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.