Fantasy:
Imagination,
Magic,
Illusion,
Fraud.

These are the parlor tricks that
our mighty government
has sunken too
instead of creative linguistics.

Or a tapestry of  rhetorical philosophy
that is meant to persuade us
into their petition of ideology--
to understand their foundation for society
for how we live and prosper
as a nation united.

Instead we are beaten over the head
with misdirection and red-herrings
they willingly and happily use
slight of hand
so the people watching
can be mislead,
instead of asking tough questions.

They are sawing the news media in half
to delude you of their credibility
and showing you
compartments full of reflective mirrors
to hide the true emptiness
that lurks behind their lies.

Instead of being sick
I've chosen to be honest
and it's a simple exchange of words.

To take my mind and body
hand in hand or thought for thought
to bring them together
and understand
that I need to be healthy.

To speak philosophy and psychology
I will need to be an example
of health and a preacher
of true self respect--
that does not let sugary foods
and media persuade me
from my identity.

It is not by the grace
of a supernatural deity
that I come to improve,
or the supreme control of ulterior  motives,
nor world justice.

But the illusion of self control itself
that begets me to strengthen my core
to show--
that we are all beyond:
our basic habits,
worthy of salvation,
that all animals
if desired can become
more than our de-faults.

Corruption
is an overflowing
abundance of inadequate language.

As few will fathom
the misleading of those in lead,
and those who think they see
may be mislead;
even more than those who don't.

Our ends
are never the beginning
madmen are not our conquerors
but instead the folly of commoners.

It was our lack of a auspicious aptitude
that begets us to lament
even the foggiest of concepts
beyond our notion to conceive even simplicity.

It was only eager creatures
that  yearned for the world to be theirs
so instead of uniting the kingdom;
we were segregated into classes
and left without language to communicate.

Losing time is my specialty
as I am a nation of one
that has no people or land
that must be amassed.

To sustain myself is the simple tidings
that would hardly fit
even a wanderer stranded on a mysterious island--
one where the tide brings in
the luxury drinking water
and a plateau of shifting sands.

The subtly of time
is a puzzle to me that I hardly understand,
as it's pieces seem too difficult to place
having no matching parts
to put them together.

Time has no place in our minds
but is everyone's jigsaw
without it; we may become complacent
or at least that's what
we've always been told.

I hope that the world
comes to see my mind
and hope for them
to pray for my life.

Because they are never going to offer
me their hand
I'm over here in a distant land.

Suffering off poverty--
a place named 3rd world country
and none of them understand
that I smile while I bathe
standing on the riverside sand.

It's my peaceful cleansing
before returning to my shackles
the fear of living in this territory.

I used to have my neighbors
but now I have craters
and collapsed buildings
to keep me company.

Standing in the remnants
of a door frame
is the last place I ever saw my family.

Some of us chose to drown
swimming across the Aegean sea--
some of us chose to stay
so our children
could have a place on a raft about to keel,
but none of us chose to suffer
and feel like the entire world had turned against us.

The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.

Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.

I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.  

One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.

My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,

because
it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
*Amor est vitae.

I am
the beauty
that which captures
even my own canvas.

An illustrious
painting to things undeserving--
wrapping up ugliness
with the truth of nature--
these shrubberies
will hide
and protect those
from the dangers
within myself.  

Convincing
the world that
We are not dying or struggling,
but merely making art--
is this not the means of artistry.

If I do not suffer
then I will never complete
my Sistine chapel
or find the real Mona Lisa
hidden amongst these frauds.  

These fears are real,
and every day
they are realized--
where my peers, friends, family
say 'I will be fine"
so I act as if I am.

No longer eating
instead I portray the art of eating--
the sun has found out
I am defenseless against it,
but I still paint myself in the light
so my lilies can survive
off the energy draining out of me.

Today was the day
I decided to clear out--
no real reason to keep
the junk that has began to rot.

Smelly like moss on a crumbly tree,
or the fashionable nonsmokers room
smelling like there's been quite a few
rebels striking back at a budget motel--
probably because they didn't have enough
television channels, to pacify these poor souls.

The inanimate fixtures are posed for display--
once complex industry
were personified to a fleeting idea of 'purpose',
instead smothers its surroundings
with the validity of indifference;
the forgotten hallows that
truly signify my closing hours.

Inside me now
are the cooing sounds
and the beating wings of fragile pigeons
that seek shelter from a world
trying to forget them;
beginning to call them pest
even though they are snow,
so they must hide within me
and survive with my blood orchids
that begin to bloom--
spilling out of me.

My mother
My father
My brother
and even my Grandmother
are all liars.

They lie
not because they know
what they are lying about
but because their world
is built on the foundation
of false truths.

Do not draw on yourself with ink
because if you do
you will become sick--
is a simple lie
that is spread just like disease.

The true black plague
of this generation
is not a virus of biological form
but an infection of the mind
one that lingers in our thoughts.

It causes us to error
corrupting what is truth
for what we think is true--
over-implosion of convoluted thoughts
make even the simplest
of ink and skin to be mixed too much.

The convenience of information
has oversimplified our lives
and with it
people produce less
and consume more.

Today, I read, in the newspaper
about someone's daughter drowning
an accident,
an unforeseeable misfortune,
and I've come to the reality
that we can never know
the truth depths of what has happened to this family.

From this moment
their fleeting lives
will be droplets of water
that are trying to fill--
some void of where their
daughter used to swim.

And no matter
how calm the ocean becomes
it will always have the waves
that started from this day,
till the day; they too die.

It shakes me
and causes me to grieve for them
that I cannot share their pain
that as an outsider
I can only imagine the anguish.

I do not know these people
I have never met their daughter
and I will never meet them or her
but I can dream of their emotions--
it is a think haze of disbelief
"that something so terrible
would happen to me, my family."

And not only is their daughter dead
but they are empty--
They have now a room
full of belongings
that some how no longer belong
to anyone in the world.

Their suffering has only begun,
because the rush of death
leaves each person breathless,
and it is only when the air
decides to come  back to their lungs
and the ripples of the waves
have begun to subside
that their real world will set in.

And their bleakest truth will come to fruition,
as the family sits bedside
to an empty bed, where their daughter sleeps--
they will imagine the same as me
that maybe they're just dreaming--
when they wake up
she'll be back with them again.

I thought about two ideas
to write about and I
didn't write about either.

One had to do with
sidewalks and people--
the plundering
of personality
that happens
even when you walk
where it should be safe to be.

The other
was about technology--
that inside our veins
instead of polysaccharides
was the wires
to our electronics;
that stitch themselves inside
to keep us plugged in.

Maybe it was the in-toxicity
of having to try and fail
a persona that perpetuates
underachievement

or a rebel
that displays rebellion
by not rebelling at all.

My mind is the lackluster
of copper compared to silver--
its dull ensemble
may be its greatest achievement
a replication of someone else's words
because mine
lack the quality to be appreciated.

And my information for poetry
is irrelevant to the real world--
because these are analogies
they are the rhetoric of argument

the imagination of 'youth'
and from my age
deemed to lack understanding
so I cannot be president,
hardly can I speak,
nor should I be listened to.

Understanding
is something
that comes from
the daunting
reminder
that we are all the same

and it's not happiness
but the disheveled,
underpaid,
antagonizing
waiter
who launders around tables.

Being treated poorly
by people
that can't even
take the hands of time
to read the name
of a person that serves them life

the succulent roasted pork
with a side salad
or a bowl of broccoli soup
have more in common with
our suffering waiter
than the illiterate people.

My dreams
do not come attached to
the ideals of my people
or the sacrifices of another country.

Instead I am poor
and mine are clinging to life
the very idea of existence.

Mundane flashes--
not adventurous endeavors
nor flights around the world
this is what richly folks do.

Simply a mingler
someone whose life
flourishes around the bends
of florescent street lights
and panhandling
nearby a farmers market
just after sunrise.

This remnant is few
as these are neighbors
local countrymen
who stoically face
the world's deviation
and deprivation
from coexisting

by the bonds of
agriculture and personality
even as a beggar
it is but a joyous memento
to a world that
no longer thrives.

I'm a ****** of ambition
a clairvoyant
whose true sight can only
seer through my objectives.

I am juxtaposed from my life--
from passion and experience
feeling is a concept
that lingers outside the realm
where I reside;
by choices I was forced to make.

It has bibulous proportions
that consume my cravings
and intoxicate the senses--

So can we believe to be free
instead of circus-elephants
who plunged their trunks
into a trough of indecision.

Where caging and pushing
each other to perform tricks for the audience
is the normality of existing--

to be the scampering mouse
that lives outside their barriers
causes them to fear us
to stampede and
stomp until
there is only obedience.

Behind our doors
there is speak
of an underworld
where instead of Hades

lives the politicians,
but they are worst than the devil
because these folks were never
fallen angels.

governmental deities
whose sole goal is power
or the enjoyablility of having
not to answer any tough questions.

We pay them
not to find the fine line
or to do the correct thing
for our country--
instead corporations corrupt them
to hide their skeletons
behind closed doors.

How can we expect
them to provide for us
when their true investment is held in money
capitalism--
a form of life-sized monopoly
trying to collect all the paper bills.

Please steal my words
this means
they were of value
maybe worth a penny--
a lost coin on the subway

but at least they
were valuable enough
for someone to claim them,
even if you are poor
and that's the only way
these words matter.

You will set precedent
and from then on--
I will know
that someone has chosen
for me to exist--
that my words captured
at least a part of your soul.

That even me
a wordless fool
who's only skill
is to mumble
was able to
speak to the will
of at least one other person.

They are the heart givers
and the breath takers
without them I cannot live
but just like my exgirlfriend
they can't seem to find
where they left their compassion.

I cannot breathe
but that is only because it cost too much to live
understanding their desire of money
it pains me to know greed
not of my own will be the cause of my death.

That in my generosity I forgot
planting trees does not grow the greens they seek
and the carrots sprouting are ones they eat
not the ones they don't wear to the office
but dance around their family with.

Education was supposed to be their gravity
and with each ounce of knowledge
built an anchor to the moon
because instead of humanity
they've become a celestial star
whose imagination wanders
outside the orbit of those who may be suffering.

A broken hearted soul
paves the waiting room with their corpse
because while in the void
something had to go and
it wasn't the money
but a man that couldn't
afford to keep his heart going.

How can you not hate me
even if you don't know who I am
there is a chance that you should
since I am male and
we've been bred in a way
making people say "where the ****"
are my brother's decency.

Because when I speak to them
it's idolizing women
then damning those girls for
having the same ideas as my brothers--
they hurl insults
and call them compliments
telling girls to be objects
treating females as plastic
when they are humans made of blood.

She is not barbie
you do not get to change her clothes
and dress her down to
make yourself feel more like Ken--
her accessories and personality
are not defined by your hands
men can not force
themselves onto women
and tell them they dressed
as a ***-doll does.

I'll be ****** for your
lack of decency, people will treat me
as a "man", but in reality--
those are not men they are devils
trying to stay hidden in the dark
and one day feminism will bring equality
for humans, and then we'll have to
deal with the devils hiding
beneath our skin.

I am told that I am down to Earth
and that makes me wonder
that if we were to get onto our bellies
scouring the forest floor
would we find pieces of my personality.

Would you find my laugh
hidden amongst rabbits in their burrows,
mistaking their animal talk
for the hiccup caught in my throat laugh
that I do when I am nervous.  

Would the scraping of bear claws against trees
be the clitter clatter of me rushing to brush my teeth--
the morning/midnight/everyday gust
that I have to put into each part
of my day to keep up with the world.

Would the change of seasons:
cold and determined, young and lively,
warm and strong, regrowth and understanding--
be the change of perspective I share
with each talk we have,
you come to see the seasons change
and with them you want to grow--
inside me you find the same
willingness to cherish
all the world.

"Do you want to be with me"
sorry I don't know what to say--
as I hold their hand, it ripples
it is the rush of anxiety
but feels like water combing through my hands
as I get shampoo out of my hair; in the shower.  

There is a tremble in their breath
reminding me of catching droplets of water
in the canal of my ear
and having to tilt my head
for them to drop back into obscurity.

Their smell is fresh an aroma so soothing
feeling the clean scent of oranges and apples
a flourishing sample I briefly enjoy
when I pour a quarter sized dollop of shower gel.

Their eyes are watery
while they struggle to hide the parchness of their smile
is a somber reflection of hot water running out
and not having any heat left to turn towards
so the only option
is to get out of the shower.  

Their words are mumbled, but I can understand "why"
trying to hide the shakiness in their hands and breath
I can't help but imagine the endorphin's frantically
trying to take control; to fight or flight--  
A similar feeling I have when rushing
to get warm after a cold shower.

Slamming doors are our earthquakes
they are the faults that quake
and when they shift
I can feel our world quiver.

The home we've built
is almost shambles
the plaster lining our walls
crumbles and becomes the dust on our shelves.

The fights we share
are the shifting foundation,
where cracks stagger our steps
and cause us to share blows
dancing a silhouette
of arguments.

Pieces of people
that we never used to be--
are the imaginary characters to our fairy tales  
because there is no way
we could see either of as beautiful--
when we are only seeing
an outline of who we used to be.

Caricatures so misshapened
that they are etched into our bedroom
the sleeping place we used to share our dreams
and instead we scream our nightmares

collapsing from exhaustion
only to cuddle with extra pillows
building forts on each side of the bed
to at least have something comfort us.  

Our harmony finally makes it's ******
it is not the smash of earthquakes
but the sickening silence of loneliness
because we've become isolated.

no longer stomping out natural-disastres
instead we accept our indifference
and we quietly leave the door open--
because there's no need to close doors
in a house we no longer live in.

I stand before my classroom
on the first day--
it is Research Methods
a course that I am forced to take
but I am assured it is for the best
even on the first day
I am told that you can use
this course for everything.

But I don't know who
they are trying to convince,
is it me that the course has meaning
or themselves that they are worth something,
because if it's the 2nd
then the professor probably shouldn't
call on me to answer the question.

In my mind the redundancy
is a wax wrapper
to a lollipop that
I don't understand why I need it
as it was already wrapped in paper
and now I struggle
to find purpose for
a flimsy piece of plastic-wax
that I can hardly even see.

Rotating my head around
as if a person waiting in a traffic accident
and wondering if I can see the body
from where I am sitting--
luckily this is a class room
and every body here is
part of collision that they
never intended on having.  

The drought of thought
that I see spilling across the class room
and the formality of facing forward
while actually daydreaming
is sadly part of this necessary course--
where pencil stained desk
are the only things worth
drawing my attention.  

It's our special day
this is only the first meeting
and instead of being here 3 hours
we get to leave here in 1--
now everyone realizes
this traffic will last longer
than originally told
so maybe it's better
to get outside and walk.

Smells like clean clothes
it's always pleasant
at the laundromat
down the street from
my apartment.

The washer and dryer
are currently broken
looks like some teenager
didn't know what they were doing
as the washer is filled with water
and their clothes remain
inside dwelling to smell
of mildew.

The dryer looks like an antique
because it is the slime green of the 70's
mismatched to it's wifley counterpart
that is stainless steel sparkles
so I assume the dryers death
is not the fault of our fresh water culprit
but electrical problems brought on
from existing forever.

They broke a few months ago
and I've never gone to check
if they were brought back to life
as I've found myself
intoxicated with the laundromat.

It's the mechanical hums
an orchestra of ball barrings
with clothes tumbling
through their fabric softeners
to become fresh gentle cottons
the smell of Hugs
is the aroma of heaven.

In his head was the world
an ocean of detail
that even Bob Ross
could never handle the brush.

He was the average bob
a minority amongst an epidemic
sandpaper was meant for wood
instead people wore without grain.

Speciality was unknown
as his art did not lack depth
but appreciation by
those who handed him
minimum wages
and a life of struggles.

Some day he stopped
once there was an ocean
the next there was only
muddy puddles
because without clouds
there was never any rain
so the paint dried.

Sweetly sipping holiday cider
the usual melancholy,
but the bitterness
was always a surprise
and I felt much delight
with the bubbles
dispersing across the atmosphere
that was my mouth.  

The Day after
was a would be pleasant Monday--
thinking back I really
should have waited till Tuesday
everyone hates Tuesday less
and the people in my life
were no exception.

The Day after--
my mother washed dishes
it must be disturbing
as that was my household chore
they were shinier and cleaner
than any time I did them,
she noticed,
and grabbed a plate I had done
smiling and frowning
in the reflection it lacked.

The day after--
slack jawed and stooped
just finished piling
the heaviest cardboard boxes
my dad has ever had to carry
the possessions were clothes and photographs
but to him were
the weight of a casket.

The day after--
sleeping in my old bedroom
was my older brother
filling the curvature
my body had left
in the memory foam mattress,
as I wished for its name to become literal
so he could dream
my memories.

As I watched
not lived with my family
these feelings sunk
to the ocean floor
realizing the weight
that would crush my body
and cause my family
to collapse
the day after.

Today is Christmas
sprinkling snowflakes onto pancakes,
where we serve hot cider
in the morning--
"**, **, **"
can be heard right outside
our dining room window
as our decorations jingle away.

The Faux Christmas tree
frosty white and spinning
slightly brushing past
each gift that will be
torn open soon enough
by our foster kids.

They simply glee
and chatter of how Santa
knew exactly what to get them
and how glad they were
for him to actually show up one year--
not remembering him stopping by
but muttering strangers
angrily saying
"santa's not real, grow up".
every time before.

Gingerly patting their heads
whispering to each one
"oh, Rudolph must have been tired"
as I ask them to pass out the presents
that were still wrapped.

Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.

I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.

*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.

That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.

Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.

For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.

Meeting the wonderful
people who will sparkle in the night
are the guiding lights
to blossom in the world--
even as despair tries
to take place in our minds.

Shootings will gander
the cross hairs of our media
causing freight to spread,
even in those we
call our friends.

Bombings will spark
national outcry
in between each sentence--
people will begin
to speak hatred.

Terror will be uprising
creeping into homes
pushing out demands,
to replace our happiness
with their fear.

Against this
I speak for you
one human to another
do not give in
even in desperate times
there are amazing people--
please sparkle
because I know you can.

It's not really a window
but a picture of a boy--
that somewhere in my counselor's past
allows the kid to peer into his future,
into a time that is no longer here.

Maybe it reminds my counselor of better times
or the opportunity he is lucky to have now--
the boy must represent something
but I would not know for sure, as I am not him.

Although I did ask my counselor one day
about this window that watches him work--
this young boy, nothing but a child
normal as most youth always looks
the photo only granting an image
not the whole picture.

"He was a spitfire"
must have been only four foot five,
if that probably shorter
he was rough and tough
not even the Seniors were willing to bother him
those same seniors became
the boy's friends took care of him
they had lots of fun when they could.

The boy.  The Window.
Was not the usual ghostly clouds
or the average bleached pale Caucasian
as their defects were in their circulation
the wind cannot move through mountains
and neither can blood pump through chambers
without the right gust.

Sometimes children
lay down to never wake up again--
maybe it's in the hospital
for another heart surgery
that just happened
not to catch the wind quite right.

The boy was a student--
his counselor was there for him
at a different school in a different time
that even as it flows
the counselor has a window
for this boy
to watch the world from.

Clear Skies Vanilla
is the only soft serve
on the days we have no clouds
and none can be seen
floating on our horizons

it is our seasonal choice
that we wish could come
all year long,
could be as predictable
as *Pumpkin Spice in October
or Eggnog in December
even uncelebrated Baseball-Nut
springs up at the right time.

If only our skies could
be the layers of a sundae--
a limited selection
that always comes down to
hot fudge, nuts,
with a defrosted cherry on top--
then our decisions
would be made for us
we could never
be wrong.

Instead we deliver
Icy Thundery Blueberry BubbleGumy hard serve
on those days--
too complicated to understand
too unwilling to shorten their title
too difficult to be simply BlueGumTuesday
because the sky,
too mixed up to be...Blue.

We raise our scoop
for each serving to dish out--
with them we learn our taste
what calms our nerves
and how to evaporate the rain,
because when we get
to have those cloudless days
we'll have the day
to be flavorful.

It's hard to write
because I crunch the numbers
and realize their
is more words on the page
than eyes will ever read it

In stories
monsters are always
underneath our bed
in our closets
or behind the curtains
to our windows and showers.

Reaping shadowy complexions
fleshy exposed eyes
gleaming ill intent
for our fawns, the children.

Creatures that exist
beyond what we can comprehend
as they watch our sneakers
slip by the edge
where they lie in wait.

Be weary to those
who seek flesh by the pound
carnivorous beings
who slather the fresh
essence of youth
in-between their teeth.

They are not hiding
but living with you
as the anger and fear
that pathologically anchors
its self into your existence.

Do--
That is the simplest
suggestion I could ever
mentor.

As a psychologist
as a philosopher
the only teaching
you will ever receive.

Is an education
on believing
on hope
that no matter
the deter.

Champions
are prize winning
earners
whose primary
goal
was success.

As honest
as monkeys in the rain
the forest they forage  
only breeds fruit
when they bare
the vine.

Do not fear--
an earnest mind
does not fodder
but struggle
and strive.

Because conquest
is not numerical
neither obtuse or acute
standards are settings
on default.

Amongst follies
are consequences
these events
are challenges,
that show
achievement.

Trial by fire
instead of
death by average
live let live
exist to start.

If I never wrote
people would never know that I live--
does that matter--
it sure does to me.

That when my thoughts
and words
all my experiences
never hinted to involve another person.

How can anyone ever know:
that I think
I ponder
and I thrive
that amongst all my knowledge,
desperately I pander
for the eyes atop hills
and inside the trees around me

to speculate about my life,
when the wind brushes
through my hair
and sweeps across plains
knocking into trees
and leaking into your homes.

There are hints of my brevity
lingering within the air
and next time you speak
you'll realize that these words,
are not yours alone
but the words I've snuck
into your mind
with the wind.

I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.

Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.

Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.

There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom  
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.

Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.

Retype number 3,018--
I don't really think I've written
this many entries for just one poem

it's a beam of light that
scores my thoughts
and begins to type across this board

but in the end
it was a refraction of shadows
hinting at another dream

because these ramblings of another world
are the minds way of scrambling
to form new words
and convey our Neverland
that we've Neverfound

Scented candles add an extra burst
of enthusiasm to wander this page a little longer
because they are my witness
that even Evergeen Woods
have some Cinnamon Bark hidden in them.

the candles are made of wax
and when I pour myself to sleep
perhaps our wicks stay lit
or do we fiddle away
with our dreams.

Hands on your shoulders
eyes closed and attempting
to follow the flow of your body
with each step I faithfully
plunge my feet
into where yours must
have been only a moment ago.

I gently tinge each finger of mine
so subtly that I wonder if you even noticed--
it's a habit of mine
where I need to stretch my hands
to find some focus.
It didn't really help
since I have my eyes closed,
although I do feel less
lost in this empty space.

Did you know that your body hums
I could feel it radiating in the cracks
between each finger--
more likely it was my anxiousness
of floating through the galaxy
with you as my only guide.
Honestly I began to
wonder where we are going.

Stopping my silence
I lean closely to what
I am assuming is your ear
and whisper, "you didn't tell me
we'd be walking so far"
your reply was sarcastic as usual,
"Oh, sorry didn't know
you would make us walk so slow"
with the usual eye-rolling chuckle.

Suddenly you stop
and because of how flustered
your response made me
I misstep and glide into your back
and before I can even see from behind you
an earthquake of sound explodes
"surprise!!!"...."happy birthday!!!!!"

Violence--
that is the term we like to throw around
when two people are brawling out in the street
Violence--
is a domestic dispute between two ill crossed lovers
who no longer can see eye to eye
unless their eyes are swollen shut.

Violence is not a fleeing person
who has to run from their protectors.
When protection means ****
it's hard to find the difference
between police officer
and criminal.

We're not shouting for them to stop speeding bullets
or to be our guardian who shields us from all
our pleas are for a chance
to live freely and safely in the world.

For them to understand that bullets do not prevent problems
and hiding the truth under a tower of corpses
will never keep their blood from seeping into the ground.
The ground where  too many people lie
from their protectors protecting too much.

Thinking of where they have been
has made me realize
that to me Thanksgiving
has always been a day I spent with my family.
The same people each year
as they repeat their ancient tributes.

People idly stand around the kitchen--
around an island of food
the same food each year:
of salami, chips, crackers
and an array of different cheeses
ranging from simply American to pepper jack
the one I've never seen someone eat.

It's a day where time has frozen
albeit Thanksgiving day always changes,
but the holiday always stays the same
my family is a concoction of numinous ideas
that when smashed together starts to combust.

It is where we relive our previous life
a content collection of relatives
who do not see each other that much,
but on this day can realize the love we have.

Even as reality leaves the day behind
and people begin to change
this is the moment we'll always have
because even when they leave for good
it'll be our day to thank them for the time we had.

That is three numbers
above my echelon numeric
and happens to be my 2nd
favorite.

I never thought about why
that from a really young age
I'd fallen into romance
with a 2nd lover.

One that only sits
three buildings down the line.
We didn't meet by chance--
6am a dimly lit haze
in between our
transition from home
to not home.

It's where our bonding of
digit to digit formed
and new meaning
came to our realization
that if time was to end.

It would happen
on the 24th hour
in our 24th day
the final 24th year.

Because to imagine
existing I will always
be a youngster
a brandishing elegance of a mind.

Who understood
time was our own conception
and beyond the end
was an abyss of nothing
that I hope I'd never see.

Mr. Nobody--
A wrangly thing
some could call him a snob
or a high chinned minister
who was ordained
with a polished Apple-Phone
and his signature
swirlesque embroidered
wrist cuffs and tie clip.

He is the founder
to any computer based company
that processes tiny micro-chips at a price of
99 cents, and charging 100 dollars
for each "upgrade".

In his spare time
he's sponges around
lofty paintings,
filtering through new and old antiques,
but always coming back
to lackadaisly lounge
around his things.

Where a house is
up-kept by maids,
and in his closet
hangs the silhouettes
of personalities,
that he likes to try
around his family.

This is what I imagine
of Francisco, the boy buying coffee
at this Local Caffè
and as he leaves
that Apple-Watch lights up
reminding
about a job interview today.

The master of sacrifice--
a sacrificial lamb
that was brought before slaughter
has always been my attitude.

Bearing the burdens
of shedding my coat to
satisfy the needs of others,
and when they come to ask for more
gladly giving them my chops.

Just as the story book,
The Giving Tree: give them my blood
take my iron, and take my life
as these will give them strength
to live one more day.

Could have, should have
bore fruits of knowledge
and the fortitude to shed
this layer of bark
to build strong houses of wisdom
for whom have forsaken me.

Instead lending them
my roots to brew some tea.
When asked if I had some more to spare;
I told them, "I am sorry but I am wilting away."
these people called me a liar
and started a fire within my trunk.

Even as thee became ash
I desired to do more
so with each exhale of oxygen--
I took in their ash and brimstone
inhaling their essence into the earth
to protect the world from their flames.

Soft spoken and simple
those are the words
that can define humanity
at it's best.

Today the world is busy--
thundering sounds bustle around our homes
ideology starves us of ourselves
and prevents us from being together.

Concerned over the affects
each new thing brings--
the segregation that can arise
is quelled with the fear of looking
as if a fossil whom does not understand.

To have an open mind
takes an open book,
but today nothing needs to be opened
each answer is directly given to you
and the burden to be educated
is on the system
instead of yourself.

Society is decided by the truth
and the truth is always changing
so with open minds
can it bring us all together.

Plastic bags are my super villain
and no I am not Aqua Man
I am Michael a normal male civilian
of some young-adult age,
whom is still willing to inconvenience himself.

Not so old, where holding multiple objects
sounds like an obstacle too acrobatic for the limbs to handle.
One can too many knock's off the balance of the elderly
and cast them off the trapeze of a sidewalk
into a net of asphalt, where being caught is a broken hip.

No that is not me, although it does remind me
of my grandma, because to her plastic bags are her life-savers.
It is a struggle to convince my grandma that I am a great trapezist
so we can leave these bags to their solitude
and finally defeat this enemy.

Although with plastic bags it is never so easy
they have plenty of goons who are willing to do the ***** work
forcing themselves upon us at any opportunity,
even those that don't make any sense, even for my grandma.

I Went to Best Buy and bought a brand new movie,"Unfriended"
and I got it for my grandma to watch, since she's a bit technophobic.
This movie will haunt her; for ghosts **** people through the internet.
What will haunt me is Destiny, the worker, handing me a plastic bag:
with a 13-ounce, smaller than a piece of paper Blu-Ray inside
...without even asking if I wanted a plastic bag.

Today I bought a square plate
it's not for me, but for an enemy
that I could do worse things to, if I was a less noble person
as the things they've done I will not speak.

The plate is porcelain and quite finely made
elegant and excellently finished for how not so pricey it was
hints of history seems to hide in it's shell--
as seams are weaved into
what has probably lived a long and unused existence
this handcrafted masterpiece.

Separately painted by some fancy artist
to whom I do not recognize the name of,
although it is said he may have done something wrought with his ear
or did this man's uncle make this plate, oh well, I am unsure.

It is these very details to why,
I am now in possession of this piece of the past
that will be priceless to those who know more craftsmanship,
at least more knowledgeable than the man who sold it to me.

From the gleaming in your eyes
I can tell this plate may even mean a great deal to you
is this true my good friend?
oh well, I guess I can give the plate to you
instead of the devil I spoke of before.

*As I handed my prize to them
it began to feel heavier than any ordinary plate should,
gravity granted the greatest reprise I've ever sought
as the demon's face whelmed with depression
and mine satisfaction--
for being such a convincing storyteller.

Spring time is snapping
the lamp dragon flowers twirl on the ground
as a flush of air tries to drive them to the sky.

It's the season to be living
the lovely aromas of life and heat
are sipping beneath the beating wings of humming birds.

They tease and taught
all of those whom can only reside inside
to me the bees outside
are .20mm bullets in disguise.

The luminescent strings of light
that attempt to tarnish my fair skin
are the enemies atomic bombs
trying to make me fade away.

While all else can thrive and bloom this season
I am a Dragon Fruit and to see me blossom
is to bring back my nightly blue skies
and the heavily shaded afternoons.

When you fell in love with me
it was the most exhilarating life-style.
We're fabulous and none could tell us
that we were just two ordinary people swooning.

People spoke of remembering the beginning of their own--
comparing their moments to ours
the same places the same people,
but to be honest I never believed a syllable
they whispered our way.

Anyone can recreate a master piece
and say it is identical in every single way.
Though the painter will always look quite different
and their detailed feelings for each stroke
will be the same as a grain of sand
compared to a humpback whale.

These people see love as an comparison story
where they can take notes and read books:
how to deal with happiness or depression
what this means for her and him,
it's the exact same thing for their own relationship.

I simply smile at these folks
they will always wander the grounds behind us
seeking out thoughts
about how to deal with each other.
To them I give a full smile,
where my eyes crinkle at the corners
giving them some peace.

As I take your hand
and tell you about the beach
where we watched whales jump out of the water
and land all over the sand.

Do my clothes bother you--
as I wear black leggings
with small high school shorts above them
or is it my pastel blue hair
with an assortment of illustrious flowers
in a shape of a crown on my head.

Maybe it's the collection of tattoos
that I have spiraling around my arms;
little pictures of despicable me minions
and clusters of anime that you
never  thought worth while to know the name of.

Is it the rotation of shoes ranging from
sky spotted flats to glamorous Toms
that show the expansion of the galaxy on our horizon,
which reminds yourself of how ignorant you may really be in comparison.

Does the reflection of the sun
bouncing off of my 3/8ths of an inch earrings
cause you to become confused, just like my cat does
when I am at home near some window,
or is it too difficult to comprehend that this is me not you.

Are we estranged conjoined twins
that I never knew about some how,
and what I like prevents you from living
because then I would understand why
compromising is even an option.

As a man or woman of youth or elderly--
I choose equality over self-replication
I choose not to be defined by the singularity
I choose to exist in freedom
and I choose to be myself with all of its complexities.

Life energy radiates within--
literally the energy of beings
exist within your veins;
hungry animals thirst within those capillaries.

The lungs that heave
are the muscular tissues of  little chickens--
tendons that tore to make you strong,
elongated strands of fat from each bite
made the skin around your lips.

Though the calcium of bones
was not used in this current cuisine--
blood was made into pudding
dessert maybe used to make hemoglobin.

We feast on flesh to create our own
same goes for the creatures that we eat
they mangle the essence of life
to satisfy their own longevity.

All must eat to survive,
remember with each bite
comes the sacrifice from the sky
it begins with the Sun,
and ends with the Earth.

The middle class idea of theft--
where we eat at semi-fancy restaurants
seated at faux leather interior
deep seated dimly lit coves
dine in a sarcophagus of tasty mildew.

A youth lends their smile
teeth faintly shine through,
but roughly cut short of sincere;
on their lapel in fine print the label says Sandy.

Flexing water spotted plastic
black brim borders
and articulated names of food
that would put all of Italy to shame.

Porcelain plates hold lofty portions
of what is purely compensation
as texture and flavor remind me of my adolescence
this is when Playdoh and Crayons are used for flavoring.

A slate for my signature is provided
and the upside to this all
was the perfection of a pen they lent me
it was ball tip and bright pink--
finally something I'd be glad to take home with me.