I truly only write sketches. Still learning a craft that had been though to be mastered hundreds of years ago. A craft that is now thrown aside as irrelevant or even more damning to the newest for of youth, boring. I, now in the age of digitalization attempt to conquer the word. Written and spoken. People will someday look for me in them selves. Fueled by an appetite for a group of powerful glyphs that conjure flip book images that turn to motion pictures as experienced at a faster and faster pace. Sometimes described as rudimentary other times melodic and humble. Words, sentences, metaphors, speech, setting, emotion, plot. I will seize these bits of what I do and make them surrender to me. Force them into story into poem, a tiny molecule compared to past works. It will enter the mind through either the ear or eye. And begin to expand slowly and building speed. Until it encompasses even the dark side of ones mind. A constant wheel of off spurting ideas. Not so much fantastic as merely what one must find more of. Proof, that it is possible.
It can happen. It will happen.

I wear a mask of water way eroding my cheeks.
Born with healthy compacted skin.
Grown up with the first rivulets developing.
Now emerging as deep as the Colorado.
Every night since my departure I have put on this mask.
Some times the warm liquid falls.
Now with no one to help refill the trenches left over with comfort and solace.
I am left to toil alone.
Only I can stop the river flow.
Only I can stop the sad.
If only I had my mom and dad.

The oak tree was born to the ohlones who never to be left alone again.
The oak tree was grown in soil of industrialization and non-molestation which later led to young men looking for street corner nations.
The oak tree’s roots spread to the right, enveloping the Klu Klux Klan reemergence of the 1920s
The oak tree’s roots spread to the left, hitting the homes of Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale.
The oak tree has a trunk as solid as the Family Stone and tall as the Tower of Power.
The oak tree’s trunk has the scars of 40 years of urban warfare, it has survived the Hells Angels, the Felix Mitchell’s, and crack cocaine.
My oak tree withstands the pain
The oak tree’s branches cover vast and wide, sprouting green leaves and acorns to thrive.
The acorns have sprouted you just don’t know.
I see Too Short to my right, Green Day to my left, Me in the middle, Hiero and Souls of Mischief over there always together
An acorn cant fall far from the tree
The oak tree is me
I am the oak tree
The oak tree is inflammable, invincible, unshakable but its been dying for too many years.

Survive or Surrender
Lift a dimpled chin (passed down from my father when my mother wasn’t looking)
Eyes baring strait ahead.
Chanting reassurance
The mass breaks the horizon
Stampede
                                            Survive or Surrender

Slap my arms to my side
Military attention (passed down from my grandfather when my father looked away)
Jaw locked up tight, swallowed the key
Glaring into oncoming traffic

                                              Survive or Surrender
Marchers come, I soothe the mind body and soul

“the ants go marching two by two, hoorah-hoorah”

Fix an inwards grin,
Survive or Surrender
a rumble in the chest, mouth shoots open
Simba roar emits from it self

Infamous whites of the eyes

                                     Survive or Surrender
                                     Survive or Surrender
                                     Survive

I feel my soul when I’m sad
I fee my soul when my belly rumbles
I feel my soul when my eye catches the eye of an awe struck child wearing blue elastic waisted dockers and an untucked cotton button up, this child not knowing that I fear for him and cant stop admiring him because of it.
I feel my soul when me and this child start making funny faces at one another, my heart telling my that I just changed his life. I remember seeing older ids when I was young, I thought three things:
One. They must be my long lost older brother
Two. The were good at everything, especially soccer
Three. They were cool, tight, awesome, the bees knees, and the cats pajamas.
I see this little boy’s eyes, glistening with innocence. I see him hiding behind the back of his chair, peeking over to see if I am still looking. I always am, I envy you I want to say. but I know it would do no good.
I feel my soul when the child clings to his parents leg as if the leg is that part of the body that tickles him before bed and them tucks him in a giggling mess.
Refuses to break eye contact.

He wants my height and size
I want his delight, excitement, and ignorance.

Please little boy with the glass orb eyes don’t ever age, don’t ask questions, just stay.
Happiness is in the youth because only the youthful can be happy.
Stay young, forever 100 percent of the time into affinity plus one and beyond.
Do not wish to be me.
I feel my soul during these moments.
You feel, you touch your soul every painting you paint, every candy you devour, every laugh you laugh.
You do more then feel, then touch—you frolic, bathe in, and embody your soul .
As if your scariest, saddest moment is when you knock over your glass of milk before you have finished your graham cracker.
I feel my soul when I pity.
I know you will succumb.
I feel my soul when I pity the soon to become walking dead, waiting for their next glimpses, whispers, and brushes of their soul.

Thank you little boy with the glimmering globe eyes, I got to feel my soul today.

66 degrees outside,
norcal baby butt soft sun,
tanning my hide.
This is where I eat , sleep,
Drink and smoke,
Yeah you mighta’ heard its pretty damn dope.

I sit on my roof now all but a full grown man,
Recanting, reminiscing, remembering.

Looking for proof that this isn’t,
The best place for two people to raise,
A child. I was born
In DC
But when I was three
I discovered the only
Place for me to be

Only two seasons a year
One rainy one dry

Some summer days get to one hundred and one,
But then you remember,
the winter and spring
when it was just too foggy
to get anything done.

On this day its none of the above,
Just a sunny day,
Filling me with my bay area love

Blue, black Cadillac
Rollin on by…
Slinging everything but nic nacs n’ tic tacs, clingin on me will never be a chick with a ring
Fuckin' my bitches, Duckin the snitches
Getting high, adimrin’ the ghettos cheap lit sky
Streets a reekin, junkies peekin
Kick in it with the crew, long past the dark black hue
Time to crash, gotta check the dope money stash

The street dark, save for one fluttering lamppost. Trash rolls by, traversing through the yellow dirty light in majestic loops. A cat walks grudgingly into the bright; with a meow it is gone as soon as it appeared. No sound only the sharp ringing of silence. A cool breeze starts and stops, indecisive in its actions. The mans eyes burn, he hasn’t slept, why didn’t I stay at the hostel, he is one layer too naked; add another regret to a long list. He scratches his neck where an older man’s beard would be. He is lonely. Across the street and three unreachable floors up, the well lit room is warm and comfortable. It reeks of money and sophistication, she barely notices the boy standing meekly on the pavement, he is staring up towards her, never at her. She continues reading her newest digest. She’s only reading it because no good programs are on this week, she’s wrong, she’s been reading that same article for thirty years now. He feels the warm slickness of blood; no matter I must have picked a scab. He needs food been days since he last ate, five actually. Third day he was delusional, called himself “the master and creator of thee,” always thee never thou, he did not know why. Then again he doesn’t know much, goes to show how much 15 years of schooling helped. I think I’ll make some tea, that always makes me feel oh so chipper. She goes to the stove and puts water on to boil, she gets a bag of crumpets. The man can’t do this much longer, he gasps, and the man is no longer on the street. The women moves to the window now, with a sigh she places her tray down. “Pity the boy didn’t show up on the street tonight, such a cute boy, I got crumpets and tea ready just for him.” The cat stalks back through the light, it purrs, big glowing eyes, infinite shadowy colored fur. Black cat, never a good sign, I should leave, with a wink I left the figure, not quite a boy not quite a man.

Letting the rivers run through
Bubbling on by
Blue gold gushing over the forgotten bed

Allowing the mountain to stand tall
Military rigidness
Stubborn granite climbing on top of each other

Permitting vast plain to lay, expanded
Hallowed silence
The story of emptiness told by dust and grime

Fire Burning,               Torture and brimstone as spoken
River Running.              by religious zealots of old.

Sleeping youth,             Tireless repetition of
Talkative spawn.            an old working metronome.

Recycle bins                   Both ignored by
Lively debate.                 the masses.

Turquoise green and blue.

froth frollicking in said moist plains

the strength sapping sun laid on top of make-you-more-thirsty water

rolling foothills crashing on top of each other

farther and farther away

hopeful it comes fast

the last hoorah for all who challenge...

Turquoise green and blue.

Some say anger is a wasted emotion,
Id argue that anger is why we are free from Hawaii to the Atlantic Ocean

Some say anger only breed’s violence and hate,
I disagree; anger is the reason for every revolution to date

Some peoples anger burns hot and takes control,
Mine kept chilled, a reptilian soul

A warm blooded mammal with a cold reptilian soul, Trying to make sure anger is used correctly from the far east to the close to home west.

Einstein dared to solve Mc squared.
So I will teach y’all to be angry, sharpened teeth bared

Then you will be taught,
How to teach. For anger with out purpose is for naught

I fight for change,
Till I stand limp on the big bad mans firing range

Some say anger is for those with nothing left
I say anger is the beating behind this planets chest

Some say anger is for outcasts and bums.
Yes anger is for outcasts. The too short the too tall, the too smart the too dumb
The too fat the too skinny, the too poor the too rich
Anger is for outcasts and bums.

Some say anger is a wasted emotion, yet for me, anger drives me when I write these poems

Two people meet, they greet and wave. Two people love, they hug and kiss. Two people committ, they promise and swear. Two people. They my dear are you, us, and I.