I've caught you like the common cold
but I have no interest in getting better
spare me the nyquil
I'll pass on the penicillin
I have no love for codeine
your presence is the most sobering thing I know.
I miss spoke a few seconds ago
there's nothing common about you
you're a rare strain of virus
and I'm patient zero
diagnosis: terminal
infect me,
corrupt me,
do your very worst.
break me down into my component parts
and return me to the earth from which I came.
I have made my peace.
I will rise from that same earth, lazarus of chocolate skin
a little stronger
a little wiser
immunized by your viral love to the horror of the world.
so take me
make & unmake me
I would die a thousand deaths by your hands.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
a kind of cosmic static -
the background noise lurking behind everything since that fiery moment in which everything came to be.
human beings are the only beings with big enough ears and smart enough brains to hear it.
and it’s killing us.
it whispers about the space.
the vast, yawning emptiness that is 99.0000000000000000000058 percent of the universe
and how small and unimportant we are in the face of it.
the stars are deaf to the call of the void.
and all of the less arrogant animals simply don’t care.
but humanity is smart, and intelligence has lead to efficiency.
we’ve optimized and agricultured and technologized ourselves into a vast wealth of free time.
and in that free time we’ve taken up the hobby of thought; of navel gazing; of looking within and without.
and when we turned the rods and cones of our eyes inwards the void stared back. unflinching, unblinking. and it roared, and every one of us heard.
we try to block it out with our various vices but in the end they are all in vain.
we inhale glittering ivory dust, conflagrate various flora of every shape and size,
gulp down poisons like desert floors that have never seen a drop of rain, genuflect before effigies of deities of questionable existence, sing and dance, **** and **** and **** and steal and covet, all in search of a kind of purpose.
some soft cottony bliss to plug our ears to the roar of the void.
but we cannot stop it. the slow bleed of grains of sand out of the hourglasses of our lives is one wound we will never be able to heal.
for void thou art, and unto void thou shalt return.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right
in the supposedly post-racial united states of america
the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.
black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.
stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy
post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-
these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.
more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.
"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.
but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'
I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.
does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?
In a sick way it almost makes sense
that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved
that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.
the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.
our shackles are now student loans;
plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.
maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.
miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.
but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."
our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way. but their deaths will not be in vain.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.
and and fourteen and something isn't right
in the supposedly post-racial united states of america
the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.
black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.
stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy
post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-
these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.
more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.
"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.
but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'
I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.
does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?
In a sick way it almost makes sense
that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved
that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.
the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.
our shackles are now student loans;
plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.
maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.
miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.
but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."
our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way. but their deaths will not be in vain.
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
sparks light the darkness
for precious quarters of seconds.
the lonely lighter flame reaches its arms towards the cloudless sky.
lifting the stained glass sacrament to your lips -
inhale.
inhale.
inhale.
exhale, your worries and a small part of your soul.
your mind enters the fog, running from something.
neon lights oscillate like angered ancient specters
bathing us in an eerie glow.
hide the small square under your tongue. the familiar bitter taste fills your mouth. you've been here before.
"expand your consciousness", they say.
your heartbeat doubles, and your mind enters the fog, running from something.
pop the tab unscrew the cork-
pour.
pour.
pour.
gulp it down, soak it up like a desert floor that has never seen a drop of rain,
and chase it with a rainbow of pretty pills.
your body becomes numb, and your mind enters the fog, running from something.
from the dawn of time til our deaths we humans have been running from something.
running from our fears,
running from our thoughts,
running from our memories,
running from ourselves.
we chase the void so ravenously we fail to notice the voids opening up inside of each and every one of us.
there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
“pinky promise you’ll be there for my play?”
i don’t do pinky promises.
“why not?”
I don’t make promises that i can’t keep. because a broken promise is just about as bad as a broken tequila bottle shoved into the soft spot just below your ribs.
“…what?”
speaking of tequila, let me tell you why i don’t do pinky promises.
it was a few falls ago, three if you really want to get technical.
i’d come down to visit you on a weekend instead of staying home to study like i should’ve been.
it was eleven to eleven.
drunk. dear gods we were drunk. we’d just stumbled out of the greasiest mexican restaurant i’d ever eaten in.
but hey. the margaritas were cheap, and more importantly, they were the only place in the area that would serve to minors. They even included a free shot of tequila when you asked for your check, that went down with similar smoothness to the way my debit card slid through the reader and emptied my bank account a little more.
but yes. you and i were drunk. and as we strolled down fifth avenue i-
“me?”
No, i mean her. not you.
“who is ‘her?’”
that’s not important. do you want me to tell the story or not?
“whatever…”
anyways. as we strolled down sixth avenue i-
“i thought it was fifth avenue?”
Can you not?
“sorry….”
as we strolled down whatever the **** avenue it was, i couldn’t tell my feet from the concrete because the street lamps tinged everything an odd warm shade of brownish orange.
to stop myself from falling i reached out and wrapped my arm around your shoulder.
I can still feel the fur from your coat brushing on my cheek.
you didn’t protest, and i sure as hell wasn’t going to stop.
we were drunk. and talking.
talking about nonsense, about school, about our grades, about boys…
it’s funny that if we talked for long enough, without a doubt, our conversation would drift to the subject of love.
You knew that I liked you. back then i thought you just liked to torture me.
we stopped at the burning open palm of the street light before us.
i stopped you mid-sentence.
‘i could love you better’.
after those five words left my lips i suddenly wasn’t very drunk anymore.
silence.
there was no turning back now, so i had to just roll with it.
‘you waste all of this time on these boys who do nothing but hurt you…. but i’ve loved you for years now. you and i both know that you deserve better. that i would be better. every single time you come up in conversation with my old friends or my parents they ask whether or not we’ve finally gotten together or not. what’s stopping us?’
You stared at me for a long time, saying nothing, but it didn’t take a psychic to see the indecisiveness and longing and anxiety and fear swirling inside of you like your unmentionables in your Maytag.
“I guess i don’t really have a good reason. it’s just…. awkward, you know?”
She paused. I tried not to betray any emotion with my face.
"I'll cut you a deal. if in two years, we aren't seeing anybody... we'll give 'us' a shot."
Not quite the answer I was looking for, but it was better than a flat out 'No'. little did I know at the time that they were essentially the same thing.
I stuck out my pinky finger.
'Pinky promise?'
"Pinky promise”, she replied.
We locked eyes, locked pinkies in an embrace, and seconds later the ghostly white of the pedestrian walk signal shone down on us.
We broke our gaze and walked off into the night.
That was three years ago, and it’s probably safe to say that we won’t be taking that shot.
I don’t hold it against her. But i learned through three years of waiting not to make promises that you can’t or don’t intend to keep.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
i find it quite sad that the only thing stopping me from beng who i wish to be is a certain sequence of numbers.
numbers seem to have more power over people than any god or government-
this world was built-
and will burn-
because of numbers.
bank account statements cause stalemates between myself and my ambitions-
I am chained and restrained by my credit score, cruelly kept from exploring distant shores.
men slay their fellow man without a second thought
for a fat stack of cash and thoughts of what could be bought.
John Lennon imagined a world with nothing to **** or die for
no posessions too
but money is the cruel hand that tears that dream in two.
for as long as the concept of money
is the fire that drives men's hearts to beat
we will never truly see peace,
living at the mercy of the balance sheet.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right
maybe it's related to the fact that there is no more history on the history channel
and the only thing the discovery channel wants to investigate
is the depth of our bank accounts
the word 'integrity' has become archaic. obsolete. unnecessary, simply, because nobody has any anymore.
whatever happened to learning for the sake of learning?
who was the sick greedy ******* who decided that it was okay to charge money for knowledge?
our youth are being put into ******* for the knowledge necessary to survive in this society
of inequality.
in the 21st century slaves toil away in classroom as well as coal mines.
and those who dare to resist the path of post-modern peonage laid before them are doomed to a life of minimum wage mundanity or constant criminal risk.
there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.
i too have become a slave. and a large portion of those who read this message have as well.
our souls signed away at the dotted line, sealed within great paper phylacteries adorned with the sinister sigils of Sallie Mae.
the chains of our debt will never let go of us. even upon death our progeny will have to hoist our burdens on their shoulders.
and for those of you who know not of our ******* i bid you welcome, like a Brother greater than I once said:
"welcome to the united snakes, land of the thief, and home of the slave. the grand imperial guard, where the dollar is sacred and power is god."
if your total net worth rests below a cool few million i suggest you stay away.
silly me. silly me, silly me, silly me. after all this country was built on generation after generation of genocide, **** and fraud, codified into the laws we hold so tight and so high, how naive was i to even expect civil discourse and equality from a naturally sinister state?
cloaked in the fog of pure ignorance we the people paradoxically bear the weight of our fraudulent federal government on our backs while simultaneously parasitically depend upon it.
parapets and gaudy domiciles all built with the blood sweat and tears of the disenfranchised. soft music composed of the screams of children dying from predator drone hellfire missiles lilts through the hallways.
news flash: the illuminati and the reptilian overlords are not trying to control your mind.
this is not about pineal gland calcification and third eyes but about the systematic disenfranchisement and subjugation of every man woman and child in this unfortunate nation.
they impose harsh sentences on small time drug crimes and outsource our only sources of economic stability.
left with no upward mobility, we then resort to any means necessary to simply survive.
'the world is your oyster.' they say. and they conveniently fail to mention the fine print which emphatically states that you may only possess the oyster shucking knife if you are white, male, and upper middle class.
this is not about checking privilege and white guilt. this is about the way that this ****** up world works. about the sinister cogs turning behind the scenes.
and if you dare raise your voice in resistance you'll find yourself staring at cinderblock walls, spools of barbed wire, reinforced steel bars, and armed guards for the rest of your sad life. your enclosed inmate existence making the coffers of the prison-industrial complex even deeper.
some say we should raise our fists instead and fight. and i say to them good luck fight the world's most technologically advanced military in its own home territory. Guerilla warfare and armed millitias stand about as good of a chance and gorillas armed with sticks and stones when the enemy possesses satellites that can see your face from orbit.
and i hope you don't mine being despised by the public of the modern world when you're slapped in the face with that dreadful catch-all term that is 'terrorist'.
but we can't just sit here and let the vines of greed asphyxiate our vitality away.
so herein lies the eternal question that i pose to you:
what are we to do?
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
sometimes i feel that the reason the sun chooses to turn its back on this world and set and the reason that all light leaves is because you are not by my side and i miss you
every time the cool summer breeze steals from beneath barely cracked windowsills and disturbs my blankets i wish that you were there to fix them and to kiss me back to sleep
and when those summer breezes turn into hard winter winds i wish you were there to help keep me warm
your absence is the elephant in this room except this elephant has decided to sit squarely upon my chest
my every breath is labored and my hear aches for rest and for you
i miss you like puddles miss being part of the ocean
i miss you like a retired jet captain misses his deceased co-pilot
i miss you
these words are quickly becoming the only ones i remember how to say aloud and it is taking all of me to not scream them to the heavens
i am consumed by myself and my sorrow and all i can think is that i miss you.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
if i could paint a picture
of how much i regret the way things ended
it would be a sad assemblage
of pastel blues and greys and blacks
stained with flecks of golden yellow
not unlike the thunderheads currently taking up residence in my head.
If i could write you a letter
it would be yet another failed attempt
at describing how much my very soul aches
for something as simple as your presence.
if i could hold your hand
the nearby flowers would bloom
and the sun would glow green with envy.
if i could kiss your lips
i would certainly lose my mind
and not want to be found ever again.
if i could call out your name
i would hope that the winds would show me pity
and carry my voice to your ears.
if i were to sing a song
it would be a beautiful ballad
every measure dedicated to another flawless part of you.
if i could build a bridge
that spanned across time
it would lead me back to that wednesday in august
in your arms
slipping into slumber to the rhythm
of the raindrops tapping upon the windowpane.
if i could tell a story
it would be of the way the sun chases the moon across the sky;
to urge everyone everywhere to cherish those close to them.
if i could make myself stronger
i would squeeze the earth until
the number of miles between you and i
dwindled down to zero.
if i could look into a mirror
i would be puzzled by what i would see
and find it hard to recognize
the face staring back at me.
if i could give you my heart
i would in an instant.
in the time it takes for my heart to beat its last iambic
i would rip open true ribs one through five
and offer my crimson ***** to you.
if i could have met you any other way
under different circumstances
in a different time
under a different sun
maybe this would have ended differently
or not ended at all.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC