait psat every block
last night was a bottle of truth serum
two hours and then some of distraction
a moment of playful bickering between friends
and several sentences of honesty served up straight
this is not some poem of reprehension looking back on my loosened tongue and regretting it
this is just for clarification
i spoke of a time less cluttered
we both spoke of bad timing
without one another's ears close by to be filled
we've spoken of wanting; i don't need to have been near you to know this
and, probably because the same bottle that opened the flood gates of my truth last night still flows through me, i don't need to be with you when the day finally breaks and you blink drowsily at the starting of the sun and...
miss me?
want me?
or just wonder what might have been if the hands of the clock would allow us to just be...
what? together?
doubtful; more like fitfully involved
perpetually intertwined in confusion mixed with the sweetest of wine, words
and exchanged glances
this is not a love poem, because i'm not in love with you
i'm just in "it" with you
the same problem you face each day with, each night we spend together convincing ourselves it's just friendship
and maybe then some...
but nothing more
whatever that means
when you figure it out, keep it a secret
let me slip past the fill line of shot glasses overpoured with honesty
sucking lime slices like they'll keep my lips puckered and shut
no words to flow past them
no sentences to make this any more amusing than it already is
because, for some reason, we find this situation to be funny
when really our fingertips and tongues ache for more than we'll allow ourselves
last night i presented myself as bolder than even i expected
and you, more honest than i recall you ever being
open bottles and emptied glasses bring truth in large doses
drink it back and start speaking a mile a minute
like the faster it gets out the more blurred the lines of understanding are
it didn't work for us last night, though
straddling me, enticing, smiling, laughing
running fingertips down my chest and staring into my eyes, drunk
but yet sober enough to exchange that thought we both had running through our minds
a mile a minute
stop staring at me in such a way that makes me want to let loose more than just my sobriety, please
this game we play isn't killing me, but it's starting to fray the seams of my patience
i keep telling myself the rules have been written and not to stray outside of them
but, one night, regardless of what may lie across state borders waiting for you
i'm going to take what you so badly want to give
and, from that night on, i'm never giving it back
i'll keep that piece of the night behind my smile
waiting for you to steal it back with a kiss

not sure where all this is coming from...

2007-02-26T05:47:00.000-08:00

if i weren't so hurt would i find myself enmeshed in the words catching me falling too fast for thoughts to catch up with
or would i strike ground and shatter
can't be broken when i was never put together from the first day
heart's asunder and there's no glue to mend the pieces
just these pieces mending me
i can't be fixed completely but i can get close enough to smile like i used to
busying hands with pen and pad and computer keyboard
like the more i write the closer i get to being whole again
in that same hole again
falling, tumbling head over feet, falling
not trying to catch hands in the walls to stop myself, i'll plummet faster
let me reach the bottom with fistfuls of poetry so when i strike floor and stop breathing
my voice in words will carry on when there's no breath left in me
but for right now, i'll keep breathing
keep writing
keep falling
keep myself above the ground walking in the clouds and grinning as widely as my psychotic mind will allow
and i'll just keep penning thought to paper like i'll lose em if i don't write them
is this for posterity or poetry?
am i writing these things to be remembered;
or just so i can look back and remember myself on my worst days
when again i fall below the watermark and get stuck in the space between thinking
and accomplishing
when video games and internet porn dominate so much more of my time than
tethering poems to pages with strings bled from the recesses of my heart still shattered
so i've got something to look back on when i find another sunshiny day to dream on
or when nights are filled with the raven-tressed mistresses of my inspiration
and downfall
when simply staring at empty space and smiling stupidly seems activity enough,
will i look back at this blog and be stricken unsilent
be beaten by words penned to keep me writing
because in writing, i find my life and love
as much of both as i can possibly contain inside my chest
plenty of room now since the heart's been crushed to dust
so i'll fill up that space with words, wine and smoke
three impermanents
three formless muses
residing in that empty space where these words once came from
i'll never speak from my heart again, it's too fickle and unsure
these words come from my fingertips which have brought all the joys and pains i've experienced close to me
from my tongue which tends to get me in trouble, but always in the best way
and from my feet, planted firmly right here where i stand speaking from
rooted in the community that spawned me
born again in verse and baptised in bartabs

contentment's not found at the bottom

2007-01-09T07:43:00.001-08:00

I've been drinking a bit too much lately
which means i've also been writing
imbibe enough spirits to numb myself comfortably to not have to feel anymore
and be alright with that
make dead to pain everything but the very tips of my fingers
gripped pens and laptop keys the only stimuli
slightly shaking hands reaching forward to remove more caps from bottles
fill the glass and continue
bartender, just fill my glass so i can continue
trying to stay perpetually unfocused and stumbling
almost off balance with double vision
keeping everything pushed away to the borders of my peripheral
and at farther than arm's length so that i don't have to feel it
or really see it
and i can just continue on numb
too many drinks in dingy bars with crowds of strangers
many more alone in my apartment staring at the computer screen
if blood were wine i'd be forever happy
numb, tucked away somewhere inside the folds of myself
laughing
laughing louder
laughing if at nothing but my own laughter
like the sound alone is enough to crack my face into a smile
too hard lately to do so without reason
painful to contort my face in that manner without first loosening my lips
with drink
welcoming in many spirits while losing grip on my own
just fill up my glass and light me another cigarette
smoke and wine make pleasant friends when the silence on the inside
of your head gets too loud to bear anymore
smoke and wine know how to keep you laughing
know how to keep you smiling
i won't ever forget how to be happy
but it sometimes gets hard to remember to smile
without first loosening lips with drink
so fill me up another glass
light my cigarette
and let's laugh together
smiling
if only to stop feeling another moment

a true confession

2007-01-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

i dont write political poetry, and i stray from describing the horrors
inflicted upon the oppressed of society because i only write shit that i
know about my words embrace love with gilded wings flying it high into the
sun touched clouds placing it upon a throne of diamonds for there is
nothing more important in my mind than love for ourselves and our fellow
persons my poetry promotes understanding through self-expression because i
cannot tell you the answers you need to stop seeing the evils everywhere i
can only hope to open your mind and equip you with the weapons you already
have in order to tear down the wretchedness around you i speak of
consciousness because i uphold the theory of evolution and the next step is
mental so instead of some half assed attempt at attacking our governmental
corruption i bleed from the heart to tell anyone who will listen to wake
the fuck up and open your third eye take notice of the beauty of sheer
existence and relish in the inescapable irrefutable truth that an open mind
two feet on the ground and hands to hold the hearts of every beloved being
are all we have to validate our reality the rest is simply theoretical i
suppose i should be spending my time on picket lines screaming about
injustice and stopping globalization but too often my eyes wander the skies
instead and my arms fall to my sides palms open outwards because every
answer to every question is written within the whispy white clouds
streaking the clear sky and i can only take in so much before my mind
recoils and ecstatically i slump to the soft grass below gripping the earth
as tightly as my fingers are able to hold it in place at the same time
centering myself on the understanding that im just one weird insect
scrambling across the face of this cosmic bouncing ball towards utter
uncertainty and i couldnt possibly be more content than i am right now
simply being i write so openly and frankly about love as if my definition
rivals that of the dictionarys but at best all ive got is a fleeting
inkling of a description based off past experiences and a skewed sense of
idealism which will suffice for the moment but eventually im going to have
to come to grips with the fact that much like a gerbil trying to palm a
cannonball the matter is well out of my hands besides im no research
psychologist at best just a schmuck romantic with a pen and a pad and
perhaps a message to give but staying on topic much like a drunken acrobat
balancing on fishing line is much more precarious than it may
seem dancing around riddles and similies and metaphors all of perfect
clarity in my head anyway trying to arrive at some concise termination to
this extravaganza of poetic expression or whatever it may be i find
myself having said too much as usual because like too many metaphorical
allusions as pennies burst from a fifty pound piggy bank dropped off the
ninth floor when my mouth opens man words just fly

plummet

2007-01-02T09:04:00.004-08:00

somewhere along the line i set my life track on plummet
i don't fall in love; i crash aground so hard i bury myself in the debris of shattered hearts
and mine tends to break on impact
sliced open by shards so razor sharp they mimic the curves in my twisting soul so closely the cuts won't stop bleeding
i don't just drop metaphor; i bomb verses from aircraft fleets so thick high noon over your city is more pitch than midnight
and opportunity doesn't just slip between my fingers; it breaks everything from the wrist down when it hits and keeps dropping
but straining through shattered knuckles i always manage to pick up the pieces and carry that heavy weight to accomplishment
and to put it simply sithout elusive wordplay: when transmitted from my mind to pen to audience earllobes these words whet appetites
and when particularly blessed inspire some to make hungry a few fans of their own
and a heart that can't truly be given can never be broken
and until this microphone grows lips, hips and a wit capable of unfucking my mind
i'll gladly resign myself to careen from one pretty girl to the next while keeping the depths of my love locked away for life and poetry only
i can always tell which way is up, i tend to travel the opposite direction
nose down and spiraling, mere inches from striking ground and smirking stupidly
so pleasantly i plummet
face upturned waiting to smash upon impact
arms outstretched anticipating that last embrace
but this cat landed feet first
licked his scars and carried on with that big chip on his shoulder stating 'fuck it'
shrugged off a couple of fleas, marked his territory then slept and dreamt of the man he once was
awoke to stand upright on two feet, chin high and eyes skyward
determined to never again fall farther than his hands can reach to find hope to hold onto
climbing up never once looking back to see how far he had plummet
i won't forget which way is down
the direction tears fall the wider my grin gets
each clambering grasp raising myself from the chasm of broken hopes is a promise to continue up and out
never again to follow the flow of shed blood and tears as they so pleasantly plummet

word riot

2007-01-02T09:04:00.003-08:00

I find lately
I'm a little too stuck on blank pages left untouched by pen or thought
and not forgotten, but made to nag for fulfillment
like little daggers that stick my feet to the floor and trip me up when i try to sneak by another night without penning some existence into them
like shattered reflections incomplete and screaming for me to find the shards broken off and finish them
I'm afraid my journal will sneak off the table while I'm sleeping and gag me with wads of half-finished poems if i don't start to spend some more time in it
maybe my pen will revolt and run away, or so resent its existence of bare use that it stabs me blind when i finally pick it up, probably just to jot down a grocery list or a note for rolling papers and cigarettes
or perhaps the verses themselves will flee and leave my throat hollow and speech muted
run so far the speed of imagination couldn't keep up
trying to stay away from being used in a poem written about a poem not being written

in praise...

2007-01-02T09:04:00.001-08:00

if i could find another way to thank you i would
if tearing my heart out on stage just to show how full you've made it would prove my case
i'd dig deep with both fists filling palms in praise of all of you
but instead, i'd just like to say 'thank you'
for making my wednesday nights more than words echoed back by the bare walls of my apartment
for filling the floor of the Lobby and the halls of my memory
and even if i only ever get to know you at a glance while on stage spittin
know that every word written, is for you
so never listen to a poet say they don't need an audience
because if it wasn't for you
i'd have never found myself to place myself in the position y'all applaud weekly
found the strength to speak freely
found my pen moving easily to the beat of the words i've found needing me
and i need y'all to keep feeding me
cuz each scream released is a reason for me to keep breathing
and keep speaking
til my lips crack and start bleeding
til my throat chokes and each spoken word is creaking
til i'm losing my balance and leaning
on mic stands, cuz i'm feelin this night man
it's hurtin so good cuz it's right man
so if i reel from the lights and keel over tonight
know that my lifespan exists from the time when you listened to my pen's written assigment to fly to the heights and glide like a kite when i picked up the mic and started performing
to the moment you finished applauding
and if i only live within the span of your appreciation
i'll gladly burn out like a pheonix leaving only cinders and smoldering pages behind as reminders
on a stage painted with the ashes of a poet who didn't know just how to thank you
and i'm not here to educate the masses or free minds and gift knowledge
i'm not here to tell you what causes to pump fists to
what banner to rally troops behind
or what wars to wage, domestic or internationally
because frankly, i'm just a poet
not a prophet
role model for the chain-smoking barfly pushing thirty but not ready to fall off yet bored to near apathy american youth crowd
and we're always taking new members
just sign up with a pen dug deep enough beneath skin to chip bone
and when you've finally recited your second or third poem
when tonight feels like you've wandered your whole life without a place to call home
until tonight
we'll count you as one of the veterans
membership is a only a few shed tears and a cracked voice away
so act now, while attention spans last

what slips out from the cracks between thoughts

2007-01-02T09:03:00.003-08:00

these are not so much words
as exhaust fumes from cigarettes, blunts, pipes
and the friction burns between words trying to escape the lack of standing room
it gets crowded in here
lips seal around filter, dragging in what once was solid, release
repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat.
snubbed out the smoldering stick of my own habit
light another
repeat.
sucking down fumes like it would fill me with what's neccessary
like the succulent smoke curling into my throat would make full my empty voice
maybe the second hand smoke is my gift to society
maybe this backwashed exhaust smoke curling from lips too dry is my two cents
yet to be counted
light another
repeat.
ashtray full and i'm still stuck on the same sentence
ceiling is no longer lonely
so much smoke like patrons in a grand ballroom crowd the fan and mingle
with the bits of dust solid clumped onto the backs of a previous layer
swilring a dirge to my unfinished poems
a waltz to the poems i never started
and ending on a sonata, a sad one, played dolefully from trumpets dingy
no one's dancing
just watching
waiting
indulging that swollen moment between inhale and pen touching the paper
perhaps this will be the end of something
the final moment he's been waiting for
will this be the end of too many cigarettes and not enough filled pages?
no
swallowing smoke to fill lungs with words
snubbed out the smoldering stick of my own habit
light another
repeat
repeat
repeat
still not finished

my prayer for 2006

2007-01-02T09:03:00.001-08:00

now i'm not a religious man
but i found myself leaving my last show praying
one hand clasped around the mic stand
the other open
touching nothing more than God's breath
see blessings are never farther away than an open palm
and a few thankful verses
so let this be my prayer for 2006
i walk past a block full of homeless and sick
sleeping in abandoned business entrances
to find my way home
past the salesmen pushing boulders to crush souls on 5th St and 3rd Ave
they call them rocks around these parts
shaking handfuls of pebbles at passerby hoping to convince at least one more
a day to climb that mountain
i pass the apartments of people twice my age and ten thousand times my
experience
near broken behind hollow doors that can't stifle the silence of their lonely
last days on the planet
i walk past life
that's the only way to continue
focus on your final destination
and where you've come from
let the carnival whirl on around you
and pay it no mind
just tithe it a thought on pad and paper after the fact
make it a memory in words
remind any ear who will listen that beneath the bottom they've hit calling it
rock bottom
is an even deeper rock bottom to fall to
words are like armor
shielding poets from the reality around them
but not quite well enough to save them
that's become our own job
when we're knee deep in the trenches of sorrow and sinking deeper
there's only our own arms available to pull us up
muscles tensed and burning, fingertips digging so deep into hope
we mold it into a thin silver safety line
pull harder now poet
drag yourself into the new year with bloody palms and nothing
but your own grim determination saving you
clamber onto the next day like the ground beneath will fall out
and leave you with no foothold to stand on
and empty air to plunge down into
unless you survive long enough to speak the next poem
clenched between your teeth
bite down harder now poet
grind words to dust and inhale deeply
like the next few are the only sentences suitable to survive on
breathe deeper now poet
speak like there's fire in your belly
pronounce each statement clearly and powerfully
fill the room with the thunder of your breath made poetry
plant your feet on stage
like it's earth to take root in
grip mics like bark grown decades over the nails driven into your trunk
mercilessly
use each cut, each scar,
each bloody lip and bitten tongue ever suffered
any moment in your life you've been stricken silent
load each breath with lead
like the bullets fired from those so jealous they have to answer in screams
every whisper uttered trying to better yourself
pack each pointed paragraph with all the intensity you contain
and speak up louder now poet
let free the frustrations holding your wits at knife's edge
threatening to slice so deep you can't be sewn back together
let your voice bring down the heavens like God isn't listening
so your prerogative is to supply her a front row seat
and no option but to hear you
love harder now poet
that deems repeating
LOVE HARDER NOW POET
like family, friends and community are the foundation you're built upon
like respect of a fellow performer is the only support left for your head to rest
high on
hold loved ones close and those you truly love even closer
offer them understanding and strong shoulders to cry on
even if the weight of their worries is so much it may break you,
endure these tragedies for your strength will pass onto them
and the day you find yourself shattered against the sharp rocks of real life
they will be standing at the foot of the cliff waiting
scooping up your broken fragments
and gluing them together with the tears you tried to help them stop crying
pray harder now poet
make each breath your tithing to a loved world and a willing God
so that, God willing, this world will return that love back to you
this is my prayer for the year recently gone by
and many more to follow
keep speaking freely now poets
and keep loving harder now poets
and for love of free speech
i'll be seeing you next year
for my next prayer

1 1 07 10 08 pm

2007-01-02T09:02:00.000-08:00

that actually just fucking happened

it felt like a year between, in many ways it had been;
we both had traveled far without walking much distance over that week, obviously
we both kept ideals close to heart but when the caged bird thrashes the only remedy:
let it fly free