I used to believe in love never leaving,

It'd stay through the season, endure any treason, 

Persist through all reason and always be pleasing.

But love is not that, at least not always

It can be pretty yes, but brutal in all ways,

it can burn the rest of you out, like acid in your veins.

It can be a balm for some pains,

but also like salt in an unhealed wound. 

I don't know the origin of that classic idiom;

'It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'

I am relatively sure, that its originator had not in fact loved and lost after all.

Because who would take the pain of certainty over unknowing serenity?

I would rather have a hopeful bliss of ignorance of the futures eternity. 

I wonder is their anything more hopeless than surety? 

 As a child, I would often proudly proclaim I would never smoke.

I would say "The body is a temple, and shouldn't be stained by THC and nicotine."

As though priest and shaman alike have not reverence for the sacred power of smoke stained air. 

Nowadays, I'd say the oxygen that was once sweet in my mouth has soured.

I'd say I see a little too clearly, and could use the grace of obfuscation. 

I could weep rain and craft clouds with little more than breath and intention. 

Yet the holy wind within me remains undiminished,

I can cleave it, as sharp as a knife if need be,

I smother it with lip and lung,

I shape it with tooth and tongue.

Yet it ever trembles in my chest demanding release,

Sometimes it escapes in squeaking stuttering struggle

Sometimes it seems to only return in anguish. 

But this cycle of repeated release

Vibrato born of storm shaken passion,

Could be called singing.

Or weeping.

or both. 

Bottoms Up

A madman inside me rages, I am so alone

The madman succeeds and so I must atone.

The child in me whimpers, he just wants to help,

the mother in me doesn't recognize the child as her whelp.

Love yourself as though you were my child

Love yourself in green and gold and good and wood and wild

Love yourself in magic spells, that maybe could be true,

love yourself in secret messages in your least favorite hue.

Love yourself in stories that you edited for fun

love yourself in broken streets that are no less fun to run. 

Love yourself with safety for you and all the other yous

love yourself like you would love you if you met you in passing

Love yourself without remorse and don't let the past sting

love yourself in letters written on someone else's behalf

Love yourself in wisdom and know you're not the chaff 

I have loved and could always love anyone this way

except of course for me myself, at least not for today

I'm seeking transcripts from a mind that wont take notes

See if we were real or what was our deal 

cause codependent's such a small word

And if it is a diagnosis, is this a life long affliction my critical addiction?

It seems my hole was never full, and yet since I left its feels more empty.

If art can only come from abundance, why does every song draw blood?

Who am I to say who is and is not a stud. or a dud. or a bud, but probably not with bubbly. 

I talk backwards to myself sometimes because my brain doesn't like doing what its told

sometimes my fingers need to grab my conscious from my soul, and smoke a bowl knock the me out of me so I can see what I could be if hated myself a little less took the hit and had a guest at my own personal me fest. Or me feast, sometimes everyone's eyes look hungry. I'm sure mine are starving. 

Jesus is at the door again.

Jesus is at the door again,

And he’s ringing on the phone.

He’s pulling on my heart strings,

Like an old dog with a bone. 

Today he says he’s hungry,

Hasn’t eaten in a week.

But there’s henny on his breath 

And his knees are looking weak. 

I don't know what I’ve got,

But I know it’s not enough,

Hope and peanut butter,

Tuna cans and other stuff.

Jesus is at the door again,

And he’s ringing on the phone.

He’s pulling on my heart strings,

And I do not like his tone

He’s indignant. 

He says I oughtta know 

How much I owe 

to the blood he spilled,

and bodies he buried, 

And resurrected 

Before he goes, he lays me low,

“Ain't you never had a debt befo’?”

Jesus is at the door again,

And he’s ringing on the phone.

She’s pulling on my heart strings,

Demanding I atone.

Today blood drips from her hands.

She’s got toilet paper bandages,

Held with rubber bands.

I didn’t see and let her wait at first,

I hope she understands.

What I could do was not enough,

But that is often how it stands.

Jesus is at the door again,

And he’s ringing on the phone.

He says “Just hang in there,

I swear you’re not alone”

Compulsive Masculinity

In the era of unrealistic standards for women,
With the plastic precision  of barbie dolls,
and the physically impossible bust to waist ratio of Laura Croft
where the only thing that mirrors the warped results of a first attempt at photoshop
is the very standard that editing is trying to match.
We cannot ignore the corner that women in our society are literally being painted into,
but we also cannot ignore the reciprocal for our young men.
For every scantly clad, computer generated model on the cover of a magazine
there is an action figure being placed into the hands of a little boy.
That action figure has hands that are forever closed fists
that action figure comes complete with kung-fu kicks
that action figure is telling that little boy the exact opposite
of everything I have ever been taught to tell kids
See my kids have mantras that they echo around the classroom
"Hands are not for hitting"
"You can't just take that from me"
"I need help please"
That action figure, and the movies that spawned him
they tell kids that asking for help is for the weak,
they tell kids that the quickest way to solve the problem
is a combination closed fists, bullets and explosives,
and you can be damn sure whatever you want is always for the taking

I want us to remember and weep
for every little boy whose dreams are stained red
by the bloody myth of redemptive violence
whose games are permeated by deus ex machina guns
whose bullets only penetrate the bad guys.
I want to tell these kids bad guys only exist in nightmares
and political campaign speeches
but then I would have to explain to them what politics are
and there are rules about using filthy language around kids.
I want us to remember and weep
because damnit, it is OK to cry sometimes
Despite every movie, every adult, every cultural representation of MAN
that tells us boys dont cry
that tells us boys are meant to fight
that tells us boys are meant to chase down women or objects
that tells us boys are meant not to know the difference between the two
that tells us boys are all biceps and bravado
and it makes me sad that at age four,
I can already see boys looking at their hands and forgetting what they're for
so I want to remind them:
Guys, hands are not for hitting even when it seems like your heart is just for hurting,
they're for holding and writing and making
and even though you'll never see a Michelangelo action figure
with realistic brush stroke action,
or an MLK video game where players hold signs while marching and write speeches
that change a country
you can know that your hands are not molded into plastic fists
I want to remind them:
Guys, they can't just take it from you, your innocence and believe me they're coming for it,
they want to take it from you, replace it with extra helpings of testosterone and misogyny
but you can't let them.
Hold onto your hope,
because even though no one wakes up thinking:
"today I will tell a boy that manning up means hiding behind guns and knuckles
and forgetting any kind of empathy"
that seems to be the lesson the world has to offer
I want to remind them:
Guys, it's OK to ask for help, if we are helped when we need it and help when we are needed this whole world thing works, and I dont know of any obstacle that isn't lighter with an extra pair of hands.

But I can't say these things to four year olds,
I can only say them to you.
We've been sold on this definition of MAN for far too long
it's about time we asked for our money back
it's about time we canceled our societal subscription to compulsive masculinity.

Silent Language

There's something I need to say,
Words spoken in the language of silence
sighs that slip into unspoken soliloquies
that carry me to the edge of a stage
 that might as well be a cliff
and I cling to every 'if'
like a man fearing death clenches his crucifix
or a junkie on the corner clutches his fix,
I'm like the child of revolution raising my fist
my gesture says more than any single speech ever could
and I swear my heart bleeds more than I ever said it would
I let it lead more times than I should,
and I want to let my head take control,
but the heart holds the soul,
which defies reason
and like the changing of the season
it never stays cold,
but does once wither and freeze,
and I'm begging you please,
see past the ice and wait for the thaw
and now that even the unruled heart obeys one law:
that it must change.
and even though right now I am at the wrong end of this shooting range
I might yet turn a new page
and I know you're feeling a bit forsaken
you've been left by friends
that promised ends
but had not the means to hold them to the bitter finale
and if you're keeping track in your tally
the dashes and slashes
have turned into stabs and slices
from a blade that was made
with a goodbye bade
while a farewell was never proffered in trade
because some fires simply don't fade
but grow,
fanned by sighs holding soliloquies
and breaths that deny the heart its intentions.
So listen to this language of silence,
of forlorn fingers
and looks that linger
and know
your heart holds a home in mine.


Poet's Note:
I wrote this over a year ago, posted it in a video of poor quality and thought that was enough. So here is the written version

A Recipe For Start

From grades 6 to 12 I was always familiar with the administration,
and trust me it was not because they wanted to show appreciation,
generally I was faced with aggravation
or poorly disguised attempts at intimidation
which I could always shrug off without the least bit trepidation,
because by 13 the lie I told was an easy one:
"I'm sorry."
I often came home to the line "You know, you're teacher called today."
and went to bed to the line "You always have something to say."
It was ironic criticism coming from professional activists'
who would always say after shutting the door "we did name him for an anarchist..."

By 15 I could identify and diagnose a mark at 30 yards,
they usually had me pegged at 50,
They knew I was the kid that never learned he should be seen and not heard,
They knew I was the kid that didn't get beaten for back talk,
Because for every smart mouth wise crack, mom had a come back word
or two, or three,
So it went that, every figure of authority,
Pegged down a a part of me
There were those that knew I was a trouble maker,
but also an instigator,
on top of that a procrastinator,
and thus they tried to run me like a dictator.
and wouldn't give me the time of day,
but would throw it like a knife,
yelling "ABOUT DAMN TIME TO GET A WATCH!"
Then there were those that let me play the role of entertainer
like a solid comic that they kept on retainer
and for me it was a no brainer,
I liked the laughs, with jokes all things are better.
But my best teachers knew what to expect.
They never had to demand respect,
That they earned, only yelling to be direct,
These were the ones who would scratch out
"Trouble" on tests and write in "difference maker"
gave me the tools to preach peace with Mennonites and Quakers
Recognized I came from a long line of movers and shakers
Like my ma, they taught don't give up but meet halfway with takers
They took me off using labels like "haters"
Pointed out people are just needers
those who help them are leaders
those who prey upon them? conflict breeders
and if you care enough to be an interceder
then get in on their behalf,
gave encouragement to use my gifts and make 'em laugh
they were honest saying:
"sometimes you'll get the shaft.
but never, never stop giving what you have,
the truth. Not all of it, not even most of it, a small part
but with that, a steady heart
a touch of art
you can go and fill your shopping cart
get all your favorite ingredients
 because you've got what you need
to make a start."

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.

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.

Idiomatic Insanity

Lo siento.
Like, low I feel
Like I feel it
Like I'm sorry.
Por que?
For what?
what for a season?
Dame un razón or a razor,
and I will cut clean into us two.
So bésame, abrázame, screw it, mátame
because without you it doesn't matter to me.
Like my germanic antic
fails to manage a mind this manic
and my frantic tongue finds follie in a language romantic,
knowing it not, due to the taste and haste of panic.
No, I can't break the ice I'm like an organic titanic,
slowly sinking in the chill northern atlantic.

I just want to sleep.
Sólo quiero dormir.
Alone to pass through a door mere inches from my face.
into a land of fantasy y fantasmas.
This world, este mundo.
Is woefully mundane
it brings not literal but liturgical pain,
to live an existence so plain
with minds trapped in frames
souls and spirits subject to societal contrains.
No. No, I refuse to live as the man in chains,
I refuse to keep these ideas locked up in my brain,
So I guess I might be insane.
Can we make that a refrain?
Yes. I guess I might be insane,
because I want to speak in languages I don't know,
because I want to smell the soft scent of summer in sleet and snow,
because I want to plant a birch in the dark and then watch it grow.
Write love letters on its skin, set it ablaze, I hope you like the show.
Watch the smoke go winding through the wind
whilst whining soft hymns
as off to heaven it goes.
I guess I might be insane,
because for me the message here is quite plane,
I want you in a way that is not tame,
but say nothing and reasons like razors are to blame,
reasons like not knowing the rules to your game,
reasons that dont stop me from wanting to play,
I guess I might be insane.
'Cause there's this pounding in my head that I can barely explain
growing louder tumultuous over the words that I say,
it's like the reasons are pounding against one thought:
"I have nothing to lose and everything to gain."
The bouncing reasons have me shaking like tracks beneath a train.
But I'd better go to sleep now,
lest you think me insane.


Poet's note: I don't know how I feel about the title of the poem it might change.

A Complaint, a Commendation and a Call to Conscious

Dear American Representative Government,
I would like to place a complaint,
I take issue with a type of your product placement.
The item in question is your democracy starter kit,
Product ID #107-56 "writing a Terrorist Watch List."
Formerly known as "How to fight a  Communist."
Subtitled as "Unmalleable  Leadership Replacement"
Originally sold as "So You Want to be Imperialist?"
See, the problem I have found is that the kit doesnt work,
and at first I thought maybe just mine had a quirk,
and I didn't want to say anything and be the jerk,
but I've looked and know where the problem seems to lurk.
I called some friend in Iraq, Egypt and Iran,
then a few more in Palestine and Afghanistan,
Guatemala, Panama and Bolivia,
Ecuador, Chile, El Salvador and Columbia.
Then I went and chatted with Cambodia,
alongside Laos, Vietnam and Korea.
Then of course Greece and Bosnia,
Germany, Poland, former Yugoslavia,
and they agree,
Your problem is that you think you can export democracy,
on the backs of bullets
that end up buried in the bellies of peasants
you need to know that this does not qualify as diplomacy.
Between Shahs, Generals, Presidents and all the problems you didnt see,
there is one fact, and this is key:
Violence is not conducive for a state that's free.

Dear Revolutionaries, marchers and occupiers,
protestors, and indeed all other kinds and creeds bullshit deniers,
I would like to issue some congratulations,
yes you are receiving most sincere felicitations,
as opposed to the usual martial condemnations
and the God-Bless-'Murica-screw-you-hippies  damnations,
You folks are my favorite flavor of societal aberration.
I want you to know that your faith is not misplaced
With heads hooded, hands cuffed and wrists chaffed
your cry, your pain is a prayer most chaste.
Know that in your stone and bars tabernacle
where you worship with chain and shackle
you can let loose a laugh, a delirious cackle
for you have the war, even if they have the battle

Now, to you average citizen I'm glad you have waited.
I need you to take these folks we've got nominated,
and work towards getting them defenestrated
they're just part of a system from which our problems emanated
let's get agitated, let's get aggravated
damnit folks we're so close we've almost made it
I have an idea and here let me demonstrate it
This all comes down to power, to information
so come here listen, I'm talking dissemination
cause I am sick of the freedom imitation
I want love and life, lacking limitation
and it all starts with a legitimate administration
free of big buy lobbyist contamination
free of candidates that are simply a sensation
I'm asking a lot, but your presence here is an indication
That you know something is wrong within our nation.
So this is what I've got to ask,
I know it seems like a daunting task
but this is something we can't just let slip past
and we have got to act fast
cause the way things are going this chance wont last
because we are lining up, our roles have been cast
the stage is set, the actors amassed
get ready folk, this will be a blast,
what I need you to do is simply say no.
Tell the leaders that you wont just let this go,
that your signs and songs are not just a show
that you really are in the know
and that once our chants start to flow
once our numbers start to grow
our trumpets start to blow
our hearts fires start to glow
that autocratic mountains will be laid low
the process is one that only starts slow
then picks up pace until it takes off with a country in tow.
Dear average citizen, it all starts with you,
it only takes one to start or maybe two
but in case I havent gotten this through
you have power, possibly more than you knew.

My Drug of Choice

They say I'm not the type,
and sure I've never hit the pipe,
but don't believe the hype,
cause when the moment's ripe:
I'm a master of addiction
and Lord Almighty, is my drug lethal,  it's called conviction.
I could probably found as a picture next to the word stubborn in the book of diction
cause my need to be correct while you're wrong has become so strong it is now a restriction.
It holds me back from the light.
Like two good friends will hold you back from a fight,
or like a flickering street lamp will hold back the night,
or like gravity and calories hold me back from flight,
or like a muzzle can fail to hold back a dog's bite,
or like a BB gun can hold back a little boy's sight,
or like my XXXXXXL jeans hold back an ass that aint tight,
That's how bad I need to be right.
So yeah, I've never smoked a cigarette,
but my drug is worse I'll bet
see with smokes you can get like e-cigs or nicorette
but I dont know a good substitute yet.
So I can always be found, curled on the ground swearing: "No regret."
I probably wouldn't care about my grade,
like that's not how I get paid,
but for me the red exes on my test dont fade,
and I'd rather get checkmarks than get laid,
so buy magnets for the fridge cause my shit get's displayed.
Really though, y'all don't know how bad I get,
like sometimes I swear there's no fact I could forget,
So someone needs to call the vet,
cause I'm frothing at the mouth and need to be down,
don't look at me with that upset frown
what goes out always comes back around
and with all my bullshit outward bound
you don't want to be here when by karma I am found.
So you could say that I'm an argument whore,
can't you imagine me retching on the floor,
scrabbling, scratching, scraping at your door,
screaming: "Please tell me once more."
"You're right."

Fears

You know when you lean too far back in a chair,
and you almost fall and it gives you a scare?
Well, that's how I feel when I look at you.
Like im falling out into the open air,
and it awfully funny that I dont even care
that often a smile is all that you'll share,
see to me that is a trade quite fair:
My last living breath for the chance that youll dare.
See there, are worlds we could open,
with naught but soft words spoken,
and it's quite clear that I am broken
but I am not past the point of hoping
I think we're just afraid of choking
and only part of you hopes were joking
cause we are that close to blowing
and you're pretty brave with those matches you've been throwing
cause there is simply no way of knowing
whether our fire will be gently glowing
or one that is violently burning
just like you cant finish a book without page turning
or a class without some learning
or a romance without some yearning
because isn't that all that love is?
A simple state of need?
Like a stomach's got to feed,
like a heart has got to bleed,
like eyes have got to read,
like the tide must recede
like animals have got to breed--
Wait. Crap. That isn't what I mean
I swore I could keep this clean,
So let's swing it back to you and what I've seen
Like giggles and grimaces with smiles slipped between
or eyes that wander and day dream
or a soul so big you're bursting at the seams
but such vague things are all that a can glean
because if I were to find out more
 I'd have to get closer, and I have done that before
the experience struck and cut straight to my core
so here I stand, knuckles inches from your door
and I cannot complete the action.
See among your friends are certain factions
that would reap such extreme satisfaction
from your negative reaction.
So I have a worry, I see a complication,
in your possible lack of reciprocation
because you have your ways of intimidation
that make me into a fool, an aberration
 but I cannot use words like fear or fragility
for they would impune my masculinity
and although that is a part of me
it does not define all that could be
and it is a simple reality
I am afraid but I hide it in jokes and poetry
I slip it into a slew of metaphor, smart-ass and simile
but I better stop hold my words right there
lest I fall right out of my chair.



Poet's Note: I wrote the first three lines of this poem over a year ago, the rest came to me recently.

A Spark of Inspiration

There is a certain state of mind,
in which you yourself may find:
An incessant ticking,
like a little miner picking,
But really it's a thought just barely sticking.
Of course what you want, what you truly desire
Is that someone, something will burn and inspire.
However, you forget there are different types of fire.
There are those that crackle merrily,
and those that spark sparingly.
But the worst are those that do consume,
in their smoke is spelled impending doom.
Sadly in your current paradigm,
you believe that you are fine,
and as the heat comes rolling in,
you are busy with the pretty words you spin.
No, you wont even notice,
until your situation's hopeless.
For your sleeves and your hands have caught aflame,
and you have no name to curse in pain,
you have only yourself to blame,
as in your words you begin to burn away.

Impending Departure

I cannot attach.
I would extend hands in friendship,
or affections in courtship,
or ropes in hopes of salvation.
However such grips would break,
reciprocation would be fake,
and threads would tear, loosing me to damnation.
The issue is distance and time.
As it usually is at the heart of the crime,
Too soon it will be that I'm no longer be here
I will be miles away in what seems like hours,
and such issues desperation devours,
and this is what I fear.
I cannot attach.
I would leap, grab and aspire,
instead I ignite in solitary fire.
The blaze beats back the black of distance.
So instead I crouch, huddle and yearn,
I sit and I bask as I burn,
I am safe from the cold, at least in this instance.
I do not attach.

The Futility of Poetry

The problem with describing feelings
is that even at their best,
words are minute.
A thousands words could never,
given the adjectives and adverbs,
describe even the basest of our motivations
Take my simple jealousy.
The green eyed monster so it is called,
with fangs and devils horns,
Leathery black wings that beat the night,
as it swoops and drops
upon the dimmest doubt
making it the loudest shout.
Or does it have frogs legs?
As it leaps and hops
from unintended words
never meant to be overheard.
we do not know.
For whatever monster plagued the Moore,
whatever beast turned sweet Desdemona,
from maiden to whore,
tis not the same thing which knocked upon my door.
Or how could one describe affections?
Could it be a light bursting through a window?
bringing brightest light to the east ,
stealing the suns fading glory in the west.
Or could it take the form of an eye opening in the ocean?
consuming all bringing it fathoms beneath
to lands where such fore mentioned light
could never penetrate,
but for the faintest photon,
which exists but in desperation and futility,
which is to say it does not exist at all.
The problem is thus:
feeling exists in a dimension beyond perception.
It exists in a world lacking polygons or perfection,
in a chaotic paradigm which shifts upon heart beats.
This poem was not meant to describe my feelings,
but describe my own ignorance.
I could no less use words to explain feeling
than I could use lines to draw circle.
My life would be better devoted,
to spinning lies in honey,
whilst vinegar speeds through my veins.
Or chiseling vague images in ice,
and leaving them at your door on hot summer days,
because the pools that remained when you arrived
would probably better depict my feelings,
then anything I could ever intentionally make.