The job market is a farce,
and for the poor, money is always sparse.
No longer a child, I have to stop kidding myself -
now a dad I have to pass on Santa and elves,
the tooth fairy, and the economy,
a lineage, and a history.
I've been a ******* in more ways than one,
America's sociological experiment of a son,
whose dream wasn't tied to a flag,
a political party, nor ****.
But I understand it takes strife to fulfill life,
an ingredient in the recipe that creates might.
El sueño Americano es el mismo Chicano,
sueño Colombiano, Asiático, y Africano.
Ain't no difference when it's all a Google search away
and the world works to pay a debt it never owed.
Be free, baby, but before you do -
you gotta figure out what that means to you.

I used to think if I said anything, then I'd have to say everything.

Now I say nothing.

It's 4:50pm.
The second hand ticks through the numbers.
Nobody stirs in the office.
Just heads behind computer screens.
I think about my daughter.
She must be starting to work up an appetite for dinner.
The manager sneaks out earlier than usual.
I think about my wife.
She's probably cooking up something delicious.
I stare at the screen. A new email.
The subject line becomes blurry as I stare back at the clock.
It's 4:51pm.

He gripped the lever on his mechanism
and flipped through the pages of time.

Everything he saw happened in the span of seconds.
Time was relative when empires fell.

There were wars built of flame and desperation.
Civilizations rose from ashes. Sand covered statues
went undiscovered. And history seemed written only
partially known. The man he left it all behind,
for the sake of seeking knowledge of the gods. He
saw great crowds of people, starving in the streets.
He saw them fighting and loving, at the same time.
For there is no good where bad does not exist. The man
he left it all behind, in search of something better.
But time is neither good nor bad. It simply only is.

Perhaps he learned this lesson yet.
Perhaps he never did.
Perhaps he's still lost somewhere
and nowhere all at once.

We used to run around the streets in Elmhurst. Play football and bounce the ***** off windshields. Get into tussles and act like tough guys. Somebody on the block always opened the hydrant when things got too hot.

There wasn't a lot of running inside the walls of my high school. It was a train to a bus ride away from home. But it felt a world away.

I'd meet the homeys after school, out on the handball courts in Broadway. Sometimes I didn't bother going to school. I'd skip straight into acing fools on serves.

It's a habit I've kept with me over time. I've had trouble seeing the opportunity right in front of me because I've believed things had to be a certain way. I believed new relationships couldn't be formed as strong as old ones. But I was wrong.

I made it through high school. First kid in the fam to graduate out of college. First generation middle class man from the streets of a lower class upbringing. I don't get to bare that too often. And I don't get to speak my speak all time. Often times I've had to change tongues, dig outside my element to feel a part of something. More often I've chosen not to do so. Out of pride? Out of principal? I probably know as much as you. And that's nothing. But wherever I am, there are places that I came from, people I have met, things that I have been. And without them I'd have no words for you.

There is a man in a cell, doubting his decision.
There is a man next to him, forgiving his own sin.
There is a nun in the convent, looking up for god.
There is a priest in his tower, looking down on man.

There is a morning somewhere now, rising in the sky.
There is an evening settling down, fading away.
There is growth and rebirth and death and decay.
There is stunted potential and dreams are fulfilled.

There is a woman in a car, trying to drive the narrow.
There is a woman walking slowly while the curb bends from her feet.
There is a salesman pitching innings, and it’s only just the first.
There is a customer, buying everything his wallet touches last.

There is the sun and all the stars, defiant in their heavens.
There is the moon and all the galaxies, distant purgatories.
There is the dollar and there is time, but not for everything.
There is a place and there are habits, just about for everyone.

There is a girl and a boy, holding hands together.
There is a boy and a girl, yelling at each other.
There is the singer speaking only of times past.
There is the crowd remembering what never was.

There is a chance and there is nothing, one waiting for the other.
There is a cage and there is freedom, depending on one another.
There is everything and there is nothing, not exclusive in their stance.
There is yin and there is yang, a bigger purpose than the pieces.

There is a mother smiling somewhere, her child is at her feet.
There is a father laughing loudly, tickle fighting with his children.  
There is a chef inside the kitchen, creating something new.
There is a hungry girl at the table, fork already in her hand.

There is a bed, with a family lying on it and they are sleeping soundly.
There is tomorrow and there was yesterday, but today is almost over.
There is a dream and a reaction, an explosion of motivation for the soul.
There is always something waiting, but just for those who seek it out.

It was her job to interview the man.
But she knew he wasn't going to make it easy.
She met him backstage as he was being powdered.
"Hey there..." and he ended with some ****** comments.
Three words in and already she felt flustered.
"Hello! Hello!" She hadn't gotten this far
to fall apart at the hands of some buffoon.
And he was heralded as a man of great importance,
of great worth, of great ... greatness.
But the world sees with its eyes closed sometimes
can't smell the ******* underneath its nose.
"We're on in five." The message prompted her to say,
"Well, see you on the stage" and she stood up to walk away.
But he shooed the makeup artist and held her up another second.
"I think you're ..." all these years she had performed,
she had excelled, she had grown. And still, the men
on thrones thought they could hold her down. "I'm sorry,
but no." That was the end of that. His face turned red.
She walked on stage. The show had just begun.

because there's a vision in the back
of your mind.
a vision that you think you can see,
but you aren't sure.
so you ignore it,
try to look away,
get on through the day.
but still it stays
dormant
for a moment
and that's enough.

We didn't have conversations about feelings.
It's just the way it was.
We would hold and withhold,
repress instead of express.
It's just the way we thought it had to be.
But things are different now.
And we're all trying to learn so we don't
implode.

it's all relative, this **** ain't absolute,
that's why every other man have his own truth,
his own truce with the devil.

there's this story
but it's stuck in my throat
there's a kid
and a man
a woman
and a dream.

there's different versions
halves
and quarters
untold details
misrepresented
and unaligned.

but it all happens
in the overlapping moments
like
that slice of venn diagram
right in the center,
although
the spotlight
shines
just as it casts its shadows.

so what we see
may not necessarily
be
all that there is.

i asked for more.
i asked for pieces.
i asked too much.

i guess i wanted the whole story
without thinking about anybody.
it was for myself and now
i realize that
as the words get caught
a jumble in my mind
a knot in my chest
a lump in my throat.

it's the moonlight that spills through my blinds
that reminds
me
of how small we really are
among a galaxy of stars
like the ones on the tv screen
which we dream to be
as we chase infinity
for an eternity
on a planet of habits,
some good
most bad
all there
to keep me from going mad
when i realize
gravity is just a scam
meant to hold me down
and keep me as i am.

what happens when a man is broken down to his most common element?
despair - we share - unfair
**** flair
i’m just trying to get it done before my mind outrun
my feet and speak
to the cement
of all my tears and my lament.
time spent,
respent,
and burned out.
shout.
speak binary so they understand you,
but underneath seek primarily
purpose and truth.
i guess it’s all just concepts in a modern world,
maybe it ain’t about time at all -
maybe it’s about time for it all.
i used to think a man couldn’t be uncertain.
could just hold up curtains
to his hurting.
but it’s burning,
scorching deep inside me like memories of
past performed sins.
guilt
and all that ****.
i’m not a religious man.
only a diligent one when it interests me.
and honestly, not a lot interests me in the world i see around me.
just my daughter.
just my wife.
but that’s a big just.
real justifications for finding
a way out.

time is no realer than money, cash - credit - or debit.
defined between lines lies the meaning of where we all heading.
and where we all been but the house of other men,
other women, teaching us life and its element.
gotta learn to speak for myself and not for the man,
for everything i'm not is also everything i am.
and everything i wish is just a thought waiting for life.
they say the struggle pay the price while debating for the strife.
they say ... many things ... but what is it you think?
what is it you see between the moments that you blink?
the line between a dream and a reality is thin,
stand back far enough and the two become one thing.
like a needle in a haystack, we're lost without our minds.
like an anachronism, we're lost within our time.
searching, searching, searching ... but for what and do we know?
is it even something that our pupils can behold?

the cops are a bunch of hooligans.
your boss looking at you like, ‘who are you again?’
an order was passed by the president,
and all the residents had to evacuate the tenements.
the school won’t take you without money,
and the club won’t love you without honeys.
the bills came through and beat you black and blue,
and you start wondering
what happen if you make a sudden move?
the drugs ain’t doing what they used to do,
the hood don’t love you, it’s just used to you.
the tv and the radio are all about cheddar,
and the internet ain’t much better,
the fare went up on the train,
and guess who was the sucker who had to pay?
your thoughts start becoming things that you know
and all of a sudden, you find yourself ready to go.

write kid.
write your way out the hood.
write kid.
write until it's all good.
write about life.
write about strife.
write about nights.
write about days.
write about ways.
write about rights.
write about wrongs.
write as long as you can.
even if you don't understand.

America, land of the OJ, low pay and propane,
Cosby, Roseanne and five year plans.
Stand for a feeling but arrest for kneeling.
***** the waterways get accused of stealing.
Get accused of being seeing too much empathy.
Get too used to fleeing feeling too much apathy.
After me, comes another generation.
Outside of walls, stand a whole lot of nations.
Patience is a virtue and the same thing that hurt you,
I’d give you a cross but you already left that burnt too.
Moonwalk with the stars, sleep with the children,
we all watching Netflix movies about hurting and killing.
Desensitize our eyes and minds dot i’s, cross t’s.
We sick and ignoring the cures and vaccines.
Home remedies to patch poverty,
gunslingers like Butch Cassidy,
presidents awarded by the academy.
The majority and minority treat each other in quarantine,
even though in the end we all partake in all our dream.

How many faces do you wear a day?

I don't need your answer.

But I think you do.

I turned the TV on the other day and a man in a suit told me the world holds too much danger.
There’s people unlike me, people I don’t know, people that are strangers.
So if I’m the good guy, then that must mean these people are the bad.
Otherwise I’d be the bad guy and that idea is just mad.
There’s a war every day and it’s started for some freedom,
for democracy, for things you’ll take even if you don’t need ‘em.
There’s a woman with a cackle, the problems the first black president didn’t tackle
and all the ones the white ones have ignored and stored in shackles.
No apologies, acknowledgement, or recognition -
we follow drivers, but ignore ignitions.
See what I mean is, the person steering sometimes forgets
the mechanisms that allow them to get from outlet to outlet.
Without the gears, the nuts and the bolts,
the workers and the students, what would power hold?

If life is like a movie, it’s uncut and there’s no edits,
no double takes, no music to cue, and no credits.
Get it? Me neither. I’m either here to explain or rename
the blame til it’s sufficiently diverted from the pain of
being actors with no roles,
of reading scripts with mad holes,
of thinking we direct what we don’t hold.

I wake up and live one moment to the next,
knowing it’s a mess but happy that at least I got some cess.
At least my daughter don’t gotta repeat all my steps,
at most I feel that in many ways we’re blessed.

Stress is such a commonality, a normality of
one part calamity and two parts formality.
I could smile through my teeth but what it really mean
when I feel disconnected from the places that you reach?

And do you feel at all connected to my words?
Do they even matter beside to get it off my nerves?
Maybe that’s enough and if it ain’t I couldn’t care,
maybe that’s not all so if I fall, will you be there?

Daily I be thinking what criteria could grade me –
needing numbers, needing stats, just so I could play me.
I smoked too much, forgot my lines instead made up some rhymes.
It’s where I’m from, a place with words and no definition of a time.

It’s where I go when I can’t think of any other,
when I miss my father, sisters, and my mother,
my nephews, friends, and where I’m from.
It’s where I go when I am feeling numb.

My ****’s repetitive if you’ve heard me once before,
cuz it’s only in remembering that’s born the metaphor.
We digest so much edit that we think it could be real,
but when it happens there’s no changing how you feel.
The movies got cuts, the comments got changes,
the post is rewritten and the draft got new pages.

What is the sum of what we see and how it affects?
What is behind the smoke, mirror, haze, and effects?
What is another day to the week? Another minute to the hour?
What is the time it takes for an idea just to flower?

If life is the beautiful struggle
then death is the grotesque prize.

What is it
that kept your words in,
your fist clenched,
and your heart heavy?

Everyday I go to work,
I feel a little more dead.