Blogger Template by Blogcrowds.

The View from the Afternoon




Four o' clock sharp
and a familiar fragrance
looms in the air as 
i sit atop a parking garage
that overlooks this 
blasphemous town
of plastic MILFs and 
petty middle-class comforts. 
but despite their mediocrity, 
I wouldn't change a thing.
for on this summer eve, 
I bask in the warm embrace
of that great gig in the sky
and surf through the arid winds 
as I enjoy the view from the afternoon. 

I feel today a warm comfort 
I have long yearned for
it seems at last the icy winds
of winter have parted
and dark skies 
are replaced with infinite possibilities
no longer does the dragon roar
"THOU SHALT!" 
for I have tamed my beast
now, the fierce lion
becomes a child.
free to create his own values
his own thousand truths,
by dawn
and the courage to destroy them
by dusk. 

High-Noon is upon us! 
and we stand before
a sea of meaninglessness. 
"who will part this sea?" 
"to what skies will we look for guidance!?" 
the pious fools will cry!
but the only sound will be lafter
as being continues it's endless dance
across endless skies
and I will be here,
still,
sparking up the evening's first smoke
as I enjoy the view from the afternoon.


A Gift that Comes and Goes




It seems like today,
everyone's all gung-ho about
formulas: 
there are formula's to make you better
formula's to fuck you up
formulas for success, 
formula's for failure,
formulas for calculating how supremely
overweight you really are, 
and even formulas to calculate how much 
the government is allowed to steal from you, 
and of course, how much you can steal 
from the government. 

With all these numbers, 
and everyone ejaculating to efficiency
it is not surprising that everyone goes
ape-shit whenever things 
do not go 
"according to plan" 

Despite persistant attempts to 
"crack the code"
One thing remains 
that these schemers  haven't
found the formula for:
this thing?

writing; 
an art for only
patient souls 
that aren't afraid to
stop and 
live a little.

this world is full of 
Constipated Writers 
who are so concerned with
their "formulas" and finding
their "BIG STORY!" 
that they are afraid to be true
to themselves 
on the blank white sheet
that lays before them. 
the irony of the matter is,
of course that,
everybody is 
starving for
new shit. 

writing is a gift that is 
only for those patient
enough to await it's return
and time wasted for
all of those materialistic
fucks, looking for
something to keep 
for themselves
no, 
writing is something
to be shared. 

if you do not write
because it is vital 
to your survival,
do something else. 

if words do not bleed from
your pen in a torrent that 
makes your writing hand ache 
with the toils of beauty...
you're better off publishing. 

if you're writing for 
somebody else, 
don't do it. 

for some time now, I have felt
that I had "lost my mojo"...
but today I learn that 
creativity strikes
when we least
expect 
it.








A New Hope




Despite what people look like
on the outside, 
inside...
everyone's got their own
neurotic devil 
or I do, at least
which is something
I know,
so I'll start with the facts: 


FACT: life's a 
bitch without
a god in the sky
to blame for your
every imperfection. 

but maybe that's because
we're always looking for
excuses:
if not god, then 
that black cat or
the bergouise
or the government 
or the biggest 
baddest
Other
that overdetermines
our every 
move. 

FACT: we are thrown
into  this be-shitted world
without a who, or a why
or a even a morsel 
of significance.

there is no "being" 
with a capital B
we start with 
nothingness and upon
that Tabula Rasa, 
shape ourselves in
a constant cycle of 
becoming. 
That is to say, 
"existence precedes essence." 

Fact: each moment 
is it's own decisive
fold. 

You and I are no 
more than the collective
sum of our own actions 
and experiences. 
Every moment we are 
faced with the grave 
burden of "choice"
and every decision
holds a unique
opportunity cost
that will decide the
rest of our lives. 

some, 
more than
others. 

I call this 
hope, 
Humanity:
my existential
neurosis.

subjectivity
must be the
starting
point.






out of winter, came spring




On this cold
spring Texas
day, I realize 
this: 
"The world is full 
of glorious
surprises" 

And I don't mean 
this, in the banal 
sense 
of a newborn baby
or a "second chance" at life, 
no
I'm talking more about:
dirty words in alphabet soup
or getting a pink slip for
"not subbordinating
to authority" 
ora winter day in a 
summer-stained week
whose frigid winds
lifts you back,
back, back. 
to a time of innocence
it's briskly touch 
re-teaches the lessons
you forgot: 
"You and I, we 
live for the struggle
the revolution is born out of
imminent resistance 
to a system that
has long-commodified
our desires
yes, 
we are sustained 
by our opposite."

Ask yourself:
what is an anarchist
without the state? 
what is a rebel
without a cause? 
what is an anti-capitalist
without capitalism? 

Happy?
far from it
our collectivist identity
in the political order
is formed via a strategy
of resistance 
to a given social order
or yet another faction. 

but what does this mean
for you and I? 
that we live for the struggle
that there is beauty 
in the feeling 
of overcoming 
obstacles
and loving every 
minute of it

there is a kernel of truth
even within a fluid
subjectivity. 
'nuff said.  

Thus Spake Shikhar



Some environmentalists will tell you otherwise, 

but the world actually enjoys taking a 
heaping hot shit on us
(metaphysically speaking, of course)
but certainly the environment 
the sickly anesthetized coordinates
that each and everyone 
of us are locked in to 
Days come, and Nights go
and surely the fool with the banjo 
still plays. 
but it feels we are all marching
to someone else's rhythm. 
to where? 
I don't really know
or have any desire to know
the answer 
but one thing is for certain
this boat is drifting 
in a direction i am 
ashamed to call
progress. 

Our search for truth
prompted the sin
to end all sins
surely the universe breathed
a new breath 
as we pointed our missiles
into the air
and shot our old god
the fuck out of that sky 
and danced a joyous dance
in the pool of his blood
brave we were, 
but that was then...

Now, 
we suffer the depths
of nothingness,
and deathly touch
of nihilism
and everybody just
wants to get 
a little
fucked up

So when the world takes a 
shit, a heaping 
steaming shit on us
we arbitrarily search 
for a who?, a why?
begging our savior in the sky
for answers to questions 
who's only true answer
a mirror can reveal
we search for a scapegoat and a sin
more importantly 
a substance: 
white junk, green junk, brown junk or crystal junk
it's all the same
a means of escaping 
a world we're sure 
we despise 
but can we really blame 
ourselves? 
after all
we're only
"human, all too human" 

Humanity needs 
someone to justify 
it's existence. 
a creator of meaning 
and a destroyer of values
with skepticism and brute honesty
to fight the good fight

my thoughts?
who better 
than a
poet! 


Nameless, Faceless Fucks!




The world is filled
with so many people
who are true to nothing
especially themselves.

the who-whats and
when-wheres that cruise
from crisis to crisis
pointless and all,
never stopping
to smell the fresh morning
roses or look into
the mirror and create
their thousand truths
their goods
their evils
and destroy them with
every night.

Yes, we march and
march and march
to someone else's
heartbeat
someone else's
drum.

These people resign from
life.
they retire, before ever
experiencing what life really
has to offer
for these people I
have no words,
for they have already given up
on themselves.
But for you,
young poet - young reader
or boxer, or lawyer
I can only give you
my blessings
for in your hands is the fate
of this filthy race
we call
humanity.

Live your life fully
and each day like your
last.
look away from
the preachers
of death,
child:
There's beauty in the struggle.

My Golden Crutch

I want to pause the poetry to take a second to reflect on my self and my own growth and downfall over the past few years and more importantly the past few days.

I was always a restless soul, even before I met laura. Always concerned, or overconcerned about my identity, my place in this broken puzzle I came to call the world. Always searching fort he answer, I found myself trying new things. I was never satisfied with what I had so I kept searching for the next distraction, the next platform to take my chance with life and learn something new.
Rollerblading, BMX Biking, skateboarding, band football, philosophy, and debate
it was all the same.
another crutch, another quick fix another shot of existence that made me feel warm inside - Like morphine on a winter night. My passion was living and my canvas was life. And now, only now have I found my true freedom, my calling my skill and my destiny.
and my paintbrush, most of all
for now there is life in all of my writing
poetry has set me free
from my worthlessness
for now I write with my blood!
instead of etching with pointless utencils
--the most impersonal of all expressions.

I do not think I could appreciate
anything more than I do now.
A cold winter night,
a warm cup of joe
and a pen with which I write
my own
destiny.

"now do I fly
now am I light
now ther danceth a god in me!"

Beautiful Stranger




There is a woman
who sits across the pond
from me now
golden brown skin
and lustrous black hair
she's in her
mid twenties,
maybe
she looks like a marry or
a monica or a lisa
maybe
and she carries a black camera
with her wherever she goes
snapping pictures of her young glory
she sits atop a rock
and calls to her young warrior-
"antale chico!"
and I think
maybe she's more
of a maria, or gabriella!

either way she's beautiful
and so is her daughter of three.
or four, but certainly no more
and there's comfort in the fact
that she'll never read
much less,
know
that she made
my fucking
day.

39 Cents of Gold




It seems like today,
everybody wants all the
best shit
sports cars with the leather interior,
gormet lobsters served
(on top of) $70 Salisbury Steak
Private pre-schools and
even more exclusive colleges
the most expensive whiskey
foreign cigarettes
and homes that sit atop
hills of (black)gold
with a million
and one
bathrooms.

Those people are lost
and incapable of making decisions
not calculable in
dollar bills:
Fuck Them.

Little do they know
about life,
about living
about schwag on a sunday morning
or $4 champagne or Marlborough Red's
let them have their expensive ass cake
and eat it too
while you sit on your hill
that looks like all the others
appreciating the finer things
life has to offer.

I bought a nice journal
or stole it, or something.
and not a single beautiful poem,
or thought, or dream
came out
there was just too much
pressure to be perfect
it weighed down my writing hand

but only now do I know:

that I have never been
happier with my 39 cent
spiral.
AND
that perhaps,
we define the
finer things in life
for ourselves.

Fuck the Big Other.

write like your sanity depends on it

I absolutely love the idea of using poetry
as an outlet. like I've always said-
"it's good to get all the crazy out of your system"

without further ado,
"a frustrated tirade"

God damn I feel so fucking worthless
worthless worthless
my stomach hurts and so does my
heart
it's all broken, fried, mishandeled, and
black
like that bitter whore on the corner
fuck
these moments of sheer lack
of creativity
of escape
of death
of every part of me that makes me,
me
make me want to die die die
I do not know who I am
I do not know who you are
or who any of these people are
for that matter
we're all just faceless, nameless
fucks
fighting with each other
for a little piece of
american pie.

shit, fuck the gold, fuck the glory
and fuck god for that matter,
I just need a stranger
a friend
a lover and
a poet
to stand here with me
and watch this city burn
like the fire that rages
inside me.

Mundane Morning





7:00 Sharp
and not a moment later
is when the morning starts
when that alarm goes off ringin'
and the sounds of Mufasa,
our departed king
permeate the air.
of course,
that's also when
the war starts

between me,
and myself
the subconceous
and the real

it's fierce combat, really
-when the world wants you
to do something
you feel anxious,
surrounded; afraid
and under the pressure
of the whole fucking
world
like the nazis
in the final hours
of 1946.

sure, i manage
to hold on a little longer
fifteen, thirty sometimes
fourty-five
miniutes.

depending on how many times
I hit that
snooze button
but that doesn't stop
the morning air
from receiving my presence.

I wake up,
eventually
and stare upon this fucking
world I feel,
I can never love
my stomach - restless
from last nights
cigarette and coffee
binge

then I wonder,
as I take my first sip
of morning joe
and my first sip of
death:
"why did I even
bother waking up
on this god fucksaken
mundane morning?"

but there is never an answer
I guess every morning
is a mundane morning
without a god in the sky
or an angels face to
wake up to.
maybe she could
show me
meaning.

Break

So, i've taken a small break from the poetry; debate's been eating my time like a fat kid at Cici's... on the way home from atlanta, I managed to write ... something. I'm not sure whether it's poetry, prose, a reflective essay or a story, but shit i've never been big on labels.

without furthe ado:

I have grown terribly dissatisfied with my life, I am not who I used to be – anymore. No, something has happened to me – I feel lost, trapped and ever so fucking alone and I just want everything and everyone to be still still still. I know, I know, I have so much to live for, such a rich fulfilling life ahead of me – the only problem is – I see the future, I see my destiny – as I peer into the crystal ball of modernity, I am disheartened by the direction my boat is drifting.

Highschool, College, a Masters degree then work, work, work – until I’m a useless old fart and can’t tell the difference between living and existing. That’s what this world wants for us all, an anesthetized life – free from pain and strife: we all dream of that same place – whether you call it Oklahoma or your lover’s arms, we’re all looking for a place where everything is predictable and nothing hurts. We sail and cruise and drive through existence looking for a who, a why, a god and a how, but never do we find the answers to our petty questions, we sail and drive and cruise to someone else’s rhythm, in a direction I’m ashamed to call “progress.”

False are the idols of modernity, false are the amenities of a comfortable middle-class existence. We bust our balls to maintain the petty comforts of our lives without realizing that it is ourselves that we are slowly murdering. The house, the cars, the money, the girls – shit I’d trade it all for a taste of the real – a taste of every beautiful flavor life has to offer. But there is some repentance in it all, for I’m afraid although I see beyond the shimmering idols of modernity, I am a weak man. As much as I want escape, as much as I want to live, my weakness leaves me trapped like a butterfly caught in the tarantulas den, or an autumn leaf lost in winter winds – out of place, out of control, and increasingly – out of my fucking mind.

I don’t know what it is about me, or what’s been going on lately – everyone and everything in my life is confusing the fuck out of me, I am coming to what feels like a stand-still in my quest for meaning and I’m afraid I’m falling falling falling into darkness, into nothingness. I’m lonely, confused, and thirsty for the first drop of love, of life, of whatever is to come, but if there’s one thing I do know it is this: I have grown too full for this small cup of existence, I can no longer call this place home and for quite some time I have not been able to recognize these familiar faces - I need change that doesn’t jingle in my pockets.

I am looking for a friend, but surely in all the wrong places – I cannot find it here. This place is cold and all of the color is gone - the land is black and the clouds overhead are gray with the tears of god. But I cope, I live, I fight the good fight; Hoping that somewhere, there is someone in the world as lost confused and meaningless as myself.

Nowhere & Nothingness




as i stop at that
worn old stoplight
at the corner
of nowhere and nothingness
and take a long drag
of that burning red death-stick
ironically called life,
I turn to my left
and then to my right.
then realize this:

I have something in common
with these broken
heartless
fucks
who stop aside me
on the left, or the right
it didn’t really matter
there was no gradient here
at this broken
fucking
stop light

that here,
at eleven thirty
on a Sunday evening
we were all in similar places
in this endless journey
we call life
we were all
sleepy, restless
and miserable
fucking souls
racing our metal extensions
into night
into destruction
into destiny
none of us really expected
to see

tomorrow.

Some racing
to a broken fucking
place that
someone decided to call “home”
hell, it was them -
at some point or the other
but now,
now these people knew
hell, even their deceased mothers knew
that this was just another place
like any other
to rest their broken little
heads, on broken fucking
nights
the ironic part was,
that every night was
broken
we knew nothing of
the happiness of a goodnights sleep

Some were racing to
their end
following an endless road
looking for their checkered flags,
or crystal meth, or some black
tar – anything, really that keep their
hearts going bump through the night
it was really all one in the same;
and they knew it too,
that sooner or later,
they’d be too tired of racing through
these broken streets
wishing, hoping
dreaming
of the night they would hear their
little metal extentions screech
to a final stop
because they knew their hearts would soon follow
and death would dance
to the sound of twisted metal
and broken fucking
bones

Others were racing
to their night job
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that the supervisor wouldn’t
notice he was late
fearing that day
that he would have to turn
to his wife
his children
his parents
and tell them that this was the end
that this was the day
their comfortable lives
came to a screeching fucking halt
and they would be poor,
empty, and oh so fucking
broken
like last Tuesdays garbage
or the newborn waiting in the dumpster
for a mother
someone else’s problem, now
left to face that cold world, alone
and isolated
without a soul in the world
to care, just care
fate wrote death on their
gritty warn palms,
and destiny,
was a bastard.

Me?
frankly, I felt
This corner simply wasn’t enough
I was racing into nowhere
into nothingness
we all were, in a sense.
but me,
I had no destination
I was racing
to the sound of my own heartbeat
until my little metal extention morphed
into the little engine that couldn’t
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that this rock was flat
and I would fall
off the edge of the earth
into nothingness,
Into nowhere,
before that needle hit the red.

But everything
remained the same
we were all running
from something we all knew
at heart,
we could never escape
not even on Nietzsche’s birthday

but surely,
That didn’t stop us
cuz’ that broken old stoplight turned
green
and we put the pedal to the metal
and the sound of
tires burning and
engines roaring
permuted the air
and death
also lingered

we were cold,
and tired,
and broken.
fucking broken
and we were all racing away
from our own
reflections

Fatal Science




Never before have I seen
a race
so arrogant and
snotty
as to hold the power
to destroy themselves,
their unborn children
their pets
hell, even rip mother earth
a new one!
and be as bold
as to look god strait in the eye
and promise that this,
this nightmare
was really for
world peace

this was, of course
the biggest joke of the twenty first century:
"technology,
was the solution to
all of mans problems"
we built and built
and built
-- Machines, Factories,
Prisons, Schools,
Trains, Airplanes, Cars
and of course, motors
to run those trains, airplanes and cars.

"Stronger, Faster, More Efficient!"
this was modernity's mantra
growth was no longer an option,
it was a condition of life.
"by whatever means necessary"
we thought,
as we raced to our death beds
sure, the trains were on time
but overnight
we had death camps,
biological warfare
and an arms race.
everyone was finally ready
to fall asleep for the very last time.

Shit,
we can't blame them
how were they supposed to know?
that those motors
would propel trains
with people, or less than people aboard
to their final demise
but nevertheless,
on time.

with the same science
that created that wretched bomb'
we aimed those missles into the sky
and fired
fired fired!
blowing our own savior
right out of that fucking sky
God was dead,
and we had killed him.

what waters could we turn to
to clense our hands
of the sin to end all sins,
the murderers of all murderers.

"what festivals of attonement
would we invent now?"
they called to the heavens,
but no one answered,
so they built offerings to the gods
iPods and Attombombs
Trains and Deathcamps
Cars and Resource Wars
Sex and Sexually Transmitted Diseases
this was our festival
but their holy water remained wine
or crown n' coke for that matter,
for science was their new god
their new idol
and there, that night
in the shadow of their befallen god
everyboddy just wanted to get a little fucked up
because there was no
fucking reason
to live
any other way.

we had already built our own coffins,
and now there was only time for one last puff
of our final death stick
as we drowned ourselves
in the blood
of our new
god.

A Softer World



This world needs more people like us:
Poets,
Writers,
Idealists,
Dreamers, 
Artists,
and Artisans
maybe then, 
we could paint beautiful wars;
with epic beginnings and tragic endings
instead of waging wars
with greedy beginnings
and no endings
at all.

a knock but no answer




Black, Dark

frigid
endless
nights
is all that he knows
no sunshine in these eyes
only darkness
and pain
oh so fucking grusome
pain
of a life not
worth living

the children pointed
at that courpse,
that empty sick fucker
"the passive nihilist"
they called him
others called him weakness
or dispair
or "that empty, sick fucker"
whatever the lable,
he was scoffed at
by that race
of beautiful men
and brawny women

no meaning
no direction
there was onthing in
that lifeless mind
only a passive existence
day in and day out
chasing away death
only to wollow in his filth
for one more mediocre day
and for what?
this man,
was existing
(if you could even call it that)
for the sake of breathing
but, the irony of it all
was that every breath
was as meaningless as the last
yes,
dark, dreary and
oh so fucking cold
nights
were all this man knew.

Although meaning still bled
from the people who scoffed at this man
this meaning was not their own
they bled false blood
of christ
and were able to exist
with that false blood
and little
more

There's irony in this whole mess
that only a man of the highest virtue could understand
and this was that these people too
would suffer the same fate
of that sick, poor
fuck they scoffed at
sooner than later
nihilism would be at their door
black skies
hopelessness
and total despair
was the inevitable consequence
of the human condition.
"we must pay for having been christians
for two thousand years!"
the fletchers would cry
as they whipped their sinful spines

And I
I only laughed
at those poor sick
fucks
who knew not how to create for themselves
as I charred up the first cigarette of the night
I laughed
becuase I knew
there was not a thing
you, me,
god or the moon
could do
about it

Nihilism was at our door.

Your Awakening




This is for you,
my dear friend with
two crutches
or four, or a million
for that matter

"at least, at least"
they say,
"this is all that happened!
you could be in a coma
or a vegetable
or dead
or a million pieces!"
(right now)

you hear their comfortable lies
but there's a hint of truth to it
this is all that happened
they do not see, simply can't see
all that you've lost
your independence
your freedom
your sweet ride
that you drove senselessly
into the night
searching for a who, a why,
a god,
and a friend
who was just as lost in lifes torrent
as you were
(or are,
I really don't know the answer.)

Fuck,
that never stopped you though
you didn't want that answer in the first place!
the mistry and misery of life was enough
to satisfy your thirst
for life,
for existential experience.

through the highs and lows,
you wanted it all
"to smoke weed on the goldengate bridge"
"to drive on the wrong side of the road"
your plan, to live life on the edge
"so it goes" you'd say,
laughing in the face of destruction
as you watched the city burn,
you lit a cigarette,
or two.
Captivated by your disasterous charm,
infamous smile, and your
rough palms and plush lips
tainted with smoke
and a love lost.
"you wanted it all,"
I thought
"through the highs, and the
lows."

Unfortunately,
we can't always get what we want
Fate has a poor sense of humor,
but that's how it chose to play it's hand
there's no deed that we may seperate from the doer
no subject from its predicate,
no predicate from it's clause,
no subject from infinite possibilities.
The irony of the matter is,
that you weren't the person
driving on the wrong side of the road
you were just another old joe,
or jane,
or natalie,
for that matter
not knowing what destiny had written
on those gritty warn palms
of yours.

But in your moment of truth
there was not a whisper
much less, laughter
as the truck smashed into your
sweet ride
there was onlyt eh sound of crushing bones
and twisted metal
as the stench of carnage permuted the air
the stench of death, also lingered
thank god, thank heavens
(or the spaghetti monster,
for that matter)
that that wasn't your stench,
your last night,
your final cruise through existence.
your fire burnt strong,
as they lifted your worn body into the ambulance
and ripped off your clothes
on that dark,
December night.

Sadly that is,
that is,
how fate played it's hand
you wanted it all
and your prayers were answered
there's nothing you could have odne differently
nothing that could stop
destiny from taking it's course,
no deed that could be seperated from the doer
no subject from it's predicate.
it was done
now,
now there's simply not time
for "what ifs" and "if onlys"
only you, and your crutches
and a will to fight
that I hope you haven't lost
that spark, that twinkle
in your amber brown eyes
that kept me up to all hours of the night.

I do not understand
I don't
what it means to be you
your crutches, I will never hold
but I do know what it is to have crutches
hopes, dreams and thoughts,
substances.
that we rely on,
and hold closer
than life itself
because it's that
damn
precious.

Sure, it's not fair
"why you, why me
why any of us for that matter?"
because that is how this moment was structured.
there is no subject that can be seperated from it's predicate
no deed from it's doer
no predicate from it's clause.
only you, me,
and millions of other nobodies
clinging to their crutches
fighting for just
one more
breadth.

I don't make very many promises
but I'm a man of my word
If you never know again
how to jump, bike and play
that there will be room
on my picnic blanket
in some park
at the corner of nowhere and nothingness
that we can watch children do
what children do best
and leave the rest to fate.

Honest Men are Cheats





On winter days,
even at the heart of the gulf of Texas;
Sugar Land, Texas
to be exact
my mother always told me to
stay inside
where it was warm and safe
where the bitter cold,
or the murderers or the rapists
or life
couldn't hurt me.

but I knew better
than to listen to her words,
of caution, of reproach
rather,
she had taught me better.

I am an honest man,
or at least I'd like to think so
I am not ashamed of giving credit
where it is due.

But who wouldn't?
(like to think they were honest men, that is)
the murderers? the rapists?
surely they had mothers too
who had nurtured them
taught them the virtues of an honest man
surely, they were honest men too
at least
some of
the time

this was this,
and that was that
until one day
I met a man with a burley black mustache
the most honest of men, perhaps
who showed me what a lie I was living!
he knew nothing of this "honesty"
i spoke of
but seemingly knew all there was to know about men;
and women I suppose -
this man, and his black burley mustache
showed me this was that
and this, was
nothing at all.

there are some that take pleasure in being
what they think, is an "honest man"
spending their entire lives
inside
next to their mothers,
where the cold or the rapists
or the murderers
or life
can't hurt them.
and they are honest men, too.
for what do they know?
(that with every day, every step
every breath of their comfortable
petty lives, they are lying)

To themselves.

And this profound conclusion
was made possible by that man
with the burley black mustache
whom I met on the philosophy shelf
at a bookstore no one has ever heard of
at the corner of nowhere
and nothingness.
It took a man of real honesty
to show me
that my only mother was fate
and it was my destiny to remain
forever by her side -
no matter where I went,
what I did
and what women I slept with.

Now I see
my mother taught me
how to be an honest man

Sure, I steal sometimes
and lie even more often
and swear wilder than the
rowdiest of cowboys-turned sailors
I am an honest man,
(to myself, at least)

Some men, who claim to be honest.
Also claim we need more compassion
more love, more humanity
more Jesus
and less aboritions
but in my honest opinion,
all this world really needs
is a few more honest men
with
burley
black
mustaches

18th & West Alabama





Her fingers are nimble
and her eyes, deep and soulful
like the california sunset -- Amber Brown
Her beautiful figure could fool a guy
or two, or three or five
but underneath her shimmering
cover-girl lips and charcoaled framed amber eyes
lies the scar tissue

she wears her heart on her sleeve,
"You're only young once..." she thinks
but under it all, she knows this man, or any other
can't fill the lack of friendship; of love
of seeing beyond that
figure-eight body;
or amber eyes, or covergirl lips
but the spirit of gravity
cannot choke this flower...
from dreaming:
of a quaint home
where she can raise her new born baby girl
or a man to sweep her off her feet
care for her, just like daddy used to...
before the accident.

"One more night" she thinks...
for the thousanth
And oneth time,
as she gets in the car
where a horny businessman thinks:
"tonight's going to be a night to remember"

Fuck you, Cupid




You are the god of love,

but the assasin of friendship

I hate your guts, you fucker

but I like your style


I was only thirteen
thir-teen
when I met that

brown-eyed mess

that beautiful goddess

or infamous tramp

depending on who you ask

or rather, when you ask it


It scares me though, it does

that she could be both a creator,

my brown eyed goddess;

and a destroyer,

that, infamous bitch;

in the eyes of the same lover

although, a lover

no more

fuck you cupid,
for letting your dogs loose

on the best friend I could ever ask for;

but if I could do it all over again

I wouldn't have it any other way

because that is how

this moment was shaped.

Please don’t tell me now




It has been 7 suns
Since I last felt your warm embrace
And eight
Eight, oh so fucking
Cold
Nights
Your gentle hands
Exposed a world, I thought
I would never see
But now it’s
Gone
Gone
Gone
And I am once again lost
In the torrent of life
Like an autumn leaf tossing in winter winds
Out of place
And out of control.
Still,
I would not have it any other way;
Cupid stabbed my heart,
And now,
I must have my revenge
Please,
My creator
My destroyer
If you love me;
at all,
Please don’t tell me now.

The American Way



America,
This one’s for you –
Home of the brave
And land of the free
--market capitalism, that is.


Surely, our forefathers
-and mothers,
Started with the best of intentions
“A democracy
Of the people, by the people
For the people”
They said, of course a “person” was
A rich land owning white male over the age of twenty one


Truth be told,
It was really built by a coalition
Of two-thirds of people,
For the land-owning white people
On the backs of savage people
Who had brown skin
And lived with the land
Instead of against
Or off of, it
These people simply did not understand
“The American way”


“God Bless America”
Some vengeful god that must havre been
With the power of “manifest destiny”
He promised those
Greedy white men
An entire continent
Which they traded “money,”
A magical combination of green paper and metal coins
To other rich white males
Who also knew how to live against the land
In exchange for the land they then called
America.


Of course, God’s have a sense of humor too
Although it’s a poor one, at best
Because they made contradictory promises like that all the time
This one time
He, or she, or it – for that matter
Promised the same land to two different people’s
One which claimed to be “chosen” and apparently killed his first son
And another who refused to drink his blood, and prayed five times, daily.
Then told each of them, to claim it in his honor
This land, they called
Jerusalem.


That same god also told these
Rich white men, who called themselves Americans
And more generally, his children
To claim this land between two bodies of water in his name
So, as any child would
They obeyed the command of their father
And played a violent game of “capture the flag”
With the other people who had lived there for eons
Who had brown skin
And did not know “the American way”
Of course “flag”
Really meant life
And the white skinned people,
Did more killing than they did capturing
They did it with the best of intentions
And after all,
that’s what really mattered.

Of course America was also the land of
Religions freedom
One was free to worship whatever god he or she wanted
In so far as they also worshipped
Those green pieces of paper and metal coins
Which they gladly did
So the greediest and most “American”
Of all Rich, white, land-owning, men
Who promised god to represent the will of the people
(that is, the rich land-owning white male people)
Promised some of those green pieces of paper and metal coins
To the poorer, more rugged of the white male genus
In exchange for the heads of those brown people,
Who used the land wrong
Or did not use it at all

Of course everyone knew that children,
Of all colors were easy to kill
So they gave more money for the full-grown heads
Of those brown, heathen people
And even more for those which appeared to have penises

But the Americans have always been
A gentle people
Eventually, they felt bad for those
Heathen brown people
Who had not yet learned how to keep themselves warm.
So that winter, they gave them blankets
Of course, those blankets were infested with small invisible creatures
That made people who were not naturally immune
--Or otherwise, rich and white,
Very, Very ill.
“it was better to die warm
Than freeze to death”
They thought.

But America was no savage land
It was a land of honor, a land of justice
Eventually – those white people without penises
Managed to menstruate simultaneously
And demanded that those with penises treat them equally.
Menstruation was a technique of bleeding
For seven dsays at a time while lashing out at people
Without having to bear the consequences of doing so.
Basically, a get out of jail free card
So, to appease those people
The rich white land owning male people promised that
Those white people with vaginas instead of penises
Could help choose the rich white people
To represent their political wishes,
In a city they called “Washington”


The two-third people with charcoal skin
Were also awarded similar rights
On the condition that they don’t bother the people with white skin
“separate but equal”
The rich white men thought

So they built separate schools
And separate bathrooms
And separate restaurants
And separate water fountains
For the charcoal people
Of course the rich white men knew,
That some pigs were more equal than others.

The people with brown skin also
Got their “separate but equal”
In exchange for leaving the white people alone
And not complaining about the blankets
And the killings from back when they were less-than-people
So they gave them some of the land back,
But the brown people still missed
Their less-than-people who were brutally slaughtered
So they cried all the way to their new homes.

This land was eventually called “native country”
By the rich white people
Who sometimes walked down the trail of tears
To try and multiply their green paper
At placed called “Indian Casino’s”
But most of the rich white people lost money
So the rich white people who governed some of the states
(Which were smaller, more concentrated units of Americas)
Who could not stand to see the brown people win,
Banned those Casinos
On the land they supposedly gave back.

Now-A-Days
Americans claim they have changed their ways
Since the charcoal people and the brown people
With penises and vaginas
Are practically equal—
Or equally disadvantaged, at least
But some other people with brown skin
From some other continent
Who pray five times a day, to some other god
Don’t believe them
and occasionally fly planes into a few American buildings,
(which are tall structures that tickle the clouds
That were built by poor people
Of all colors
For rich white male people to work, pee
And cheat on their wives in.

But America,
Oh America
Has always been a just land
So we just labeled those people “terrorists”
And “enemy combatants” so we wouldn’t
Feel so guilty about slaughtering them, either
Maybe one of these days..
They too,
Will get their blankets.

To Blossom



They say spring is the most Beautiful season
I thought so too, That is,
until you showed me
Summer was the season
our love would blossom.
I had seen you around before,
Exchanged an embarrassing
Facebook message, Or two
But it was not until the summer
Of my senior year, That I felt you.
The person
The most beautiful Event,
that ever collided
With this lost, confused soul.
But that is how the world goes round,
That’s how destiny chose
To play it’s hand
On that august night
As we sat against the wall
In what we thought then, was
The most miserable of establishments
Staring at an apartment complex
Across the road where other people danced,
And partied the night away…




We danced too,
That night in the silent dorm roomTo our
own love songOne more beautiful than
I had Ever heard or felt.
This, I experienced.
The only sound
I heard was the sound
of our Heavy breathing
As you bit my lip And I
slipped my hands around
your Beautiful plush waste.
I was lost in your big brown
Eyes, for what Felt like a century.
Time passes slowly when you are
Learning to savor every second.
We fought the good fight -- You and I
Against fate, Against distance
Through even the coldest nights,
we kept our fire burning strong
whispering secrets to each other
late into the nightwe found warmth
in each others voices
while the lovers slept
and the poets prayed.



“two days and ten hours”
That’s how far we were from each other
But for that beautiful month,
You were here with me
By my side.
In my big broken bed,
I always left you a spot next to me,
And a match
Half-hoping that you would really
Be here, when I awoke
And we could
Burn that broken bed
Under the heat of our bodies;
Spark a love,
That we both knew
We had left, in our summer skin.


Cheers, here is to you—
My brown eye’d beauty,
We will always have Paris
Or whatever you want
to call that miserable
Austin dormroom
Where I learned
What Love
Was

Daybreak





Sir,
I call you a lot of things
Some good
And some bad
You are my provider – yes
You brought me into this world
And that’s a fact that sadly,
I cannot ignore
Whether on purpose, or by accident
Is a subject up for debate
But something you could never be,
Or will be,
Is my father.
No matter who’s name is on my birthcertificate
Or whatever last name I bear.
Sure, you are not only to blame,
It takes two to bear a grudge
But as long as you expect me
To live in your shadow;
To be your reflection –
I’m sorry
There’s simply no room for you here
I have simply grown too full for your cup
Of rum and coke
Or black label and sprite
From which you drank yourself blind
--To my accomplishments;
My growth.


But I know this is your home,
Your castle,
And like you always said
“we do things (your) way around here”
So please,
Do not be offended
As I take my leave,
My leap
My chance – at life
To see for myself whether or not
The grass is really greener on the other side
Don’t get me wrong
You will always be a part of me
The part that I’m always running from
Your shadow
Your reflection
Your smell and your touch
I hope, I pray
To a god I don’t believe in
I can be a better father
Than you
Ever
Were

Older Posts