If there were better words
I would sing 'em.

For now,
Silence is a crowd
And I'm making it as their leader.

Or only true believer,
In words.
Or lack of them,
regardless,

It's a mute commute to what you want.

Was it my bad, behavior?
that was feeling you-
before you were feeling me
around my neck

I get it.
Out of respect
and for heart murmurs

Its true,
I can feel it;
Me, mute is a commute that you want

This train had to keep moving.
The conductors wife is at bay.
Many people are apologetic.
But many more have destinations to make.

Like crying baby.
And a grin,
from a lonely man in his gazing,
fading lying chair.

For you
And me-
In this booth.

Mute is our commute to what we want.
Mute is our commute to what we want.

I am an anorexic with a gluttonous mouth for bad table manners and my own feet.
I relate to 364 licks to the center of the tootsie pop to only find out it was just dirt and high fructose corn syrup.
Like my personality it is a disappointment. Maybe the world would of been better to let this one go.
C'est la vie my family, whom leaves me at the table with a cold meal I refuse to acknowledge as food.
My father's own teachings red on my face and my mother's lessons bleeding from my ears. Welcome to church today we will be eating the lord.

Cause I feel something must fill me more than nihilism which by nature fills me with nothing but more space for my lack of motivation and self deprecating.
I need to be nothing so I must eat just that.
I want to save someone so they can eat me one day.
If I gave myself up to be eaten on Sunday's due to lack of interest in feeding myself,
I'll put a spin on my suicide and say its for my followers.
I wonder what I would taste like.  
Arrogantly I'll claim myself as zesty a flavor of Passover dinner or just Christ. I can picture the burning cross on the sauce bottle.
I'd eat it.
But I may have consumed so much of Christ's body and blood, I must be what I eat.
I wanna be the devil in deserts of my passions.
The fats that I was told not to indulge just for me to steal and hide under my grandmother's shadow without shame as did Lucifer.

"For my sake", she would say,
Force fed in line to ingest the breast and white meat of Jesus with no seasoning. Just gross.
That token of him a flake disk ******* of Bible versus and boxed wine, the same meal to have fed a congregation.
A congregation that must have starved and ate each other to really live, that's probably how we have Catholicism.
My halo childhood head would crave the cheap red dry and knew what the point was to drink his veins and get drunk off of me.
I was fed not my saviors life but my-self lie, placed into my mouth as a tasteless disciple, cannibalizing my identity for salvation.
"Save me", is a phrase I never said,
Cause I thought I was made in his image.
"Feed me", was more like it.
as I chomped on my fingertips and hair.
So I conclude I must be passover for I have been eating myself.
And I am not zesty.
I'm boring and salty like I would be later on.
Chopping from the branches of trees low hanging meat,
hearts and hands boiled into my idle grip cauldron. All theories and none of it stone soup for anyone's soul.
What useless things are my hands without knifes and forks.
I am simply their slave as I was to my addictions to eating saviors.
Now I'm useless, godless and starving.

Gandhi was bony, spicy and tasted like young women.
Crowley tasted like young boys and patchouli
LaVey was chewy dark meat but too Gainey for me
And Nietzsche...Nietzsche was good,
in spite of the syphilis just not enough to go around.
Had to overcome that man.
I tried just about everything to cure my hungry nihilism.
I've binged on fortunes from cookies that have more faith in me than I have in myself. Sentiment in sugar, not so sweet but bland and stale as my eyes and heart.
Confucianism is a light diet kind to nature but I am not willing to share my plate nor am I that kind.

My teeth still picking saviors out.
The taste of the lamb of god hasn't washed out of mouth for years
I tried to burn it out with the devils fruit but its just humanities ******* in a gardening hose blasted in my mouth.
I can still hear the nails on my dinner plate go into his wrists,
the blood being dropped on  marble as the nuns lashes crack me,
To lick it off the basilicas floor.
I am the last at my families table undecided to starve at a feast of philosophy.
Or gnaw on the bones of those I already ate.
I'm certain with a good cookbook of my creation,
with remnants left over of condiment hymns,
two slices of existential crisis,
One molded cheese of absurd ideas
and a garden of seeds I planted from the bowels of dead Messiah's.
I will have a meal.
One that maybe you all would like to partake in.

Throwback dissonance, results in future social dystopian conversations. Tormented lives swept under rugs, in between the cracks of floor boards. Dust and filth, years of names. All scratched into the bathroom stalls of so called neighborhood's, subordinates of time and "hush-hush" the city to the suburbanites. Shocking to them eating dinners still in the 1990's, fastened tight in seat belts of self esteem, MTV news and 50 inches of reality. You must be joking, not ever knowing, folly box dwellers, why they say all "white".

The back doors were shut and locked when you looked left and double took right; as jokes from the safety of your water stained walls and cigarette burned carpets, to joke hatred like art and we must pretend not us though? Wall to wall, our prison starts here and ends in our front lawns as the country shouts "white man" and we must remain silent.

My father's land,  nearly 20 year cultural hiatus that split our family in two,  came back from time, in a paperclip, over the wall, east to the west side of Berlin and  delivered in a rebel DeLorean with bumper stickers of second amendment speeches and pro-life Bible out of contextual arguments. These retrospects, taking advantage of sales on tiki torches while stealing phrases from my great grandfather class of 1933. And the whole country shouts "white man".

No, my country,
not white men.
In skin yes, in history, no.

They were never men.
Never did my father speak of men.

I heard the gang rapes of Gypsy's.
Stories of slain Catholics.
Murders of homosexuals,
The bones crushed of opposing parties.
The staple mascot of pain, Judaism extermination that swept through culture like a bad advertisement tune.

Gassed.
Tortured.
Worked.

They come for us all.
Not as white men.
They come as their own.

This is not man.
They maybe white, but not man.

I am a white man,
but it's always been human, first.

That's black.
That's white.
That's purple.
That's life.

They come for our progress, not our skins.