I wonder how many times I'll say hello to these strange people I am said to know. I can see the look on their faces and the false happiness that they all show. Why can't they be real why must they lie? I'm sick of being played by time! I want them to be straight up, I want them to know that I can see their problems they always show. I just want them to be real to stop the lying and hate. Why can't they just say these things to my face! Mabey I could help them or at least understand why. But no these idiots think its smarter to hide. To keep the demons that eat at their pride. I'll tell you this I want you to know that if I have a problem I won't be apart of your emotionless show. I'll open up express my thoughts. To many times have I welled up my thoughts, but now I'm boiled over to the brim. I've taken so much and held it all in. But not again I can't hold it in, I've been filled to the brim. I'm sorry but not again, I can't do it this is the end.
You ever thought that if you were to say something the words won't come out right.
And you just leave everything at Silence because you don't know what else to say.
Tears start blinding you & you wish that he understood & for some strange reason your words are better said in your head then out loud.
You start to feel it eating you alive & you can't seem to stop the pain.
You feel hopeless,depressed,alone; and you debate with yourself whether to say this or that next.
You think to yourself no matter what you say, your still going to seem depressed. You want to hide,run, escape from this pain that's eating you alive.
I do this for the ones who died to bring about the change
it's hard to stop the crying when you're standing in the rain
Our politicians lying they're just on a campaign
I realize with three eyes on my astral plane
breaking down a swisher filling it with Mary Jane
So I won't go insane from this knowledge that I've gained
the consequence of speaking out a bullet in your brain
or a one way trip to Guantanamo Bay
Join Forces with the Killers Rest In Peace J.F.K
Man Lacking Knowledge of who killed M.L.K
Like a wolf in sheep's clothing they are not who they portray
as yall can tell I'm back with the word play I see
Brothers killing brothers over colors that they claim
While our sisters are exploited for a dollar and some change
their fathers either dead or locked up in the chain gang
cause they were labeled felons for trafficking cocaine
Mama drop out of school and entered the dope game
was known to pull tricks and do strange things for change
they wanna chill with the gang but when it's time to bang
you'll find out that some of these suckers just wanted to hang
Millions are locked in a cage millions make minimum wage
It's like we're trapped in a maze trying to fulfill our days
while we're wasting our nights we're slowly fading away
Do you understand the message this is trying to convey?
There's nothing I've wanted more than the ability to forget.
I've tried but I haven't been able to master it, yet.
I can't forget you're scorching touch,
You left scars, more than enough.
You were trying to mask your impotence,
I should've shown more than just indifference.
Tell me did you know what you were doing, did you notice my change?
Must of, since you asked "Why are you acting so strange?"
I never admitted, never told a soul,
I never seeked help- I turned numb, bitter cold.
Tried to convince myself I was strong, stronger than you.
I was completely wrong, you knew this, too.
You hold so much sovereignty over me,
I still can't comprehend how this can be.
You knew who'd keep quiet, you knew which prey to choose,
You're so clever, made sure you'd never lose.
Do you know how indefinitely f'cked up I am now?
Are you happy? Are you proud? Do you want to take a bow?
Your time is ending, your death is near,
You'll be gone, yet I'll always have so much to fear..
He thinks my first name is Sarah Jay
he says it's so pretty the way it rolls off the tip of his tongue
and it reminds him of flowers coming up through piles of snow
He says my lips remind him of space itself
because every time he presses into them
his eyes seem to close
and he's left with comets and Jupiter and Pluto and stars
he's left with a feeling like all that baggage he carries is nothing
He thinks I see the same thing as he
Really I just see black blemishes and red spots
I see memories that should've already been forgotten
He says his home is in the nape of my neck
and if it were possible for a person to shrink to microscopic size,
he'd camp in the crevices of my collar bones,
he'd cut out a house in my jugular
he said It would be an honor to drown in my blood
I'd like to tell him he'd suffocate with smoke
He thinks the gold strands at my roots aren't real noticeable
He wants to see what I looked like before I went Jet
He says when I sing it puts him in a trance
he forgets the cigarette burns his father applied to chairs
he forgets his mother returning at strange hours reeking of sex and Johnny
he forgets that he's even alive
He thinks I don't smoke
He thinks I could really make it somewhere
But you can't make it somewhere when you are living a lie.
Its weird to hear your name
coming from lips you seem to know
How strange it feels to look at eyes
you thought to miss
I seem to not recall the warmth
that once was there.
This face now here is new to me.
The old one gone astray.
Its time to turn from thought
to leave with tears inside.
you walk away.
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Gondel's room. It was not a heavy frost, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The seen was reminiscent of old gallows. Henry Moore had been living this routine for 20 some odd years
He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and the three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything, except one, Leo, said there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Gondel, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. Henry had never heard his father talk about fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk and not paying very much attention to anyone, anyway.
"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "Booze and Johnny Cash.
Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. Santiago met her through a friend and after a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. But, Santiago being Santiago, chose not to listen to anybody and only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.
Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 20 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical. The third followed suit. Henry Moore, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurant owners, the laundry mat lingerers, the cops, the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation, the guy on the corner and the guy behind the black, grated fence, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after them.
Henry Gondel looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim, but sunlight streaked in through the blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shpaed chest. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his ass would constantly peek out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touching the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.
Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, roofing, and construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.
Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up, combing his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner one Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.
"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.
Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"
"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work."
"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.
"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.
"That's good, that's good."
"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.
"What?" asked Henry, yelling so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, dirty dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.
"Take the dogs out to pee," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."
"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.
"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."
I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
never seemed to see much more than a mistake,
something that needs to be erased.
always pointing out my many flaw,
somethings were better never done at all,
traced along my faded stains,
of long hard water rains
tried to figure out my every meaning,
but moved on when they realized I needed cleaning
I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Often left in strange musty coffee shops,
by people who never really, stopped,
to look to closely at the words that defined me
I wished I had a bold title that made you want turn the page,
to try to solve my many puzzles,
I longed to be read,
but instead it was if I was written in erased lead
I am like the voice of a worn singer,
with one last song to sing before the bar lights fade,
because as lonely as it is no one ever stays,
to hear the last lines,
taking us back through all of those times,
eventually silence is the only song left to sing to,
it tends to be the only song people listen to.
I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
Never quite blending to my ever changing background,
One day an artist happened to pass by,
intrigued by my every curve and line,
fascinated with the weathered paint
that was me
One night while the city slept the artist,
filled in all the chipped gaps with new paint,
adding brighter colors to all of my dull spots
The artist changed the way I hung on the wall,
but really he taught me that I had been art after all
I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Filled with stories from the past,
One day a business man stopped to pick me up,
He read my stories from cover to cover,
and even kept me in his briefcase,
to take out during his laze,
to reread the comics,
that kept him laughing for days.
The businessman changed my story,
but really he taught me that the words written weren't boring
I am like the voice of a worn singer,
unheard by listeners,
One night a dark figure,
took a seat in the very back
and stayed all throughout
just to hear my voice crack,
and when it was finally time to go,
he came out of the dark only to say,
“Will you please sing that again?”
The dark figure kept me singing,
but most of all he taught me that someone was listening
The old woman with the lined, wise face
Feels her eyes go heavy; her chest swells and falls
Like ripples on a shallow pond.
But this night she is seeking the deep waters;
Memories of a few men who touched her
In her most guarded places.
While they slept next to her young, throbbing
Body she honed them like a slim axe.
She always let her lover fall asleep
Before she opened herself to the Dream Lord.
She would dream of swords and feathers,
Of swimming downward into black depths
Where the ruins of a lost city
Caught her in its pull, toward its stillness,
Its eldritch glow, so unreal and
marvelled at even
As it caught her in its nets.
She always in thrall to her
At dawn the new sun comes peering
Through and whispers kisses onto
Her world now is peopled with broken
Faces she knows can become in a minute
Strange and unkind.
She tries so hard to use the broken images
To assemble a mosaic, but there are always
Pieces missing: she is always incomplete.
There is a name on one of those pieces
Which is on the tip of her tongue.
It was a transient love, like an island
Sharp as its coral, of teeth and claws, and once
She felt alive to look at the scars; the scrapes
And puncture wounds a terrible secret that
Her body has locked away in the netherworld
She time travels through the Universe of her
What is left for her but flashes of skin and
Still a name; a name that slowly turns jade upon
A name she must remember so she can go and
Beside the Fountain.
To unpack that long black bag of torments
And fears cleansed so she can rest
Descend into the Water Kingdom;
To listen to the song of the bird that comes
To beckon her home.
A trail of bread crumbs to the witches house,
through the forest that haunted that strange little town.
she was never quite loved-
that lone confectioner.
pushed to the outskirts
by those that live for white picket fences
and the grass growing green and even.
When the authorities came by,
they found two kids, fat and happy,
but not by the hand of the woman.
There was no cage in the house made of sugar;
for what sweetened cage could hold a child?
No, the once fragile and beautiful house
that glittered like spun glass,
sat eaten and worn at the loss of her owner
for little old ladies do not devour children,
but children will kill for candy.