In "The Shootist", J.B. Books is not feeling up to *****.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.

To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.

Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.

What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden ****** of another.

There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word *****.

People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.

Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

flawed to near insanity
but long as you could hold down a job then its alright
isn't that a wise policy she asked
i'm not so sure
watching the clowns strut their stuff
in the midnight sun
they are reckless to be certain but self aware to a fault
just makes it all the more bizarre
watch em go at it with each other over the simplest thing
its no way to live
you can vouch for the living as long as you haven't died
and this madness is just shy of being in a pine box
so darling lets get outa this crazy place
get away from the thinking
that you gotta be like everybody else
get away from the plastic hippie rat-race
roll down the easy highway
find us some sweet sunshine to breath in
find us a better life to be

I am a natural being,
I have a heart, and a brain
I am full of essence and breath,
I have a mind that emits itself for others to inhale.

But why does my existence bother you?
Do I not fit into your assigned categories?
Do I not clear all the ticks in your brainless mental box?

I appear too fragmented for your approval,
A broken disc glowing in its spectrum,
But the more I glow,
The more I am alive.

So I'm not sorry if your fragile, small head aches when I'm near,
I suggest you ask why it's so delicate,
Before you blame your afflictions on me.

How many times we starved ourselves
dreaming something that we can’t have…

How many times we deprived ourselves
from wanting the life we wanted the most
just because we lack something or
having the practical mind that it is not for us…

Sometimes we starved ourselves to limit our flight.
Bound by rules, responsibilities, duties,
or even culture, tradition and religion…
Despite all that, we balance everything
for what’s right, what feels right
The Weighing of the Heart ---

Humans programmed to swim in a dry dam. working towards the future ; what they do not know about or even understand. they tell us who we're going to be while we don't even know ourselves.

We can't control time but we can manage it. we are a united nation departed by : the systems of this world

The real criminals are people in suits and ties , living on a given image. not those in tattoos.

If we did things in our own perception and not in a authority perception
The world would be a better place

We give ourselves a limited amount of freedom while we should live free all the time. even God wants us to be free but the world has become a place where people cage themselves in possessions  
Possessions are only for a session
Then they perish

Wisdom is peace , wisdom is better than silver and Gold

Learn about self-worth and be free

I've had enough, I'm done
Your standards are no fun

You're a broken wordsmith
Lost in a world of words
Searching for realization
While your story is unsung

Your screams from mountaintops
Heard only by cowards ears
Your brightest light
Can't catch my darkest hour

Good day to you sir
A forever blur*

*Joseph B Schneider