Weeds

Growing up my neighbors had a perfectly manicured lawn.

No scratch that.

My Neighbors had Mani-Pedi day at the salon type lawn.

With grass so green it hurt to look at it,

Mowed so precisely it would cut your feet to walk on it.

My lawn growing up was not so.

My front yard was characterized by a tree, a couple flower beds, patches of dirt and most importantly dandelions

I loved our dandelions, they were wishes, countless wishes, which would ride winds, to find new homes and grow into the world.

They were hope incarnate,

Sticky chocolate cheeks puffed out,

A lung full of desire

And a mouthful of promise

And enough naiveté to think that a breath could speak wants into existence.

I still blow on dandelions.

In a world where wishes are rejected by realists

Where neighbors yell about flowers blown onto their lawn

Where people say “get real” but instead of it being encouragement to will wishes into reality  it is a condemnation saying settle for mediocrity

People tell me “Those are weeds, not flowers”

What defines a weed?

It grows when unwanted,

It’s tough to kill

And if you want to fit in, they’ve got to go

But if I cared about fitting in, this would be a poem about puzzles not dandelions

So let me tell you, I will blow on dandelions until age steals the breath I have

And will not only abstain from weed killers,

But will cultivate wishes for my kids

And if I look into it I will sip the wine of fermented wishes

Get drunk on possibility

And run out at night

Stage an assault on normalcy and conformity

And blow dreams and desires on to manicured lawns

And when yellow hopes blossom in emerald deserts

Someone will say “Man, those things turn up everywhere”

Blinded

There’s an old urban myth I know

Apparently, if you looks through a telescope at the sun

It blinds you.

Someone told me that when I was little,

And like many things one hears at a young age,

It became truth whether or not it is factual.

Sometimes, on days when the sun rises like a balloon

 that someone trusted a toddler to hold on to,

not knowing kids believe in the liberty of yellow latex,

and want nothing more than proof that things can fly,

I steal glances at the sun.

And when I look away, the sun is still printed on my vision.

So I think

If it’s true

That the sun doesn’t steal your sight if you look at it

It is simply so beautiful that looking at it so closely

Means your eyes will never want to see again.

It makes me think about you.

How after I hold your hand my fingers seem to stop working

Almost like ten digits are protesting

Telling me that they’ve found a home.

Or how food tastes like ashes in the wake of your lips

And my lungs are sanctioning oxygen since breathing you in.

And how my feet have a mind of their own,

and I can’t walk anywhere without first taking a few steps towards wherever you are

I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since looking in your eyes

But I’m saying I have found a movie I never want to stop watching there

I’m not saying I’ve gone blind since playing connect the dots with the constellations of your freckles,

But, I’m saying I’ve found a game that I will always win

I haven’t gone deaf since I heard you laugh

But I’m saying I’ve found a song with a melody that always changes and unfamiliar lyrics that I want to learn

I’m saying that ever since I saw you light up

I’ve been watching

Because I believe in the liberty of yellow latex

And proof that things can fly

And every since I started stealing glances at you

You’ve been imprinted on my eyes.

Sublimation

Sublimation describes the process in which a substance goes from a solid state to a gaseous one, without first melting and becoming liquid.
Think dry ice--
but dont because it's far too cold.
Think of something less scientific,
like stock in gold!
It's shining, beautiful solid but not really.
You can hold it  with finger tips,
and let it go with computer clicks
It's the idea of something precious,,
but you are not something to be bought or sold.
I know I must sound silly,
and this is me, no really,
this is me coming to terms that you are not mine to hold.
Not in that our relationship is ending
more in that it changing,
where once it sat in the midst of hands holding
fingers twining, boy bands whining,
now it travels in letters ill be sending
and in hopes ill be lending
to you
in case you get a little hopeless
but note those are not for keeps ill need them back
at some point along the way
not tomorrow nor the next day
but eventually.
Cause I get a little hopeless sometimes.
Im sorry that this will be joining a long line
of overused overlapping rhymes
that use pretty similar combinations of the words:
"smile" and "mile" and "see you in a while"
all to convey the same message:
You're far away, and I still love you.
You're disappearing like dry ice,
but less cold,
think sunshine on reddish blonde hair.
and lets take a second to appreciate the fact
that the phrase the world coined was strawberry blonde
because the other option was cherry.
I fucking hate cherries.
I much prefer strawberries,
My dad thought I was nutrient deficient so I had strawberries almost every morning.
I was an obstinent kid and would always resist.
When I complained my dad would sprinkle sugar on them,
like he could make strawberries sweeter.
And I cant wait till he meets you
because he was preparing me for something that is sweeter
sweeter than southern ice tea
sweeter than  the scent of summer pine trees
sweeter than syrup spread generously
sweeter than hive robbing fingers covered in honey
sweeter than light blue cotton candy
like he was telling me:
listen pal one day you'll meet her,
the girl sweeter than strawberries,
she'll taste like this.
Sublimation describes the process in which a substance goes from a solid state to a gaseous one with out first melting and becoming a liquid.
Think a beautiful girl.
Who is sweeter than strawberries.
Who is slipping through my fingers.

Evenor Marquez

For this poem, we are going to leave out the numbers,
Not because I think you're dumb,
but instead because I think numbers leave you numb.
Instead, I'll give you a name.
This name may have more power than any statistic ever could,
This name holds more weight in my heart than any human should.
This name I cannot attach to a place,
nor when it comes to mind can I see a face.
In five syllables it holds more pain,
than any set of thumbscrews could ever gain,
it holds not title, it lacks any fame,
a problem I seek to remedy without any shame,
I have never met the man who owned this name,
but despite that fact, I will still proclaim,
Evenor Marquez.
Presente
I picked his name from a long list,
and since I did I've been called everything from an idiot to an idealist
I've been faced with fascists that would paint themselves as realists
Using a patronizing patriotic voice to tell what the deal is:
that sometimes violence is the answer, well tell me if you can feel this
Id drop books before bombs,
and replace battle cries with psalms,
turn the tide in seas of battle to tranquil calms.
and keep kids in the arms of their moms.
I'd put the power  of peace before brutality and blades
throw words in place of shrapnel and hand grenades
shut down a school that hands out bullets instead of grades,
all because of this one name which never fades.
Evenor Marquez.
Presente.
As we stand here tonight
we may drive out darkness with light
because we have been given ways to be bright
because we know how to act in the right
We could tools from Tesla and from Edison
as our most efficient and strongest medicine
to drive out shadows that plague our kin
we must read the stories in the scars on their skin
we make music with their grief, an almighty din
I will not allow myself wallow, hopeless in sin
all because of one name:
Evenor Marquez.
Presente.
I could give you books of many a martyr and saint,
name the men who sought not lead but to dominate,
but none of these names could my point demonstrate,
nor could they the crooked, cruel, culprits incriminate,
no i will give you the source from where the problems emanate,
it is we, the people cannot control our state.
I'm calling us all out now because there is response I seek to agitate,
I wish us to get past political promises that seek to placate,
I want us to be people they cannot easily sedate,
Because there are those that to us have chaine their fate.
If you're still unsure think of those for whom it's too late,
Evenor Marquez.
Presente.
I am here tonight because of a name that is with me every day,
as constant as the cracks in my joints as I kneel to pray.
It is tacked on to my tongue and every word that I lay,
I am here because I hold a hope that somehow someway,
there be someone somewhere someday will say,
Evenor Marquez.
Presente.

American Skills

We are good at a few things here in America.
First of all we're good at killing,
follow up on that and we're good at billing,
which in the case of the poor, is essentially killing,
so like I said, here in America, we're good at killing,
and when you think about it, it's awfully chilling
that we focus on murder when we could be filling
empty stomachs and cracks in the wall,
and some of you dont understand at all,
how long and how low some kids must crawl,
looking up to men who snatch purses drop verses or know who to ball,
and it's ironic that despite being so low, they still have so far to fall,
I'm inspired by the kids who manage to deny death,
with each and every embattled bailout breath,
now I dont want you to be confused,
I reference not the money with which the economy was infused,
with my subjects the politicians are far less enthused,
and that is why a presidents bipartisan bullshit promises leave me unamused.
We need to get past this pulled up by boot straps mentality,
come on people there is no such thing as meritocracy.
I protest the pund of my flesh versus coins held preciously,
because if there is anything else we're goo at in America, it's defying authority.
I dare you to price check my labor, you couldn't possibly pay my fee,
if for no other reason, than the fact that it is imaginary.
Here have some advice, have no fear it's free,
try a taste of the American Identity,
Fuck the system.

In Defense of Stray Thoughts

Thoughts are not clouds against the sky, they push up against my feet so I say they are the ground.
Watch as illusions, conclusions and contusions blossom when from my lips leak creation sound.
Words wielded as weapons are no more weak when whispered, or so I have found,
thus it is neither volume nor vibration, but thought to which the soul is bound.
I am not mindful nor am I mindless,
don't confuse my distraction as being thoughtless,
my scattered psyche and tangent trails are a form of progress.
Moving on from a single volition is not a symptom of weak decision, I must confess,
had I not divergent dedication and meandering meditation I would need medication and be pointless.
There are those who would have me be pointless though,
and if I were we would never grow.
I do not want to simply hand out lines for you to toe,
nor do I was to hand out neatly wrapped gifts tied with a bow.
See I would rather have you say "I think" rather than "I know."
How many times have I heard: "You got somethin' kid so with your points be blunt."
Sadly, my mind does not speak in gesture and grunt.
You could learn lessons from non-linear lyrics that loop backwards like they're asking "why only approach from the front."
Don't tell me that my mind is tattered,
because I have never thought that mattered,
and it was never simplicity with which woeful worlds were shattered.
I am told that I have a problem with ambiguity,
probably because I seek to make a throne for it in my poetry,
and I am fond of double entendre, which means I lack maturity.
I seek to make you question mind, soul and authority.
How is this for a work out? Can you flex your morality?
Are you no longer relishing this relative reality?
Are you enjoying this taste of true authenticity?
Come and join me in the writing community.
I understand if your can't get a grip or handle me,
but if you do see yourself as sky, strong, blue and free,
than I hope I have done nothing else than made you cloudy.

Mary's Light

I think that everyone is afraid of the dark,
but, I was still ashamed of my Mother Mary night light.
So much so that once out of sheer peer induced 6 year old bravado,
I unplugged her,
that night as I lay in bed, of nothing was I sure.
In fact I probably would have cried,
if not for on of my city's thousand street lights.
At age six those lights tinge everything gold.
It was a comfort really,
and not to get all touchy feely,
but it made me feel not so alone,
like if I curled exactly where the light shone
The monsters couldn't get me.

Nowadays the lights tinge everything orange.
Kind of like it has been dark so long that the shadows themselves have started to rust.
It's kind of funny that of all the things the night could become, it became oxidized,
because it seems like oxygen has been less than abundant lately,
My lungs are saturated with exhaust fumes,
and I scrape my feet before coming inside,
lest I leave a trail of carbon foot prints leading to my door.
Then I have to shake the orange flakes from my shadow,
cause we dont want that decay on the floor.

I take up my position beneath a skylight,
and wonder if maybe the night didn't rust,
but was obscured by the trapped in amber dreams.
Dreams people let go of in trade for things like job assurance or self confidence.
then instead of the night rusting it's burning,
because after all, what is more flammable than a dream?
and what is more flame retardent than gun powder?
Cause I dont know anything that can douse an abstract ember faster,
than a misplaced bullet... unless it was a well aimed one.
Wouldn't be ironic if we armed fire fighters with these most fantastic extinguishers?
Send out the kids who never let go of their bright red toy truck ideals,
and let them deal with the blazing detritus of abandoned aspirations.

I think everyone is afraid of the dark,
so I understand why someone would give up a dream
light it with a cigarette
pulled from a pack called regret,
a pact they never thought they'd get.
Then curl up on the edge of the pyre,
thinking silly thoughts like:
"Maybe if I lie right here the monsters wont get me."

It doesn't matter that it has been more than a decade since I unplugged the maiden Mary.
I am still afraid of monsters.
Boogeymen named failure and solitude,
who have long dirty claws that scrape at rib cages,
and the space just behind my eyes.
I'm far too old not to believe in evil.
Far too old to think that a:
"Hail Mary, full of grace!"
could put bold monsters in their place.
I'm far too young not to try it anyways.
Isn't that why anyone prays?
because the plausible and the possible have been played,
and all that remains is grace.

At this point, most hope has been painted to black doom,
with soot from dreams burned up in exhaust fumes,
and breaths that were eaten up by the oxidized gloom.

So scared of the dark am I,
that the first time I experienced true night
the kind speckled with stars that inspire,
boys to tell sweet and sweaty lies
to get girls to open not yet ready thighs,
All I could think was that here hide all the monsters I despise,
here where the night is new and free of rust
the monsters have their time to bide,
and no number of fiery dreams could have that night defied.
I surpassed terrified and became petrified,
my body was now a cave,
and if one were feeling brave,
they could have read the message carved into the stone of my rib cage
"Do not waste your time, this one wont be saved."

I think that everyone is afraid of the dark.
If they think aren't,
than I think they've never looked inside,
suddenly it's not so funny to think of "Where the sun dont shine."
Cause the sun doesnt shine,
on things curled around your spine,
nor does it radiate inside of your chest,
are you sure that is a heart that beats beneath your breast?
I think if I were a monster it is there I would like best.
I do not mean to be a pest,
nor do I wish to disturb your rest
but if sleep alludes you, you could try a guest,
I have one I might suggest...
her name is Mary.