I'm feeling kinda hollow,
It's a little hard to swallow.
Still Im in the lead,
So everybody follows.

Hate it all you want though,
There's no time to wallow.  
tell me what you need,
You just found that ****,
Waldo.

I don't even buy blow.
I just ****** snort it,
Gatta cop it from the *****,
That always seem to hoard it.
know they can't afford it.
I Wonder how they scored it.
Then I took four hits,
Got drunk and stole a forklift.
I don't give a horse ****.
I just want some more ****.

Got weird for a
few days,
Brain fried till my
eyes glazed
Smoked a little
more haze,
Screamed **** the pigs ,
Got tazed
strapped on my rollerblades,
And streaked out,
the VMA's

I don't give a ****,
Like a ******* Atheist
don't believe in luck,
Call me the ******* catalyst.

Social Network, droll and at times informative: keeping me in tune with out of tune people. Except, this time you did something different. This time you took a life from my web of friends a trend of late: One loss to cancer, one to a fatal accident, another to pneumonia, and the rest deceased from overdoses. It’s been so many that the track marks are beginning to show across my veiny webs, long black thin trails leading to round puncture wounds where the touch of cold steel kissed your skin, stroked your hair back, and slowly laid you to bed exactly where you sat. This network doesn't show me the nights you cry curled in the corner, it doesn't reveal the moment when the ocean came crashing into the Steel Pier you are, tearing away lumps of mangled frame work from beneath, soaking brine and rattling support beams that you depend on. A smile instead manages to froth along the pages scrolled like white curled lapping shorelines pushing foam further up the sandy coast with each eroding wave.  Now I stand in the wave of your wake; among seagulls flapping their dense thoughts and cretinous like minds and memories each vouching for the validity of their affirmations about the soul whose body is now center stage like a porcelain doll on a shelf to be displayed and examined exposed to all with each and every flaw highlighted so that they can have a chance at reciting her history, origins, funny moments, and fatal mistakes. The difference here is that there is no makers mark; there is no branded tag, no little black book of logs from which we can pull and decipher or recall every waking moment of your life. The reality is that for those of us who lost touch with you all that we know now is only history or what we thought we knew. It’s such *******, I’m not a historian, I really was your friend back then, but because of that I don’t remember ****, just the frame of the picture within, the shell of who you were, of what we did. I can tell you it was fun: the Bacardi filled Gatorade bottles, the sound of your laughter diluted in an intoxicating environment of rollerblades on the rink-floor, contemporary music and house beats reverberating against the circling congregation of equally happy and inebriated teenage youths. But how could I ever describe you today, who you were when you passed. That is not something I can claim as some of these birds squawk. Your social posts were a false facade. Obviously there was something I missed, what was it. Was it so subtle? So much like a light breeze fluttering at the thin frayed thread of a seam that I could have seen but didn't care enough to realize it was there. Were you just a tumbling leaf among a forest of fresh autumn arrivals lost in the vastness, one among millions? It pains me to admit that as much as I would have liked to have been a friend to you during your dark times, I too was in a dark place of my own and in turn was deaf and blind to the billowing smoke signals that tried to underline and emphasize the sorry plights of others. I wish you could have told your story yourself, could have left a memoir of the ****** up thoughts that zipped through behind your eyes while you filtered the layers of **** served in white paper bags that this world seems to dish up like a fast food chain of heartbreak and deep ruts, while every so often rewarding us with a mistakenly placed toy or salad to “make up” for the rest of the empty calories served. I've tried so long to be an optimist, to look at the glass half full, but that glass is shattered on the floor right now, I broke it. My life hasn't been easy, not many people’s lives are and that’s life, I understand that much. If it isn't raining it’s snowing, if it isn't snowing it’s hailing, and if there isn't any precipitation it’s either hot or cold as hell and you have to fight through it to make it to the next day. I’m taking the shoes I wear now off so I can step on that pile of excrement they call a glass half full, half empty. Give me the pain, it hurts and the tears burn as they roll down my cheeks while I stare at this half a cent card with your face on it and some mass produced poem on the back listening to the ******* eulogy mutterings of everyone around me, but I want that. I would take this shuttering pain, this volcano of discharged emotions erupting from the shaking core of my body. I would take it any day over the numbness that is ******. Wasn't your child a life raft? Wasn't he the duck it or **** it of your life? Had you not a fiancé to whom which you could have rested your beaten structure on? Did you not have an array of support, a field of pile driven beams to share the weight in it all? Or was it a mistake? Was it a fault of somebody else that provided you with the birthday batch of ******? When you blew out the candles and smiled behind the thin line of adumbrating smoke that sketched out the soul behind your eyes did you think to yourself, today will be the celebration and cessation of my birthday; a bitter sweet memory for all who know me: on this day she was both born and deceased. Today she began to live and learned of death. I will never have the answers for the many who continue to fade into the credits of their dismal painful lives, but I will never stop trying to understand and I will never learn to forget or let go. This blood in my veins detest the cold steel rush that so many of you have tasted, that so many of you ran to when no one was listening, when no one was looking, when no one could comprehend you anymore and the only languages you spoke were procured from endless nights on the cushioned wooden floor as you drifted off among the silver linen clouds, as you left this body on earth and spoke with angels perched over the smoke stack that overlooked the back-lit-keyboard of lights that was your city, your town, your home while the strand of rubber slowly fell from your arm. We couldn't hear you, and those **** angels seem to weave such a pretty tale sometimes when you forget that you are speaking to your own deceitful mind. I will learn that language, I will look for those signs, I will place a candle on the sill beckoning every friend of mine to come and share with me in person. Let me reach into that white bag and see what is inside, I’ll eat whatever you pull out whether they are empty calories or not, preservative filled fries cold or hot. You are my friends and Social Networks are a lie, just a wall to hide behind, an occasionally droll and informative medium, until you die and then there is nothing left to pretend to say or be.

Where I grew up
We didn't celebrate celebrity
And weren't slaves
to the cattle-drivers of the masses

Where I grew up,
We were just young

And free

We toiled on train-tracks
Inventing troubles requiring
A daring escape.

With our stick-strapped-satchels
We foolishly mocked the local bums

Jealous of their freedom.
Ignorant of their pain.

Imitation is the hallmark of love
And yes, we loved the bums
And we were thorough through it

Where I grew up
The incandescence of the late afternoon
And early morning suns
Drew in a vibrant orange
Cast as paint on pale walls

The apartment... and eventually... the house
Shone brighter for it;
Though it seemed to struggle less in a house
That was considerably more empty

Especially around the holidays.

Where I grew up
We were taught racial and radical equality
Exacted with extreme prejudice
At every pep rally and presumably PTA meeting.

And while neighboring towns held race riots
We were racing our bikes, well...
I do miss my rollerblades

Where I grew up
Every girl was pretty as a movie star
And chased the bad boys
Like in every story I'd ever heard

And those boys won by popularity and power of presence
Girls they never deserved

Where I grew up
In winter we built massive palaces
From the winter's teardrops that huddled together
For warmth after the plow

Where I grew up...

I grew up too soon.
A little more than a little at a time
And it became clear
I had to move.

I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,

Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.

   I am an analyst-dissecting details.

4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,

in a circle...
  Till I reach the middle.

I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.

   I am a participant in social warfare.

Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.  

All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
  touch,
    taste.

All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
   And I am listening very closely.

I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******.
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.

Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;

   Chewing paws in strange positions.

I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.

Constructive chaos:
   Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.

I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.

I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.

Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.

Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.

( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )

[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]

I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****.
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.

   That Deliverance tune.

And walk around ski towns
   Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.

Summer is

bikes and rollerblades
and go-carts and skateboards,
kites and frisbees
and ***** and gloves,

rainbows and suncatchers
and white fluffy clouds,
blue skies and green fields
and sunshine and flowers,

bare feet and sandy toes
and waves on the shore,
tan lines and sunburns
and goofy tourists,

yellow and orange
and summer rain,
butterflies and gardens
and fresh vegetables,

smiles and funny faces
and silly conversations,
smirks and giggles
and big belly laughs,

playing outside until the streetlights come on
and picking flowers for the dinner table,
building sandcastles just to knock them down
and shelling so many peas your finger go numb,
staring at a sky so blue it hurts your eyes
and running barefoot through the cool grass
and laughing so hard you can't even breathe.

Summer is.

(aka Pinky Andrexa)
4/4/10  02.09am


I am walking in a daydream under skies forever grey,
Lying always in the shadow of ambitions all foregone;
I'm going through the motions of another working day,
Feeling permanently static, as the world is moving on.


And you're forever shining like some distant blazing sun,
You're gleaming as I'm dreaming, making all who see you smile;
The wings upon your heels still elevate you as you run,
So many want to be you, or would emulate your style.


From distance I behold you, as a cat beholds a king,
All doors open before you, in successions of success;
Your flame's forever burning, while my own is dwindling,
I could not be further away, or love you any less.


While you, you dice with danger, dancing on the precipice,
Leaving admirers breathless at your daring escapades;
And all your leading ladies ever burn to taste your kiss,
Your destiny speeds to you riding jet-powered rollerblades.


Yet two unlikely paths have crossed and subtle friendship blooms,
And many dreams take flight between the gutter and the stars;
Making the span of distance shrink into adjoining rooms
Opening secret passageways, where chosen dreamers pass.

I saw you glide around the basketball court today like the floor was made of freshly polished glass.
You didn't falter once.
You slid as easily as ball bearings across an endless marble table.
Circling & spinning & swaying & twirling.
Your dress was polka dot.
It whipped sharply in the wind.
I watched you skate until you rolled away, onto a gravel path.
Although your absence was as silent as the drifting of your blades,
As the sky went dark, I really wished you would have stayed.

You wish to learn my face,
to grasp the essence of my chaos.
Do not try to understand how i think,
for i myself can not comprehend.
Like a unicorn on rollerblades,
you can only stand, awe-struck.

The was a girl who had 3 blades
And trusted them with her life
She used them as her shades
Coz she needed them to thrive

She had rollerblades
The only fast thing she could find
She tried running with them from the world
But they were not fast enough

She had a blade to sharpen her pencil
And tried to use it to draw her future
But everytime the drawing was complete
Her tormented past came and erased it

Then she had a blade to sharpen her wrists
Coz all the other blades failed

Thinkin you hot in hip hop playing skip it in the summertime
Thinking when reading the dictionary out loud everytime when you state in dumber “rhymes”
Spittin lethal when you’d get abused by thought
And forget the fruited wisdom cuz you’re too confused with motts
Thinkin you flowin when you ******* in the niagra
With all that power you’d think that you created ******
Forget your lefty made bout, cuz your rhymes be played out
You couldn’t even hip hop right even if your left knee gave out
My women call me Mc claps that I’m “eatin prego”
Cuz you receive applause every enlightenment down when you’re getting thrown at eatin everything from off the floor when you’re gettin thrown at from every freakin tomato
I left mousetraps around your bed to prove that you bomb cheese
The next morning after I stole all the mousetraps offa your mom’s knees
You’re only hip hop when rats are attackin your feet
To have you rappin and dancin when evading death to abackin your feat
Dig out your eyeballs and glued them to my God-blue reeboks too so that you can see walk
Might as well morph in-to a dictionary verbalized so that you would be talk
Get your **** tatted with my rhymes so that you can beat mine
And ******* to a dictionary everytime elementary to see rhymes
Intent in poetry id is the only time when you can see mine
Your poetry is better than smoking potent sleeping powder
Your capacity growth is better than your open reading hour
You couldn’t roll with these punches only when you’re swingin on rollerblades

mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mm

in a swirl of

cards, spoons, cereals,
books, brooms, thermometers,
laundry, photos, flipflops,
knives, gifts, rollerblades,
dishes, yogurts, candy,
catfood, homework, pajamas,
cartons of milk, tickets,
money, toys, sweaters,
hats, bags, sandwiches,
phones, pants, messages,
icecreams, umbrellas, lunches,
handcrafts, letters, bottles,
breakfasts, shampoos, succus
and tattarrattat

this
little bitty pretty one
is lost

it smells like the smoke of a barbecue in my grandparents' backyard,
the perfume my brother pretended to be allergic to so i wouldn't buy it,
the kitchen before christmas dinner

it tastes like the pumpkin and feta bread my mother used to make,
the blackberries from my grandmother's tree,
the fish and chips on saturdays

it sounds like all the dumb youtube videos,
the songs blasted on the small cd player on the desk,
the conversations that blend together over dinner

it looks like the rollerblades with a broken strap,
the overgrown garden we could get lost in,
the playground with the train

it feels like collapsing on the couch after marathoning the one just dance song we know off by heart,
like laughing until our chests ache and crying until the same,
like looking back and wishing i still knew all these things

some places beg to be written about
the lighthouse at what feels to be the edge of the world
has always been one of those places.
the desolate trees stretching up to a gray sky, a birds nest resting, teetering at the top of a bare branch
the clouded water revealing nothing of its depths
the fog so heavy - it doesn't linger, it lives there
forcing quiet introspection
demanding stillness
from those who squint through the gloom

at other times, astonishingly, the landscape transforms
monarch butterflies migrate en masse and flutter on the milkweeds
the sun sets, a tangerine looming over the saltwater marsh
tiny ***** dart into their holes in the sand and slowly poke their way back out when the coast is clear

In my memories of this place
I am always looking down at myself, on my bike,
small,
coasting down the winding road that leads to the tower for miles,
keeping up with the kid on his rollerblades weaving across dotted yellow lines
All-seeing, in the act of storytelling,
As if I'm one of the woodpeckers perched in the pines

the ground that I
was walking, turning over,
breaking up everything
in my path. Knocking over

the flowers with his
wrath. Pulling on the roots,
the baby green leaf
shoots. His rollerblades

smashing me as a pin-
ball arcade against my walls,
through the screams and
squalls. I gave birth to his

broken earth. As the sun
set the crimson sky wept this
broken ground wet. Thank you
Mr. Miller, the machine-man tiller.

A school kid thinks about
Homework scholarship detention expelling
Boy friend girl friend gay partner lesbians too teasing issues bullying issues and start time 9-00 finish time 3-00 soccer training Aussie rules training fighting in the schoolyard skateboards rollerblades theatre theatre sports dance class break dancing weight training personal trainers life coach anxiety
That is what kids do
And it is said as they enter the bus
When a real ******* enters the bus
You feel like teasing that guy with the kids
Laughing at him
Making him unhappy
About his likes and dislikes
He does things his parents do
While you still do what kids like to do
Or better still forced to do
when he enters the bus with you
And the kids you say
What are you looking at
He says what do you mean it is something from the zoo
Then each kids laugh at him
Saying what a LOSER
With the Ls in their hands
I also said I do things like the kids
You just stay being an adult
While we muck around making
You feel unusual
Television radio snap chat Instagram Facebook tik tok
Just be careful that kids are happy with this
******* idiot so we can muck around

in the original sketches
for the feet bones spurs
evolved to rollerblades

At no point did I know where
the night would take me,

That’s how I knew I was exactly
where I was meant to be.

Thinking back on it,
it wasn’t the all nighter
or the 1 am drive through fiasco
that made me remember that day,

Or the light pink lacy bra
we made the one man wear,
or the short time I spent driving a
car— wearing rollerblades— down
the midnight street.

No, surely it wasn’t the
concrete I slept with my
back pressed against or the
4 am alarm so I could catch the sunrise.

To be honest, I’m not actually
sure why I remember that day.
I don’t think any one of those moments
stuck out more than the others.

And 30 years down the line,
chances are I really won’t
remember those events.
But I will never forget how those people made me feel.

My life wasn’t changed that day.
But now I knew one thing more—

Life isn’t changed, but it is defined by
small moments experienced
with big people.

wind in my face
doing this since
I was half my age
sweat on my forehead
warmth from the helmet

moving fast
while
passion lasts
going up
going down

massage under my feet
cause the beton can't beat
all off the speed

make me small
so I won't fall
my knees low
wheels will grow

rollerblades
inline skates
rolling shoes

call them all what you want
make another brand
I still stand