They sat on the stoop,
on the rooftop,
on the grass.
They watched,
they saw,
they turned away
in disgust
and disarray;
vowed never to see,
but to be.

Ideas sprayed on parchment:
plans for the future,
true ideals
indestructible,
fit to last.
It was their turn
to undo the past.

They would create change,
destroy order,
and recycle the entrails
into a revolution,
one that would have an outcome;
an outcome not of the worst
but of the best.
They’d pierce straight through
this vanilla-stained vest.

They looked in each others' eyes
and smiled at what they saw,
for within each pupil
glowed a fire;
a fire of the downfall
and revival
of this world
they've come to know
and hate.

They knew one day soon
their hatred would spin
and move in the other direction;
the direction of light,
of true happiness
and peace.
The soothing sparks
rocketing from their eyes
convinced them so.

They knew they would succeed,
unlike others who have tried,
they knew how to win,
knew not to try
but to do.
They would release
their envisioned paradise
from their grasp
and upon the oblivious.

But as they grew older
an event occurred
that would cause a change,
a change that would make sure
to reject any other,
a change that would be the annihilator
of their dystopic utopia.

A small occurrence,
unrecognizable,
a brick thrown
shatters through the window,
triggers a false realization.
The shards succumb them
into the seducing
sepulchral-inducing cage
that keeps them bookmarked
to the same opening page.

Vents crack,
in pours the fog.
The mist once loved,
now loathed,
seeps through the fracture,
smothers their hope,
breathes their air,
air they used to dream,
now nothing more than a theme.

Fear drags them down
like the others,
devours wonders of the unknown,
slashes at their flesh,
shrieks of monotone,
visions escape from the wound,
wounds of which sealed
with reminders of the failed,
never to be reopened,
their appetite remains forever lost.

Now they walk
back and forth,
forth and back,
hands in pockets,
shoulders shrugged.
What's the time?
They've lost track.
All watches are smashed,
big hand frozen on yesterday.

They are the lost,
previous dreams forgotten,
left in the rain,
drifted away
down the drain,
never to regain
their once beloved ambition.
Instead they gather
gritty ammunition
and float towards
certainty, the predictability
of a future that ceases in a puddle.
They are the lost.

I was at a musical festival in Chicago
when I witnessed true beauty
in a portable toilet.

All around we were having fun,
sweating, bleeding, dancing,
doing what humans are meant to do
and not what we think
we’re meant to do,
but following what our instincts
tell us to do,
and that is
the natural response,
the correct response,
the human response.

In that toilet in Chicago
I saw beauty at its finest,
and that was a ***
of one dollar bills
drowning in a pool
of ****.

We were above money,
above commercial jingles,
above the tyranny
                      that
                    is
           social
    order.
We were above the clouds
and more so, we were above
ourselves
and everything
the rest of the world stood for.

We did not need possessions
to possess us,
nor did we need
a clean bowl
to *****.

And standing there
in the center of
Humanity’s soul
I took my turn
and ******
on Washington’s face.

To be seventeen
and young and mean,
where the future is mine,
or so is the slogan
of those left behind.

To be seventeen,
still lit by the flame
of dear curiosity
and burning ever bright.
The age of experimentation,
a way that should never die
if you expect to have
any sort of life at all;
a train of thought
that should never
arrive at the terminal.

Full of spirit
and adventure,
to be seventeen,
built like a machine
without a schedule,
following whatever
seems right, and ignoring
the opinions of those
too bigoted to understand
a simple Poem.

To be seventeen
with an imagination
of indestructible
titanium reinforcing,
enclosed around an
ever wandering mind,
and if superstition
held any ounce of truth,
I’d already be blind.

But I seem to be
well enough,
despite a liver
that’s worth ****,
and will probably be
worth even less
in seventeen more years
to come.

Until then, however,
I will continue to be
whatever age I value,
and to do what it is
that feels right,
that feels like me,
that feels like
whatever the hell.

And then I will probably write
another Poem on the whim about
whatever the hell again,
because that is the only thing
ever worth writing about.

You dig?

Like a string I strum
Like a melody you hum
Like a song sung by eternal wind
A breeze levitating our hair
Two traveling leaves aware
As they float on; entwined
Where it’s always Fall
Yet they never fall
Leaving behind twigs that crawl
In a bright, cement paved trail
Stomped in footsteps prevailed
They continue their journey
A current pushing forward
An infinite gust restored
A beautiful, vibrating cord
That we strum, and we hum
Tunes crafted from our soul
Symphonies orchestrated whole
Notes carried out on our guitar
Carved from the heart
Reminders of how far
These leaves have blown
How high theses wings have flown
Veins which pertain our strength
Arguments never fit to last
Refreshed by our tightened grasp
Returns a yearned relapse
We are they, and they are
Impenetrable leaves
Crumble they do not
A reliable, untieable knot

I assume the worst
out of every occasion.
It is only my nature
to imagine
horrifying reactions
for every action.
Every minute late
is a minute’s worth
of faulty brakes
and stray bullets.

I am not a cynic,
I am merely a writer.
Now I understand
why most of the great
authors of our time
were miserable alcoholics.
Otherwise they would have
blown their brains out
long before they finished
a single story.

I do not ever want a child
to worry over at night,
I do not want to account
for every bruise and scratch.
I can only pray
I never become attached
to my immediate family.
I do not want a lover
to think about
when she’s gone.
It’s impossible to be
together forever,
so let’s not be together
at all.

Fingers crossed,
I will roam alone
until my time is finally
withdrawn.

And with any amount of luck,
it will be before
any of you.

I cannot wear watches,
for they do not want my time.
My blood is tainted;
poison to their mind.

Long ago, when I walked
my share of sand,
I was smothered
and then punctured
by a villainous needle,
injecting me with
an army’s worth
of iron,
of disease.

Now, as consequence,
I am forever cursed
with the death
of a thousand clocks,
and counting.
With a mere flick
of my marked wrist
I managed to ****
Father Time,
and I did not
look back.

I cannot progress,
nor can I rewind
to a better time.
I do not know
what my future holds,
for I do not have
a future,
and I never will.

My life is destined
to stay
right where it is.
I will not step forward
and I will not
fall backwards.
I will stand in place
without surprise
for as long
as the sun
does rise,
and when it too
no longer
arrives
I will still continue
to live to the fullest
on my mountain
of eternal
intermission.

you know when you stand up
after drooling in your coma
of apathy for hours, for days,
and your legs feel like clay?
so numb they might as well
not even be there.
you move at a slow pace
like the tortoise racing
time’s hare.
you wobble and struggle
for balance, for ledges,
for a sense of sensibility.
but all you get is a sudden
shot of tingles as motor skills
are relearned in a matter of
seconds, years, eons.
so useless you are
in these moments of shame.
God forbid there was a fire,
you would be doomed
like the leaves
in the wind;
melted into your sofa
with the ***** hairs
and potato chip crumbs.
an ashy pile of eyes
studying others’ realities
through a plastic box
of wires,
gratified by your
idolized  idleness;
your patriotic
procrastination,
where all your limbs
are forever
asleep.