bottle the ocean.
it looks clear.

imprision the sky.
air disappears.

blue is a made-up pigment. a
figment of our imagination. a
fabricated. hallucination.

not fire. nor air. not dirt.
i searched. the plants. and water.
not Homeric poetry. not anywhere.

just the hollow bodies.
of mass sandwiching us.
a mellow glare. trans-
lucent. see-through. clear.

the ocean’s depths. ***** charcoal.
yucatan peninsula water falls. o’er
my own genuine blue eyes as
the myan ruins reveal my lie.

forgetting this blue collar
mess with ripped terminology.
denim turned to jeans
post war. 1950s.

blue is not real.
(eye) see right through (them)
in water’s reflection.
pinch me.

so i may know
that i’m
not

empty.

how differently would you treat me
if you discovered
i was the product of ****?

should i believe
that i really made
the abortion escape?

i don't know the seed that planted me.
neither the soil.

but i was born.
i am living. i am
definitely real.

was it a date? a one-night stand?
the curiosity starts to thicken.
a fling? an experiment? with a boy and a girl –
at fifteen years-old? a king – and his mistress?
was it Winnie Hollman – and Jack Nicholson?
maybe satan on hallow's eve. it was october
when i was conceived.

eliminating a baby is crippling
to the mother. it's hardening
to the heart. it's parting
from the start. never
saying hello.
never seeing
your star glow. oh man...

i don't know.

i must have whispered inside the tunnels within.
it's not the end.
—end.
i'm not finished.
—finished.
the echo made it's way.
—it's mark. in the dark.
the light.

a spark.

there's never a right time
to say good bye. but when
we know. we gotta go.
and stray our own way.

just to make sense of this.
whether we know what it is.
people do it all the time. people
doing what's right. why do we fight
the truth. a choice saved my life.

i am living proof.

i just want to stare at you.
and compare you to
what i see in the mirror.

the fear would subside.
many questions arise.
only one answer resides.

real is what you made me.
my life is what you gave me.

so to you
i give all my gratitude.
thank you.

when i had
long hair
surfer they assumed.

brah.

with dread locks
for five years
i was rasta-farian.

mon.

volkswagen bus
stickers = one love
they never really knew

who i was.

a businessman
making millions
on their ignorance.

cha-ching.

in this capitalist-
driven dwelling
i am a human

being.

i’m a bruised banana.
a used napkin. as
raw and real as it gets.

squished.

and ripped.

but that still
shouldn’t
matter

because

it’s never
better to cast
upon us any kind of

judgements.

It’s a fight to
wake up
so early
sunday morning.

a hike was set
up clearly
no problem.
motivation
was built in
or so it was
perceived
before gathering
all four plus one
getting lunch in
the a.m. to eat
in the p.m. five
aluminum bottles
filled with earth’s
most purest
element (water)
on my back
in a pack pulling
perspiration from
my pores. soaked.
sore. rock hopping
dirt treading
it was fun
it was work
the stream we
followed up. up
to what could easily
be called a piece of
Heaven. the peace of
a waterfall. source
of the stream.

then
when
we returned
we heard the
sunday morning
man on the podcast
behind a microphone
inside four walls
say,
“i’ll take the
elevator.”

just call me
easy b
easy does it.
i’m easy like
dot dot dot
(ditching church on a)
sunday morning
head to the ocean
no sun, west coast
BK Joe, morning roast
exposed toes massaged
by millions of miniature rocks.
no hard place
just soft, safe,
in touch with creation
as i listen to nothing
but creation
itself.
don’t make this
difficult.

i met jesus today.
he didn’t care what
it said on his sweatshirt
the brand. the design.
it was in english.

we looked each other
in the eyes after a sweaty
game of soccer on the
dirt field with a size 4 ball.

and called each other
mentirosa for adding points
to our scores that weren’t
really made. beaded black eyes.

didn’t need anything i was
used to. didn’t want anything that
wasn’t there. ensenada breeze.
mi maestro en español.

i, his teacher of english.
jesus and i bonded for
at least 4 hours. as
the ten-year-old
gave a ‘don’t go’
look but with a
confident
expectation
that
i

would beg to
come back.

After long dark,
you can find me in my mind;
taming serpents; kissing girls.
You may not understand
why I've been the way I am.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Sometimes I am imprisoned
within the waves of an ocean
that always misbehaves --
but it's not my fault; just the
way the god rolls: making halves
and making wholes.

After the short syrup of light,
you can find me hiding, true;
pulling off ticks; kissing boys.
You may not comprehend
the way I'm fumbled together.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Always I am imprisoned
within the crash of culture;
my thoughts treated like worms;
my illnesses considered contrived.
But it's not my fault; just the
way you guys roll: ignoring halves
for conventional wholes.