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Aug 2015 · 1.8k
An eternal place
JM McCann Aug 2015
We outlasted the moon!
In a timeless place we did it!
The pull of the moon and the rise of the sun irrelevant!
A group of warriors who couldn’t be more different, as I see myself
in grey —faded color, colors that will never cease to exist!
A rapper from south Africa, a student fluent in Chinese music, a girl with no bounds from down the road, a cyclist from Manhattan, a quiet devil from Belfast, and two girls who could be twins from Mexico all of us surived!
The famous campus— empty a bond forever, only the flies
dance with me!The pizza crust from what
feels like eternity or last week at this point fresh on the table,
still two hours before the day begins, eyes droopy, faces baggy no idea
where the sun is a blink sleeping, eternity awake the music on and off replacing  conversation occionsally tossing condoms a laugh, talk of favorite memories.
only sif (not sure what that was) hours ago pitch dark, lost with a welcome room
Sleepy travelers some head off needing the destination and rest wanting to jump offand hit the ground running, we made it walking as a bottle cap falls from an open window at three four disappear as the night lights turn off around me.
The ones who left early no less brilliant, I owe them all so much.
I will not begin to describe them because they could all take up a book of memories.
Funny stories then sad ones as it becomes clear to the tellers that one is in the making all it was, ice cream followed by a half hour, thrilled at company to Ashelies ice cream
after farewell song.
Reality chugs along.
A door opens, nobody comes along.
At three in the afternoon dizzy as light starts to claim the clock-tower.
Dizzy sick and unable to think in the afternoon the prophet before hand calls straight-mistake, (the first N4 alcoholic hungover never another drink I swear before drinking )
At ten that night out of the timeless room it’s one hour then fifteen minutes then another then thirty disappear.
Dancing on the table music and stories. Later that night or morning, at our lowest bit of energy. pumping iron. Pulling back together with a friend from the other side of the planet falling back letting go getting sprung up in the famous campus. Dancing on a tread mill shirtless together in the dimly lit gym.
Is there anything more divine?!
Then quite in the timeless room, at 3 in the afternoon sick missing the talk of a life claiming “there is no love without sacafrice", at 6 in the night I’m sleeping  debating heading home on that paved road opting instead for "who knows?!" At six in the morning, out of the timeless room, I’m the only one out, writing this as the drone of the song continues from the windows of fellow warriors, briefly drowned out by a helicopter. The beloved campus dead quite even birds asleep. Before the iron deep in the morning pool and talk of maybe being social accidentally sinking the 8 ball. At twelve in the alleged dead of night a room trashed unknown and the words spread a half mile out and brings the head honchos down to the timeless room, at three saved from sleep by a prior story of farting in sleepers faces woke me just in time in the timeless room. At sometime the door opposite the timeless room opened and a long narrow stroll around leads back to the timeless room, at some time time in the timeless home my presence maybe anxiously sought or ignored. The ecstasy and disbelief to see the sun, running back to the warriors who I just wished well at the sun! The same planets with vibrant colors. I will never forget the warriors but maybe their names.
I swat at a fly that was never on my arm.
I think of the infinities of time I will miss later.
My hearing worn thin with my sight, the birds songs lost their fullness
though in our business it’s very likely for the better
as I look to see the clock tower fully conquered,
I wonder if my parents will assume intoxication,
it is impossible to do this tail justice, though it will likely
end in the same spot: dizzy  complaints of exhaustion
getting sick and bliss before the end.
I have known the warriors  for 3 days, yet I know them better than family.
Outside the timeless room I learn partying means drinking with others
to bad dance music, the kind that kept me awake, as the smoke of
others cigars enter my lungs and the take truly ends in the same spot I trying to survive the eternal earthquakes after a long journey to say good-bye and in the timeless room,
the light stays the same. Some foosball in a timeless place in reality its a language or
a wreck room, in truth the room was always spinning, as my head is now.
To everyone who has there thank you. This was the final night of a charity summit. The organization is Narrative 4 which in essence de-otherifys people. War's start only aganist people who are consisdered "other" and the powers that want war otherify the group. The charity is very youth based and open to ideas so they bring a group of students to weigh in on the direction of the charity at yearly summit. If you have any futher questions about N4 please message me.

Anyway I wrote this at 6 in the morning after pulling an allnighter, I had lost the notebook I wrote it on but found it earlier today The day this I felt like **** from being overtired and my brain wasn't working right for the vast majority of that day yet it was the final day and we all planned to stay up late and it turned out to be an allnighter, it was a wild ride their and one I hope to never forget.  The night after the allnighter, I slept for 14 or so hours.
JM McCann Aug 2015
I have learned that the best way to avoid punishment is to break
yourself.
Snap yourself fast, when the cops get to the scene you already
have given yourself a ****** nose,
justice never goes overboard and given how much punishment
you need you can change it.
Internal bleeding is impossible to measure.
No bull crap it needs to hurt.
When they leave you know exactly where the pieces are and put them back
no issues.
It takes the sting out of a shot to give it where ever you like.
I can’t tell if it’s because I broke myself so many times or
because I have sold myself or because I know my weak spots,
the pain shoots straight into my veins.
I’m no glass soldier.
If needed I could do combat with the greatest gods,
I have already seen the surface of the sun, surfed on a cloud
above the tallest mountain, been messaged by Jesus in a steam-bath
had the president treat me as equal all without earning half of it,
yet I did some kick-*** ****.
How much of what I did is only because of what came before me?
I would not have seen the things I have seen without my teachers
and saints. How much of a race is getting you to the line in
near flawless conditions?
Is the reason why my parents considering divorce doesn’t bother me
because— I or my parents or whatever combo have made me have a
bullet proof form or because I have never lost big enough to get scared?
Is the reason why I’m not scared because I have taken heavy punishment or nowhere
near enough or because punishment has always been a hit and run?  
I often too modest often fake modest often genuine
do you know how hard it is to be tell your own authenticy —
even in that question— when you know at once of your
brillance and that you lost your social security card at first chance?
Perhaps I’m just a tad dramatic, forgive me but I feel this all
I apolgize.
JM McCann Jul 2015
This **** is so confusing.
My head is in this fog, I don’t notice the cop and
they pull me over got my address birthday and name
does that mean I will get a ticket?
Like is the universe worthwhile?
What? Why? How? And all that other b.s asked ten billion times
I was bored before so I watched youtube now I question the entirety of the universe
and if this can be considered poetry?
Can the flow of the universe be considered poetry? Magic? Science?
If many of us had a dollar for every minute we where alive many of us
would be shockingly low on funds.

Freedom is the greatest bout of ******* since equality.
Is a pet parrot free cause it gets to pick the time it *****?
We are free, so free when you get arrested for walking through a
door that some guy— cause let’s face it the world is ****** up and sexist—
said you no, yet the alternative is far worse where every door is open
yet where is the middle ground is everything bounded to be perputally ******
up?
Are the police always going to be ******* who we can’t live without?
Are they gonna be the ****** who cross the lines to yell at others who cross the lines
or who bring tanks where words worked?
Are robots gonna **** up everything?
Is science going to discover that heaven is five hundred million miles
away yet still a place?
Is science going to prove that the universe was created by a god
watching over five thousand galaxies?
I feel like goverments would bond over their desire
to conquer god, claiming he she or whatever the **** it is
is after us?
I bet that’s how the world ends:
Nation states bicker over what to do with god
and some idiot in a control room will hit the wrong button
causing world war’s three, four and five.
Then we will move to space and **** up mars
and mars bars will finally get exposed.
A frustrated outburst
Jul 2015 · 1.3k
A stranger's ramblings
JM McCann Jul 2015
The following is what you make of a stranger’s ramblings
Now the cop
who ignores the lights is out the next day giving tickets
the sky does not turn black with an honest **** in a hit and run
the sky starts to melt when you and I refuse to think cause survival!
We are so busy trying to survive that we let everyone else die!
Are we given enough problems to only be able to carry for so many of others?

The doctor earning boat loads of money needs to make sure
that he can survive on his retirement funds!
Why are our problems blown up so much,
I get it they are close so the look big but the sky is falling and we
are busy looking for the remote!
Was the world designed in a way where learning of others problems
is always the straw that snaps the camels back?
Where we always have enough problems to only be able to
carry so many of others?
I’m no Titan.
I have seen myself flattened against the sky and ground
hearing stories of cruel smiles and I have minimal problems
that I can honestly claim as my own or as problems.
The world is going to explode and we will be bickering about who
should have been guarding the gate as a trigger is pressed against our face!
It’s not too late or I would have killed myself or made love then killed myself.
Our problems are not even the center of an atom.
They are often the same one, so instead of looking at them individually why not
attack the chain?
It is hard to believe in non-violence.
Honestly is humanity slowly turning the earth from something
that could have been the back-drop of heaven into the welcome gate for hell?
Strangers are what you make them to be!
Stop hating each other! You don’t need like each other
just know that they are humans so they have encountered magic
a magic that would have lit up your world the way fireworks explode
against the city-scape.
Also know that you and I and the stranger down the street
have all embodied a devil at it’s worst and a saint all
without being fully aware.
An angel never knew it was an angel only others did
a devil can see themself.
This is a call to arms just not guns
this a call to boycott, to call others to march with you
a lone marcher is a crazy a thousand lone marchers together we are
something.
The time to hit the gas was years ago.
Your own problems might get worse but they die and defeating
others problems is immortal.
This was what you make a stranger’s ramblings.
JM McCann Jul 2015
I’m sorry if this sounds creepy
I just want to say thank you.
You have changed me in ways that few can or will.
You embody everything I wanted in a person but knew that was far too much.
You are a perfect purple pink sunset, suddenly
the stars seem a little closer, you give me reason to chase the sun,
the energy to take last step after last step.
I will never forget the moment, a timeless room past midnight you
talking with this hypnotic mix of innocence blended with this ackcute knowledge of
mountains of ****,
of the horrors of hospitals with this immortal love of life.
The only way to live a good life is to live a life.
You are a protecter of a life.
You will spin the wheel in the circle of life.
Thank you.

I have met gods among us and heroes yet none as pure as your spirit.
You fight poison without ever taking a step against it,
subelty was never my strong suite.
I don’t want to sing a song that even deaf people have memorized
yet how many different takes on one emotion can we get?
You are brilliant like the way the traffic lights reflects a green into
the green tree in a park at night but only fifty times more stunning.
Your voice, flows yet the direction never certain.
We have  the same gods it’s just you are making heaven
a nicer place.
We could share a seat, driving different directions
but close enough to love.
You dance so stunningly yet make the floor feel even.
I don’t really know what to write but
if you ever want a new boyfriend please let me know.
So the last poem I wrote was inspired by her, sorry if this is very cliched but any feedback is super welcome I might send this to her but first I want to perfect it so please any feedback helps!
Jul 2015 · 1.3k
Vegan manifesto
JM McCann Jul 2015
We live and breath off death, can you not smell
the corpses in your stomach?
The touch of worthlessness in your stomach?
Would you like to ****?
Is it better that death is wrapped up in all natural anti-botic free?
Is death better with food coloring to make it look real?
Does the word wholesome satisfy your whole love of life?
One of our lives takes an average of 10,000 others,
is it worth it?
The fleeting savagery of feeling natural?
Of ripping into ribs, just think you are eating a lung.
Nature also is starving.
Life is in flux but certainly the grilled chicken with olive oil
does not know that, would you like to see a picture of the creature you killed?
We talk of life being small in labeled and reverend boxes if our dust is
small what should we make of the animals killed and shipped all over
never named, life a cost to be minimized.
Where forests burnt alongside the coal for the barbecue
is it worth it?

A cow is to many what puppies are to us
yet we enjoy burgers and cry with the dying dogs.
Life given to cows for the sole purpose’s of being rapped
chained down and killed, a burger is a stomp of approval.
A carton of milk at fairway an hour ****,
heavily processed.
Some ideas have deeply changed my life and these are those ideas I'm not a vegan so this makes it all the harder for me
JM McCann Jun 2015
You see videos mean jack ****.
Videos don’t play the atmosphere in the air
tinged gently with **** from the nearby toilette
videos don’t play how it started.
They don’t hear the pounding of the dragon flies wings in the air
and the Walt Whitman you read before you arrived or
the amazing or ****** day the camera man had.
The tension of the air between two warriors as they fought
in good fun or for good riddance.
Videos do just as great a job as the person who watches
a minute of a debate and confidentially declares the winner.
Granted there is no such thing as what actually happened
everything I write beyond this is opinion declared to be fact.
Just an excerise
Jun 2015 · 322
Love
JM McCann Jun 2015
Love
is  well traveled, for a blind deaf spirit it is rather infinite.
A spirit that has stumbled through life so often, can
hear the passing of the torch from thousands of miles away,
can describe the blue pink sky with streaks of orange
as a jet flies unnoticed against the back ground
hidden by itself for eternity or at least until it touches ground.
Love knows the clear deep pool, reflecting a passerby’s face as
love sleeps warm on the mud floor.
Love knows the concrete floor so often skimmed over
yet love is certain of nothing.
Love knows the same nothingness that you and I both preach.
This is a love poem just not to a lover.
An ode to songs sung and songs that are leaving singers mouths
and songs that are yet to be seen.
Love takes up less than space but gives us reason for space.
It passes in the voice of a father telling his father dinner is ready.
The indistinguishable clear invisible force sweeps not
with the power of a truck but with the handshake and a new doctor.
The moment never ends.
Somewhere a long long time ago green landscape bodies strewn, a mother gives birth,
a child is born, life celebrated,
the young boy’s life football, celebrates language singing,
about the game he loves.
The boy’s birth evolves with life.
Somewhere long ago the man becomes a father.
The moment keeps moving with life.
The kids learned love and the moment grows up with his children.
In a peaceful home a little bit ago his body gives out, life is celebrated.
The moment keeps evolving with his family.
This was a poem for my dad written about his dad who passed months ago.
Jun 2015 · 550
A Letter to you
JM McCann Jun 2015
I remember when you were my friend, when we talked about the future
and our plans. I wanted to get one good dose of life and went to the mountains.
You wanted safety of your survival and went to exchange your rights
for extra harnesses.
You began to search for survival and found the highway.
The neon blue signs
advertising just that.
You will feel comfortable, very comfy cause when you see the same
things at 10mph at 100mph what’s the rush?
You will survive for a long time never too long what you claim,
happy to see where the world goes.
The bug on your windshield will be your biggest problem.
Your foot will begin to slip and you will turn off the highway.
Yet the bumps on the exit ramps will be more than bumps,
slowly flattening your tires, destroying the and you leave worse than when you
turned off.
Not the ramps fault it’s just things were designed this way you saywith a shrug.
Slowly your organs will start to show and you will survive for a long time
but nothing more.
You will see how ugly a heart really is, a blob of red keeping you alive.
You will see your mortality in the mirror.
You will feel the harnesses, once so comforting begin to dig into your skin.
The lines from the harness more clear than clothing.
You will have food, water and a place to hang your hat
but it will never be your home but you will survive for a long long time,
too long.  
The suicide nets prevent the last line of control and you will survive for
a very long time, far too long.
You will bounce off the nets and be gently be taken back to the highway.
Hope you enjoy and any feedback is more than welcome!
May 2015 · 876
Oasis
JM McCann May 2015
Why is it so much easier to be disillusioned
about the lush forest than it is to see the
flowers that really exist?
Why is it easier to feel the vastness of a desert than it is
to feel the vastness of a life/ rainforest?

Sure no **** we don’t live in an oasis but that does not mean
trees taller than building don’t exist,
it does not mean we live in the middle of a desert with
time frozen and sand liquid.
Sure there are snakes in the sand but they are not the only animals.
Monkeys, lizards octopi whales, humans all of us exist.
We live among deserts and oasis’s.
So for gods sake while deserts are big can we not champion the oceans
that are a little bigger?!
Any comments critism is more than welcome!
May 2015 · 2.4k
Walt Whitman imitation poem
JM McCann May 2015
This will be no sad song,
I don’t want to overflow the rivers of tears
with a flood of my own.
We have all seen enough to fill oceans,
In dark corners I have seen the fates
sitting around and smile.

Some rivers overflow, and other scrap together every last
penny just to fight another day.

You die, I die, the president will die.
Our voices will not crawl along the edge of
a river rasping at the others to accept the
waters.
We will trumpet the tail of the glory of life from the after-party.
Chatting casually with a soldier wearing the wrong colors.
Is there one among us who does not bear the blood of countless souls?

The best champagne will not open to the highest bidder.
Nor will it be enjoyed by one, but by the prostiuite by the cop
by the technician, yourself and I. All of us enjoying each other’s stories,
none shall be left from the table, the best champagne all shall toast
with it.
An epic of a fight with a lion and the wind, of living through time
and the difficulties of never cutting the delicate surface no struggle
greater than either.
The old skeletons will find new life and I will dance freely with them
arm in arm, for a second or eternity.
We will stand proud together singing and dancing before the after party.
Then we shall toast to it all.
We shall toast the ever so careful historians,
did they really think they could fit, even the after party on
any number of pages?
So I'm thinking of cutting from the start til You die I die, thoughts on if I should? And any thoughts are always more than welcome!
JM McCann May 2015
I feel everything is in my control yet I manage to ****
up everything but lying.
**** up at chemistry, at college at racing.
The bullet stuck in the chamber or just never their.
I half want to cry about woe is me, confess
all my sins, get forgiven by a priest, have the priest
give me some direction. Just one problem:
I can’t say I love the god that anyone proposes.

The other half of me wants to sing dance and write kick-*** poetry.
This is a non-issue, I procrastinate.
May 2015 · 181
Part of a larger poem
JM McCann May 2015
A single voice is mortal, a loud enough chorus is immortal.
Striking the symbols and bouncing all the way down
to the sky.
The conductor wildly swings his arm for the audience who pay.
You and I sing for the joy of playing along with the birds,
We are changing nature, singing for the sake
of adding a note to the world.

We can get the thoughts in our head to turn the other way.
An army that charges screaming is scary, an army that charges
laughing would make me **** myself.
Charging at you genuinely happy to fight the
fight they know to be right to be earning ground for
those who can’t buy it.

All shall be welcome no background checks,
the undercover cop will be turned.
I’m not asking you to love every stranger,
Don’t try to make out with every stranger
that’s weird but keep an open mind.
They could be the next
Bush or an angel.

No turns in fate just the world tilted at a new angle.
Prehaps some debate about which way to be turned
after some talk among the universe.
Does this historian really think he can write who we
were? Do they really that some secrets
won’t be buried with the passing second?
They shall discover oxygen and claim it to be new
and new it shall be, the world refreshed at last.

The passing car shall pass with the horse and
the dove overhead cries a white and blue cry,
singing to the stars above
none shall rule out the other all given all. The waves shall
break in neat order, tirelessly! Our heartbeat without an audience
a wave without an audience are we really that diffferent?
Are you, I, a passing stranger and billions of unnamed people
that different?

The rock the couple sits on, the rock that gave
the kid his first ****** nose
that you and I shall sit on, rests contently
not knowing that it fell or if its still falling.
A work in progress part of a larger poem
JM McCann May 2015
Facebook draws at me.
Utube calls for me.
Can’t stop.

The vastness of a single square of whatever the **** internet is made of
horse ****?
Eggs oranges, breakfast falls from the t.v.

interconnected by who knows what?
Not I says basically everyone.
Truer words not spoken.
Engaging poets don’t produce this ****** work.
Regrets, I have nothing also this is me pretending to be clever.
No new nuisanced nittypicky ideas left.
Enough you cry, it will end soon
Told you.
yeah not much to say just bored and a little stressed why is this a diaere?
JM McCann May 2015
I don’t tell them I’m going to a protest,
as I know they will not say no, it really
is far safer.
The police have been pretty fair, only a couple
of ******* arrests and cause white privilege
I probably won’t get arrested.
In a black and white democracy color is prohibited.
I never have been close in a protest yet, the police always tolerant
maybe the commissioner doesn’t ****.
I don’t boast to them about starting a chapter in my
school.
I don’t them that the chapter I started with them was finished hundreds
of pages ago.

I don’t tell them I cut class to protest the B.S minimum wage
how I ****** the very thing I’m trying to start cause 
I was in a pissy mood.

I don’t them about how my friend and I were okay
with paying a guy trying to sell us **** to buy
us alcohol, later losing 20$
and not okay with going into a tattoo shop for the same purpose.
I don’t tell them about wandering around Chinatown
feeling like we should be drunk.

About the girl who in eighth grade asked me to touch
her *****, and I don’t tell them how
two years later we start hanging out— over facebook.
She moved to London.
About how she will be in the city the day my family goes away,
about trading facebooks for fifteen minutes
and having weird *** crap on my Facebook
and talk of how Jesus is an improper child on hers.

Nor do I my parents about meeting up with a
girl who I meet a month ago at a pillow fight,
and how right they were when they said ******
tables manners will catch up to you,
about how leaving a protest cause "my parents
are ******" and later seeing those people at the burger place.
I tell my parents I’m chilling with my buddies.
I tell them that I got pizza instead of burgers.
Because friends are safer to parents than a nineteen year
old girl you met at a pillow fight and how the entire time you
could not tell if it was friends meeting up or
people who wanted more.

I don’t tell them the reason why I’m so ******* fragile
is that I can’t tell if I’m manipulating myself or being real,
or how I’m the only one who is hurting me,
for fear of saying what I just told you.

Now all of this ******* **** lives in me and I have
nobody to proofread this.
Lovely.
Again kind of me in a less than stunning place I will for sure be editing this and creating a few new poems off this
May 2015 · 1.2k
Burnt Legs Crispy Spirits
JM McCann May 2015
Meh speed is fun, no not the drug.
Wish that came earlier.
****** up my race on a ******* attack.
Finished off the back.
The ******* scrub, placed or some ****.
I didn’t listen.
We agreed before to be at each other necks.
We like it that way.
I should have made him feel like ****.
All he does is sit.
People ******* hate his guts.
He is fourteen.
Solely responsible for ******* up his future.
I try to help.


I might try to back him up, or burry him.
I’m not sure yet.
His dad is nice, his mom is full of ****.
I do extra to shut her up.
His dad cheered for me at the race.
No **** I’m trying.

I thought his sister had a crush on me.
She’s like thirteen.
I kinda, almost, at one stage liked her.
We are tied together.
They are a tight family and he is stuck to my wheel.
He *****.
Tremendous respect for that ***** though.
I know how it hurts.
A ******* monster attacking your soul.
Burnt legs, crispy spirits.
The monster tells me I’m going the right way.
Can’t stop.
This was a poem really celebrating my rivalry with this kid on bikes. We race in complete opposite ways, came from the same program he stayed I left, anyway hope you enjoy.
Apr 2015 · 3.1k
Thoughts on light
JM McCann Apr 2015
darkness is just darkness when it gets black,
there aren’t anymore layers of darkness,
with even the smallest drop of light,
the world to see!

Darkness is just the absence of light so whenever
its dark out and you can see the moon,
just know that there is still light even in the blackest truest
blacks.
The light of a single flickering bulb more powerful
than all the darkness, also darkness is more rare
so we watch out for it, we sleep through it, yet
I’m deeply grateful for it, well worn streets new again
with darkness, also its far less intrusive than light,
so I can sleep with ease.
I apolgize if this sounds super clichéd.


The light blocks the cosmos from view just murky blackness, it also
blocks the building with million dollar views a few feet away from the park
and the trees above my head.
The light creates contrast on the path, a line of well lit concrete gentle darkness on either side,
yet the orange sky, still shows the fields.
a single light out of focus blocks out the sky, the passing by satilights and planes,
and the present, the giants overlooking the park.
Never have I seen light at such an angle, always helpful, the light at the perfect shards,
exploding out at different angles nothing of relevance, yet the light.
A focused explosion puased mid flight, the way
a  bird dives, paused, to admire the ground below.

Darkness is hip, edgy cool and
******* everywhere.
Poems about light are either clichéd to death or for *insert choice word
for fools.
Talking about the pureness of complete darkness, about how
your senses felt different is hip and edgy,
why is it so that I can’t find words to describe something everyone
already knows? Why can’t I describe the joy of feeling light
pouring on me, as I laugh on a unicycle,
the joy of a ******* chimpanzee, dancing.
a light that doesn’t pass through a darkness is worthless,
a light that passes through as immense a darkness that is as well lit as space is,
is a tall order.
How do you create the feeling of a light thousands of times bigger than our world,
that passes through a space that makes us an atom on our body.
This light makes us so small yet without that feeling of smallness where
would we be?
Without the gravity of something bigger, up and down are truly worthless.


Darkness is smaller than the light,
sure it’s the back drop, but its only there to help
us notice the light.

The cosmos save the electricity bill.
The white moon that really is grey, black and lots of other colors
that we can see from a good while off, turns the tide.
A small star obnixously yet perfectly welcome
lets the decorative lights rest.

Each of those stars is far farther from each other than we
when will ever travel in a hundred life times, space not crowded
even from way up over there there are still way beyond
any frontier in our lifetime, yet they are still there for us.
Nobody would notice if a star faded out of the sky
but each and everyone of them is still there for us,
and so many billions that will we will never see
but turn the black night sky into a dark blue sky.
The team work of the stars is extraordinary, all
keeping great distance as to not hurt the other stars,
yet they stay together and light up our night, together.
No depth so we can see horses in the stars,
yet what about the rocks attempting to destroy us?
Our very earth created the exact same thing,
creation brings massive pebble flying faster than light.


How?! How do we get to a light beyond darkness?
It’s not a light at the end of a tunnel, its never that clear.
It will come in shattered pieces, there might be a tiny touch
of light and on the celling a bit to the left, grab them all and they may
make something.
So I had these in lots of separate poems but I can't create anything so I just sent this
Apr 2015 · 1.9k
Untitled
JM McCann Apr 2015
The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.

The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.  
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.

The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.

The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.

A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.

The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****)
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.

Yes this is all football.
I make fun of things because its fun, I may or may not know this poem to be a factual recitation. Yes I have been in the mood to bash football a bit
Apr 2015 · 174
A question
JM McCann Apr 2015
How do I delete a poem?
JM McCann Apr 2015
For starters I thought it was basically all dating and going out with
a different girl every night, little did I realize I would go to a high school with
like one hundred twenty  girls total. Subtract the seniors who are leaving soon,
and you have around 80 or so, then you subtract the girls who have no interest me in,
even as person and you have maybe forty or so, then you subtract the people who have
no interest in a boyfriend, and maybe if I’m lucky there are twenty five girls who
could have an interest in me.
Yeah needless to say I got that pretty wrong.

Also the speed in which “Yeah she’s cute please ***** off” goes to
“madly in love he wants to insert ****** act that we are supposed to call gross
and sometimes is gross
her.” elevates is shocking, now that girl
thought I would do anything for her.
I didn’t realize that middle school would continue, just with people
making out in the hallways.
Trolls and fun sponges slides up to the new guy and look for a mole hill
to make into an impassible mountain range.
Also I just realized that to “ball with us” does not mean play basketball,
and is not something that saying you are “all about that bikelife” is not a way
out, its just I’m really not a fan or wasn’t the biggest fan of the obsession with stats,
I make my bad habits nintendo to avoid things like the rather depressing news
anyway I think “ball with us” means get ****** with us, it took only about
half an hour of thought but I think I got it.
I never thought I would get mildly drunk to avoid racing the next day.
I never thought I would be sixteen and have a grasp of the world that I consider to be
nuanced enough, of course there are still things like red lights mainly just colored lights
that are very much below my age, yet I never would have thought that I would be sixteen
and still have my virginity, my mouth virginity, yeah.
I’ve heard girls talk about me, mainly not “oh my god he is so hot” but more
clueless about who the hell and what ever the hell was said about me
or videotaped,
like so what I listen to a song that was proud to have been current in 2008,
its a good song!
Or that I played Lady Macbeth in a play! I’m ******* proud
to be me! To be state champion (I know so subtle right?)
to have seen the weird wonderful things that I’ve been blessed to have
been part of, to have you as my reader I’m proud that somebody is seeing
this.
I’m not complaining about my life its just I thought
my love life would not be on life support at the age of sixteen.
Though maybe it would ****.
So this is me whining a bit
Apr 2015 · 705
In Case I Die
JM McCann Apr 2015
Death is truly as powerless as life, no dark
dusty closets to examine.
A good life is not one you cry about, but celebrate
celebrate the passing cars, with passing lives, and
the passing person talking far too loudly on a cell phone life
is the wonderful celebration of luck so please live in the spirit of life!
Do not worry about me, god has no more power than a single second,
I’m beyond somewhere, smiling and laughing, if you can handle
the present death will be a cake walk, wonder
where I’m I, but don’t fear for me, being scared of death
is fine in small doses but being forever scared is a sign
of knowing you aren’t fulfilling  your basic human duty,
and are too lazy or scared to change it, yet worry not you can.
Basically forever fearing death means you ****** up at life,
and scared as **** of what level two could be like.

I have lived with far more smiles than many do in a life time.
I have seen the world, have made friends with strangers,
had perfect strangers stumble into my life to paint a perfect night
have listened to the girl quietly strumming her guitar with the birds,
have had strangers attempt to steal my wind, yet wind is plentiful,
so give it, I still have wind.
No money than poverty enlightened my soul, every soul who
has crossed my life, I’m grateful for, you have added a splash of
paint onto the canvas that my soul rests.
It has been the truest honor to be alive to feel the wind
licking my neck, to attempt to add something to this canvas,
no skill more beneficial, unicycling as worthwhile as painting,
just one last bit of parting advice, the one thing that sticks
is memory, leave a positive memory, do it whatever style you
please trust me thats what matters, that’s why
this is called In Case I Die.
I believe in 3 things: We are really not the center of the universe, things are prettier when you look for pretty things and that in the end what matters is making a footstep that adds not takes from the world
Mar 2015 · 580
Simplicity
JM McCann Mar 2015
What is love?
Lots of positive, passionate feelings
JM McCann Mar 2015
I had my first encounter with beaucrarcy,
the social security offices. Beaucracy is hard to find
but not as hard as I thought it would be, the building number
lied.
The gruff line manager, the room
what I thought a prison line would look like.
Bored brown walls and a long line of people
sitting staticly staring.
****, thank god for the great Walt Whitman.

The number before mine is called, the one after
is mine, it turned out to be mine.
I sit and wait, reading my book.
I keep getting called
thinking that the thick head idiot should get up, until the gruff  guard,
yells my number some snickering, some sweet laughfter
as I yell “yo!” I swear to sweet god I had no clue.

I voyage up to the window, exectping
a slow slog through beaucratic mazes.
So sorry
all smiles, a joke about smash burger
I laugh pretending I have a clue.
My school id got the job done and I brought
everything I joke, no problems,
we laugh she says I’m cute and
that my mother did a bang up job,
if only I could get girls saying the same thing
and a parting piece of advice told laughing:
Just know whenever you are late or there is a delay
god saved you from a car crash,
I love that yet I’m rather concerned that I
have been saved from that many car crashes.
I can't spell, any feed back is more than welcome!
Mar 2015 · 589
Luck
JM McCann Mar 2015
How can you put the idea of luck into words?
It’s like the sun rising and falling at just the right times,
like having a parent who gets you a sweet
jacket that you really didn’t want
but now wear it constantly because it’s a pretty nice jacket.

Luck and air equal in appearance.
It was there for me when I was born, when my parents understood me,
when Sandy hits all of New York but my neighborhood, when
my parents got me my first bike, when
the car managed to not hit me, when I outrun
the fitness coach who was rather angry after I spat at him
when I stumbled across this guy on youtube, who encourages
vegan eating. It feels like immortality, like death really
does not want me, maybe life is stronger and luckier
then death.
It feels like I have a silent guard or guardian always
tipping a domino that leads to me still breathing.
No! Really it encourages the most aggressive dare devil
moves like not touching the ground once in Manhattan
red lights just becoming meaningless colors.    
Perhaps luck is the devil building me up to be
more skilled and better just to shatter the thin air.

In every way luck has been there.
Sure I’ve had ****** moments but they always manage to
feel like a set up for something else.

There is a level of pain between death and making you stronger
that simply hurts, a deep soul wound that never kills.
I’ve always been a “victim” of a pain that makes stronger muscles.

Sure things have came very close.
When I was three or so I was bored and cleaned the house
with chemicals and was blinded for three months,
a neuron or whatever sciency very small unit away from
being blind in my left eye.
but then luck came and I can see fine.

How many times can you get lucky, and no not
in the daft punk way, without feeling
something grander is saving you for something insane
something pure and brilliant like creating a chain reaction
that reaches space?

Or perhaps this is how prophecies get fulfilled?
A mortal gets a gods luck and when the mortal
mistakes them self for a god is when they learn
too late of their mortality?
Any feedback is more than welcome!
JM McCann Mar 2015
I first would like to apologize for getting rather mad,
calling you a stupid *****
and saying it was a “hit and run” to the police,
also in hindsight spitting at you was not cool.
I feel bad about it now,
and it will haunt me for a while,
or at least until something else comes up.


You shattered my wings,
granted they were glass wings and
when you’re throwing yourself through the narrowest possible canyons
getting hit is almost certain still, it *****
the wind out of you, even if just for a second.


I love jumping through
canyons daring gravity to do its worst, but I was playing by the rules,
respecting nature
or at least I planned on not breezing by the sides as much.
I guess its habit now, to risk getting shattered for
the freedom of movement in a restricted space.

I swear when I hit the ground I was ready to walk away
I was intact.
Ready
to continue on my way and saying “yeah I’m fine”,
learn nothing and find smaller canyons.
but when I saw the bird you hit, my brain
sprinted for the worst.
That knocked the wind out of me.
Instantly I thought it was completely ******,
and while I still do have my wings,
you shattered part of my glass illusion.
Thank god for repair shops.

You see you own the skies your kind controls
the canyons walls, make them zig then zag that way.
Sure their are bigger gods,
but they only show up from time to time. I’m part of the skies
but my only possible responsibility is to not
hit the birds.
The rules say I need to act like you,
but the rulers let us fly our own ways.
The bigger gods understand or just don’t care.

So next time just know that the rules
are not the ones in physics textbooks, those are
often confusing and require years worth of reading,
of understanding billions of acceptions of knowing what
the hell centripetal force is, and being able to solve painful
multi variable calculus problems
the way physics actually works is what happens when
the winds take glass
and you, being a god got careless and broke the laws of physics.
So I'm a very passionate cyclist and this was my first crash of any note whatsoever with a car, any feedback is more than welcome
Mar 2015 · 373
A girl
JM McCann Mar 2015
So there is this girl,
I’m in awe of her, and maybe a bit of a bored teenager.
Stunning songs about Lady Bugs about being trapped.
I changed and hide my colors manipulated things to create contrast,
to attempt to build trust, maybe I’m just being mellow dramatic.
I created a nicer self for her. It all happened in a moment.
When you are a blob (human) changing shapes is not very hard.

I finally understand how much happens in a single second.
Endless tourists are taking photos.
People are fighting for their lives in every way imaginable.
A couple is having a fight that may
or may not determine the fate of them.
A singer bows, endless people crossing the street.
Seven billion hearts are beating.
All of this and I have a crush
in one second.

A quiet goddess,
the kind of person who knows how it feels
to feel lost, and hurt but bears the burden,
I hope to god I’m doing her justice.
She is dyslexic so, in turn for
not being able to spell (that’s dead anyway)
she can describe the purest claustrophobia
without even giving a space.
The kind of person who sings stunning sentences
casually and then looks surprised at any awe.

I tell her my feelings in a rather awkward way that I intended to be an
immodest joke after she describes her plan to marry
Jack Wasp-something and
how her phone auto corrects perfection for his name.


She says that she wasn’t ready for boys at that time,
it was probably not her finest poem,
using trite ideas “it’s not you it’s me” and nice
touches like she would have told everyone the same answer,
it got the job done,
was genuine and
a complete pain killer.
I ended up agreeing with her.
“High school relationships always die with. . .”
I have no clue if I agreed because the prospect was too real
or because it really was a quietly brilliant series of words
Sometimes though its nice to play pretend for a while.


It kinda ***** knowing that door is wide open and
nothing lies behind it, at least with the door closed
you can imagine what lies behind it.
Can desperately try to open it, with
grand ideas about what’s there.



Now that her painkillers have worn off
and I have far too much free time
I sit here deeply confused — about what I’m not sure,
I guess I want to play pretend.
Mar 2015 · 1.4k
No answers in the fridge
JM McCann Mar 2015
The carpet all around me
my little island lonely to no one.
Little flourishes in the carpet  twisting back on each other
and back again,
rolling endlessly this way then having a change of heart
and bending back the other way.
Flowing freely on its canvas.
The stunning flowers, looking surprised as
I focus on it.


I sit, a lethargic tiger, my picture of myself.
The television perched ready
for the next greatest thing.
My head, static on my shoulder,
a boulder resting on itself.
The gentle hum of air conditioner.
With great effort
I gaze slowly out the window,
up past the air conditioner,  
past the base of the metal frame
where the tree idly stands.  
My eyes lift past them, to the heavens
The clouds content where they are, slowly pulled along.
A greater force heaving, making gentle progress.

The edges of my chair start to form.
My arm resting on the soft fuzzy border,
my stomach hazy in deep territory,
my toes out beyond the border.
In a disjointed synchrony I make my way to
the fridge. The blank door swung open
rotting milk, and a once great fish.

The milk fading, a gentle
fade, not hurrying, but the milk, not taking its time.
A  tad yellowish but still white.

The milk a long fierce journey,
perhaps having bounced around the world,
for it to be as is now.
Perhaps
through turbulent oceans, did it see the endlessly taunting
of the ocean? What did I miss?! Did it see the gentle waves
thrash mercilessly? Did it see the infinities of life?
Did it see the octopi dying for the young ones?
Did it see storm clouds change course for their safe passage?
Did it see nature play its hand?
Even if it saw nothing at all,
I envy the milk with the hint of yellow!
Doorways without doors the milks unknown voyage.
It of course could have easily just came from
a farm down the road in a truck with a billion
other containers of milk, on a well traveled path,
the only question, why?

I sigh knowing, the best I’ll get is “an answer” trying
to sell me some more milk. Though the best questions
should never be properly answered.

No answers in the fridge, and I’m still hungry.

The smell of the fish overpowers me.
The smell of the ocean, of the seas of
what we did to them!
Of how the same fish, epitomizing
turned noses, once part of something grander than us.
We have seen the tops of the world,
flew down rivers and
cut through the skies,
held enough power to send a man
to the moon and back in the palm of our hands,
yet never been to the places that the fish has been.
We have clear lines and boundaries, yet
No walls separate what we haven’t seen.
No limits.

A  school flows by,
barrel rolls and flips, each individual
showing off amiable bubbles.
A collective direction, no agreements
just space, the sandy floor free of motion.
The floor free quiet, a gentle bed.
Taking their time, a place
to be but never of the essence.
A lump in the distance,
a dip behind them. Slowly becoming
something more, something grander.
A mast starts to form a gift from above
no gentle giveaway.
A hellish panic.
The alarms bell ringing panicked
sailors, a vault flows by. Nobody looks twice. The
earth slowly swallowing the meal, as
if to enjoy each taste and make it last.
The fish intrigued.
Ignorant of the history. Wooden ruins, choral
the dead ship alive!

A shadow crosses the sun.
A sleek shark shows its hand.
The school flees the table.
The shark chases demanding to be payed.
Flying towards the old gift they dive into
the maze.
Only coral in the doorway to the left.
He keeps pursuing.
The group scatters.
Pretenses over
some failing.
Sharp teeth cut indifferently.
New respect for the fragility of water.
Not just joy when they swim now, but a heartbroken celebration
flying along the streams with a learnt respect.
Celebrating each other.

My shadow, catches me off guard, flees up
the wall and up past the celling.
I watch it go and
stumble and look down to see what caused me
to see only my feet and the floor. Oak wood strips
make the floor solid. Endless minuscule canyons
carved below me. Wavy sand dunes and craters sit atop the canyons.  
Rivers flowing separating sides.
Rocks calaborating, blocking paths,
creating treasures.  
everywhere.

Surely somewhere down there a couple holding hands,
a dingo eyeing its next meal watching intently,
solely focused on the ****.  
Perhaps a number of tourists, impressed with the landscape,
snapping pictures of the stone valley.
All wondering at the rocks, meticulously placed.
Tourists cooling off in the rivers.
  Maybe just maybe though
a pair of strangers bump into each other on a
narrow trail, and instead of passing by,
both of them will leave all the better for it.
To defy nature and prove to the landscape, that
people can exist in your world and respect
your customs but play by different rules.
That we have made progress! Not just in phones
but in the barren glory of canyons.
Maybe then the stranger will bump into
the tourists and offer out a hand.

Then the couple will make love,
the tourists will take more photos,
the dingo will eye more food,
the drumbeat will likely stay the same
but maybe just maybe though
the stranger will start something
and help out another stranger,
New music to all who will listen.
Lost completely but with no need to be found.
Any feed back is always welcome! Hope this does something.
Feb 2015 · 441
Anonymous
JM McCann Feb 2015
The gagged voices
scuttling about,
in my living room they attempt to bicker.
The dim light flickers.
A shadow darts through them.
I carry on sleeping.

The voices open up,
traces of asylums fill in the gaps,
a trace of darkness grasps and
cloaks at life.

Desperately I fight for rest,
the asylum morphs
into a public square.

The voices start screaming,
skeletons dancing,
I run downstairs to find
shattered christmas tree ortements.
The shattered pieces form more beauty than
the ortements ever could have.

The skeletons impossibly loud, up in smoke
laughing watching me
mumbled gibberish,
to some and me
until I hear my voice in chorus.
Feb 2015 · 668
The Styx
JM McCann Feb 2015
I finally see the river
after dancing for a lifetime,
I can embrace the end of
something,
An ending, or at least
a transition.

It gets closer.
The weeping willow cries for eternity.
Dipping its fingers into the water.
Fungi poisons the sad tree.
He waits in the water.
The bank moves back in.
Never before have I had such control!
I will not stop.
The journey was too great to afford a stop
especially at the supposed ******!
The water relentlessly surging,
tells me I made the right choice.
Confused, it starts to swirl in circles.
I have no such problem.
I keep dancing closer, now
crying with joy.
I will not wait for the
water to kidnap me,
I’m honored that he only waits.

I’m nearly upon it
I haven’t yet stopped,
nor can I now.
The water whirling an endless
fight with the rocks that try to escape.
The Styx shows no mercy.
The fish stumbles through a rock and vanishes,
crying a helpless cry.

At last the whole river is visible
I’m thrilled with what I see:
an ending.

All this time,
I thought death might have been
a cruel joke where we “die,”
only to still be awake after we enter
the kingdom of Hades.
The brilliance of life lies in the river,
in the river life lies dead.
I jump deliriously into the river.
Everything I write is a work in progress, I would love to hear any thoughts good or bad
Feb 2015 · 295
Goat’s Song
JM McCann Feb 2015
I’m eating out of a hand that
has fed every other goat on this place.

The choice of a life time:
I was told I could be
mountain or
farm.

To have been a mountain goat!
A life of climbing!
Living on inch-wide
ledges!
Everything above me
to help me fall!  
Tarterous even!
Into unknown abysses.  

But I have always been scared of falling.

If I’d reached the peak,
I would have met
the richest farmers
and their tools that brought them up
for company.

On mountain tops
there are ruthless goats
happy to playfully
ram each other off.

If I was to fall
on that  trodden path
I would take
only ghosts down.

But my view of the farmhouse —
like the painter who uses the sky
as her canvas —
is of ghosts of the flat green woods.

I was free
only when I chose to be
a farmer’s goat.
Everything I write is a work in progress, I would love to hear any thoughts!
Feb 2015 · 708
My Old Coach
JM McCann Feb 2015
Help was pointed to after my first beating,
a battlefield I paid to enter.
A friend pointed to a house
I often passed.
Said she would be around.
She became a teacher in a brutal place
full of fierce hunters.


Irritating for sure stressing
rules about table manners
where there are no tables.

My old coach
did everything
so long as she could only be felt.
I joined after meeting her.
She ignored a list that rolled forever.
I quickly became something I’m
still not quite sure of, inside
some days competition other days.


We were more similar
than I give credit for.

A lion in a pack of lions.
Relishing the ability
to pick the moment where our fate rests.
Just the road
and a fierce pack of cyclists
bleeding sweat.
Of holding cards
and praying  for a
moment to play them.
Of waking up at five to race,
watching the sun rise above the trees
and glimpses of the world waking up
around us.

She was there when I
had my first bad crash
She was teaching a session
on sprinting
My world didn’t explode.
It just changed.
Flying through central park.
Lying on a bed
sirens in the background.
“Breath in” as I enter a grey tube.
“I’m fine” as I pull at
bandages on my arm.
She only left me after
I went down to sleep
that night.

So I spun around the track
some laps she was there,
most of the time
she was only felt.

I never did do any
thank you notes.
Always scribbled messily
when they threatened to put a brake on.


A lean powerful
figure with a quiet
bonfire in her eyes,
an Olympian, twice.


I tried to exit gracefully
volunteering to help, though
I have no clue
if I deftly rolled out
or clunked like an elephant.

Yet still despite it,
or maybe because of it
she gave me a final
blessing.

Now I sit hear typing this
next to a passion she showed me,
wishing I could think
about how I left her far before
she went down to sleep.
Everything I write is a work in progress, I would love to hear any thoughts on the poem
Feb 2015 · 759
Satisfaction
JM McCann Feb 2015
A voice comes on the radio
cutting off my music
screaming with self importance
I turn it off. My music keeps going
the fine art that is “Satisfaction”
keeps coming.

The dog walker to my right
briefly stumbles
and the dog sprints
off.
A moment later a squirrel is dead.
The poor owner looks
mortifies as he scolds the dog.
I turn away to watch a pigeon fly away
as a vulture comes in before he
slips something to the dog.
I start to wonder what that may
have been
until I remember the lyrics
of my song.

“Can’t be a man cause
he doesn’t smoke same cigarettes as me”
Amen. I hit the skip button
happy with how it even
in the 60’s people were
the same as they are now

An artist comes up to me
with a peculiar  painting
“hey” he says
“not interested” I retort
before I can convince myself
otherwise.
Everything I write is a work in progress, I would love to hear any thoughts!
Feb 2015 · 238
A gift from the Paintings
JM McCann Feb 2015
The biting fierce fresh cold
wind hits with the same
shock as when I was kicked
out of the crumbling stable
when the man who stayed out of
the stable by making sure it stayed
ignored the stable knowing animals can’t talk.

I was born in a twilight and assumed
to have been the one who yanked the sun
down,
yet I still insist that nothing was there
that I didn’t summon the darkness,
and I couldn’t have been another light
and lest they listen when I say
darkness is not something
but merely the absence of light
no, nor will they listen to the cold
and my cries that can’t leave my thoughts
because when you’ve been crying
for 10 years summoning another
tear is rather hard when you’re
born to a family of the
most valiant horses.

But I will continue
with the dressing up
going to museums because they are
warm and not because
I have any clue
who the hell Van Gogh is,
looking for a hand
from the painting to help me up
finally I see
what I’ve been looking for and run towards
the exit
to hear that an
angel was stolen.
Everything I write is a work in progress.
Feb 2015 · 477
A claustrophobic bullet
JM McCann Feb 2015
The ref’s gun is up.
He pulls the trigger.  

The leader  
fires ahead of me.

Instantly I swing higher.

And the ref disappears.

I explode.

Flying laughing
hunter then hunted
as I dive between
cat and mouse

caught.
Everything I write is unfinished, I would love to hear any thoughts!

— The End —