I am one foot out the door,
one fools folly chasing more.
I am the *****
chasing explicit pleasures
strange acts of leisure.
I measure myself
when I feel like it
when I get excited.
I do what I want
not a reflection of others
or a perpetuation
of local infatuations.
Desire is fleeting,
fulfilled leaves me free to be
who I am or who I want to be.
It is the same you see,
so close to perfectly free.

they sentenced anarchy to death in 1887.
in the wake of the Haymarket Affair,
they tried in vain to hang a fifth figure
on a chilly November day,
attempted to fit a noose
on an idea that's bullet-proof.

solidarity.
liberty.
equality.

a refrain that remains in remembrance
of Engel, Fischer, Parsons, Spies,
and every man, woman, and child
whose life was robbed by the State
before his or her time.

a mantra celebrating the universal
qualities capable of unifying humanity
even in the face of an apparatus arraigned
to divide
and segregate.

we march in Chicago and Seattle,
in Toronto and NYC,
continuing the fight they began
for dignity and a living wage—
our burning rage growing to a conflagration
as we wave black flags and reclaim
the city streets from killer cops
and corporate oligarchs.

authority an illusion we will shed  
in the tides of black and red, united
against injustice.

It is easy enough
to wish all the world would love us,
to strain for fame,
to claim a name
synonymous with success
living life at its best.
It is great for the rest
but for me I’d prefer to be
true to myself even though
I don't know exactly who he is.

We are all space men
traveling
on a spinning rock.


She sits softly
spinning in
the infinite.
Blue ball
clouded and romantic
and I love her.

Fear and uncertainty
are the bane of humanity
poison to the populace
yet, with knowledge
they can be conquered.

But tamed social schemes
proposed by powerful people preying
on those who feel powerless
are detrimental to all human beings.

So, in the face of the unknown
my brothers and sisters
accept the enslavement
giving in to the higher force
that does not exist.
Faith persists
And flourishes
in the realm of fear
and uncertainty.

Truth is the pursuit of our higher self;
Not Spiritual but intellectual,
empowering the ineffectual
with the information they need
to decide what, what they perceive means.

Bullets and bombs explode. Screams sear his tired ears. With every explosion the young man flinches. He is only twenty something but he wears the whole human history of pain. Every age line creasing to cover the scars on his face. Lines linked by years of abuse, which are mirrored by mental scars.
The voice in the back of his head says “bite a bullet, hell better make it two,”
The computer screen flickers with horrible YouTube videos. Each one marking some new or old tragedy.
“The trick is to turn away before you see too much.” He thinks.
Photos lay scattered across his desk. Little vignettes of human horrors. A homeless man here. An abused child there. Two war zone pics that depicts the tragedy of human ingenuity. Modern warfare swimming in gore and sorrow.
The voice in the back of his head says. “Make sure you double click.”
To the left lay a stack of stories stapled together. Some are fantastic works of fantasy. They portray a wondrous worlds.   Most are darker portraits that paint painful truths. There is a story about a lynching, a police beating, a dark society crumbling under the weight of fear and hatred. Tons of fictions that reflects this dark world, all his.
The voice chuckles, “don’t bother with a note, your writing says enough.”
“The trick is to find something to laugh about.” He says out loud.
A fake chortles spews from his lips, followed by a stupid sneer.
“Doesn’t work does it?” The voice laughs.
The young man bites his tongue. Smashing taste buds and drawing dark smears of blood. Merely a temporary distraction, but it feels good to him. Drips of warm crimson pool in his mouth. He swishes it around like some sick salt water gurgle. Then spits dark blood laced mucus into perfectly white porcelain sink. The red snot sinks slowly down till it disappears into the drain. Leaving only remnants of a terrible taste and slight pain in his mouth.
The voice cries” Blow your ******* brains out, you stupid ****.”
The man laughs, as a stream of stress related **** drains down his drawers.
“I can’t.” He cries.
“Why not?” the voice insists. “Just ******* do it. This world ain’t gonna get any better.”
Tears **** his worn out skin. Life has aged him harshly. Still, something new breaks. A crack cuts through the fuzzy haze. An awkward smile forces its way across his face.
He closes the Compaq computer killing the video, and bringing pure stillness to the room.
“You know for a voice in my head. You sure are ******* stupid. Which makes me stupid too I guess.”
“Why?” The Voice replies.
“Because” the smile widens becoming manic “I don’t own a ******* gun.” He laughs. “Hell I don’t even own my own marbles.”
He slumps down on the bed. Two hours of random racing thoughts keep him awake. Then the cool release of slumber finally hits. His sleep is interspersed with nightmares. Twelve hours later a calmer less worn man awakens. He sticks his tongue out and raspberries the desk.
“I am going for a walk” he says with a saner smile.
Somewhere behind him he hears a chilling voice say. “See you soon.”

Call me the hideaway kid
Cause I run from what they did
Avoiding the personal
Because it hurts.

I can see each scar
Each line of ages
And exhaustion

Each bald spot
Each sweat ring
Each stinging red spot

For every head
The hangs
Just a little lower

For every heart
That breaks
Just a little more

For ever bruise
Wound, or scar

I retreat just a little farther
Cringe just a little harder
Clench my heart tighter
Till my chest bleeds
Till I cannot breath
Till what is left of me
Is nothing
But a mess

Shadows become my home
Movies and games
Become my distraction
Easing just an inkling
Of the pain I feel
From seeing the real pain
Of the world

The dark window pane
reflects shadows of pain
reflects the stains
that shaped my being.
Even, if I am uncertain
who he is.

Is it the violence of the past
the blows that came so fast
that shaped of our present mind?

Does time find difference
flowing awkwardly through our memory
shaping our perceptions of what is,
was, and will be?

Am I who I am because of what I’ve seen?
For each second ever changing
personality rearranging.
I stand wondering
am I a good person?

I stumble in the dark
Not dumb
But silent
Observing the night
Not partaking in the rites
Of this redundant life
But the surprises
The high rises
Of new hopes
That the dreams
Born of nightmares
Can birth new rights
Kissing the canvasses
Making sweet love
To  the portrait of light

Not one bomb that dropped
Was ever stopped by prayer
Not one bullet shot
Was ever stopped by prayer
Not one starving child
Was fed on the whispering
Of the worshiping missionaries
Only visionaries who took action
Or inspired actions
Ever made a difference
It takes a movement
Not stillness in prayer

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

I love the feel of
a cool breeze just before
an April storm.

The wind wisping
through my messy hair,
whispering the watery secrets of
wanton wanderers and wordsmiths,

As I stare at the small wooden windmill
The spinning become hypnotic
till the rain awakens me from
my fascinated stupor.