I'm not winning by spinning
weird rhythms in the ninth inning.
This isn't a champion’s beginning
for some super sports saga.

There will be no happy ending
as the credits roll on to an upbeat song.
I maybe strong, but this world is wrong,
and a heart that beats for justice
will certainly get crushed quick.

On the uptick, I’ll fix my own ****
and get on with living in the world
that greed and ignorance broke.
As innocence gets crushed under the yoke
of the a cross our leaders swore salvation brought.

The chaos is a creation
of indistinct figures,
these fallen formations
of monstrous
proportions,

abstract static
beats that are
automatic,
matter of facts
that lack
any clarity.

I am looking for
something
that is more
of a rarity
than diamonds
and gems,
some truth
staring back at me
that unclenches my teeth
and takes the scream
out of the pillow
I laid my face in.

That yankee
dandy daydream
isn’t satisfying,
it’s really
only a rally for
rich men
who are lying.

So, why the ****
do I keep on trying,
keep on crying
for some sort
of order,
the kind you
proport
angels report
to a higher being,
when I haven’t seen
******* thing
to make me believe
god exists.

So, as the bullets rip
through innocents
and right wing pundits
spin this creeping chaos
to suit their purpose,

I propose we end this
illusion,
this great god and state delusion.

Anxiety stifles your ability
to see the ineffable beauty
in all the variety of diversity
that invigorates our society.

Light skin transitions to
darker shades that smile through
long limbs thick with
fat or muscular tension.

She to he, they to em
theirs, eirs, her, him
so many pronouns
and I have failed to
name all of them,
cause I am still learning.

Sometimes it’s hard to figure out
leaves us with a little doubt
as uncertainty grows to
fear that flows to
anger.

Strangers strain your composure,
especially as you grow older
and your brain grows more rigid
and your heart goes more frigid
till you are vivid with lividness

The erosion of resistance
to the love of what’s different
through exposure.

It is so late. I am so very tired
and there is nothing here to restore
the fire that burned in me before
exhaustion ran through my back door.

Inspiration would be a fine elixir,
a sweet supplier of an eternal shine
that would make me as hot as the divine
intermingling with other demon beings.

Heavy red eyes scratch the surface of
inconsequential stuff that was stuffed
somewhere under the cover of my skin,
with secrets sharper than razor blades,
that let letters and vowels bleed out in
thin spinning lines of linens draped over
my slumping sore and aching shoulders.

Fatigue makes me a nervous overthinking,
fool cowering, and shrinking from daylight,
longing for the lunar loving touch of night.

Hungry, I eat junk, but I’m never sated,
so many universes of the knowledge
split infinities, divided by eternity
still, I am a ravenous rumbling mess.

My mind is a mad mass of confusion,
foggy abstraction thinking any action
might make the slightest difference,
but consciousness is a lie of persistence,
a disturbing pittance better paid
when sleep lets strange dreamers play
and I can wake fully rested and focused.

Picture yourself as a prophet of sorts
trying to revive a dying discourse,
writing enlightening verses while
studying to improve your own style,
thinking, reading, eating, and seeing,
digesting then changing what you are believing
in the face of new knowledge that you are receiving.

Imagine yourself struggling to create
poems and ideas that counteract hate,
to fight off the arrogance of those who just take,
whilst battling against your own arrogant state.

Picture your paradise then deconstruct,
look inside out so your mind doesn’t get stuck,
remembering we all can work to be better.
Humanity can be an alphabet of good intent
if each vowel and consonant is well spent,
written and given like a love letter
proclaiming life can be something greater.

Rest for a moment and dream for a second,
remembering diversity is the stream that we spring from,
it is the catalog of songs that sing some
beautiful intentions and creations into existence,
the inspiration that keeps us moving forward
as earth, space, and grand mind explorers.

Take my hand metaphorically speaking
and rise from the shadows of pain that were keeping
our brothers and sisters in pain from the chains of oppression.

Its’ a strange game, but let’s play love tag
and give our hearts and art away to say
it is time to change and make this world
a far grander place.

I'm sending unending lines,
editing and accrediting
these collegial rhymes.

Inspecting and perfecting
in obsessive over editing
these miraculous words
that I was temporarily hoarding.

Trying so hard not to be boring
with my own verbal exploring,
reporting to myself about myself
for everyone else to read.

2:00 a.m. and I'm sitting
at home gaming again,
a 21-year-old life
with no direction.
I’m out of lock step
with the dreams
I haven’t lost yet
as I watch them
fading in the distance.

In delaying my resistance
to this degrading system,
I am slowly becoming
one of the mind numbing
cogs grinding other gears
who work here
with the same sad fear
that this is a rat trap that
no one will escape.

I’m not ready to go,
but got lost in the flow.

I’ve estimated
I will be decimated
by the next disaster
humanity has created.

I’ve wasted time
trying to find
the truth behind
these divided minds,
whiles other have
just retroactively justified
their hate crimes.

It seems peace
is only a dream
that I find
when I let myself
go to sleep
along with
the rest of the
waking walking
sheep.

I'm tired, old, and worn out,
still sternly considering my doubts.
Getting ready to pass on a torch
that I haven't even earned
cuz I barely ever marched for
the lessons that we’ve learned.

Now, I write not to delight
but for new insights,
to question why
and ask my friends again,

“Who taught you to hate,
to sit and separate
yourself from the sacred state
of that which elevates?”

My mind is wed to
weird worlds
no one else can view,
fantasy realities,
and nightmare realms
that haunt me,
such terrible
terrors taunting,
like stairways
to primordial days
or ancient ages
were massive
sea monsters
raged beneath
the deep seas.

I walk through
windows to
grassy fields
that yield
fond fairytales.

In my daydreams,
I am pursuing
my own undoing
ungluing
all that held
me to myself.

Ancient pines,
as close as I
can hope to find
to the divine,
run rings around
the years I’ve found.

I am dying,
whilst trying,
intensifying
the neural firing
of my overactive
spastic synapses,
these bio electric
responses.

Tender digits
from children
who fidget,
take the rose stem
and grab it,
pricked and bleeding
while delicate petals,
fall and float away
fleeing the dying flower.

Waking or sleeping
it is all a dream to me.

I wrote these words before,
but the broad brush is poisonous,
steals the joys from all of us.
That wonder in the face of the unknown.
Instead, of facing strangers
who are dangerous to our stereotypes,
we hide behind the night
of ignorance and blatant lies.

The broad brush is poisonous
cuz you're not using it to paint masterpieces,
or to see underlying complexities.
You’re just glossing over that beautiful diversity,
while stultifying, and simplifying
others to binary identities
based on gender and race,
so you don't have to face uncertainty,
in a very uncertain time and place.

I'm an outlaw
that's been living
with the doubts,
I've been given.

See me persisting, insisting
in my right to be existing.

I'm quizzical right now.
Though, I know this is a particular predicament,
this weird temperament probably isn't permanent.

Still, I am fixated on how my mind has mutated.
How this larva like version me has pupated,
preparing to be updated from my previous caterpillar state.
How I refuse to let my butterfly mind
be mutilated by those who have hated
every ounce of human empathy
I have seeded as an artist seeking a harvest
of love and compassion that needs reaping.

Hollow is the hallway
where our friends
used to laugh and play.
They are specters now
of some long dead
imagined game.

Empty eye sockets,
cartilage,
broken bones
amidst this
creeping chaos
where the
death wish
has dismissed
so many
lonely kids.

How many
empty spaces
can you fill
with the losses
no one is willing
to reveal
because they
are still
looking for
missing heartbeats.

These tragedies
mark me
from a reader’s
distance.
I am able to
observes these
sorrowful instances
and transcribe
distorted paintings
of truthful lies.

Whilst wondering
who am I,
and why do I try?

They say an elephant never forgets,
but an eloquent man
is bound to regret
all the things that he
hasn’t done or seen yet.

He is not a pachyderm
standing firm
as he packs up
all the junk in his trunk
that he has earned.

There will be
a lot of baggage
that he doesn’t need
when he leaves,
so perhaps
he should step back
and drop those
old gray bags.

They are barely peanuts.
Anyways,
traveling light would be
preferable
because his past
though quite durable
is as heavy as
that massive land mammal.

Making art is
probably the hardest
thing I'll ever have to do,
in telling the truth to you
as I watch you keep doing
the horrible things you want to do.

Making rhythm with my own flow,
struggling to try and grow with it
may not be the best and I know it,
but I'm doing what I'm capable of.

I’m struggling in a state of love,
trying to live up to a dream of
saving people with my empathetic artistic endeavors.

I’m being clever with the words I use,
cause I want to be the fertilizer
that inspires seeds with my solar word fire,
in my desire to make this world a better place.

There's no way to slow
this flow when it's going,
cuz it's constantly growing
and it won't be eroding.

The time is now for showing
the glamorous glowing
hearts made for creating great
art works of wise words,

but all those worthless rodents
who pose pointless questions
while making us look in
the wrong direction,
all those ******* politician
taking donations
from those multinational corporations
and other greedy businessmen,

have greatly impacted
the lives of loved ones
whose passions and potential
have been permanently subtracted;

Once warms bodies
become negative spaces
as memories are frayed
by the pain of those
who were betrayed,
those who were played
by the slimy
grimy whining
opportunist
who used this
tragedy to make
more money
and take more power.

During church I would
not be able to
pay attention to
even the briefest speeches
that seeks to breach
the souls
that old bold preacher
was trying to reach.

Instead, I played in my head.
Weird fantasies
where I have seen salty seas,
waves gently sweeping
small bits of wooden debris
away as small *****
crawled and creeped.

Eyes closed, imaging those
other places while familiar faces
gathered around, I would fall asleep
as the melody of my imagined scene
eased me from consciousness to
another state of strange dreams.

Until the pastor pounded the pulpit,
raising his passionate voice,
making my elbows slip.
Till my head dipped
and hit the front bit
of the pew before me.

The sermon was so boring,
but it was a prelude
of such magnitude
that it overshadows
the point I am trying to
get you to listen to.

So, tired that as I
write this for you to view,
I long to lie down
and get back to
my church pew
and old daydreams.

There is nothing
more worthy
of noting
then meeting
and knowing
a woman
empowered.

Eyes sparkling
with passions,
stirring
conversations,
discovering
nations
of new ideas,
the poetry of
a soul
that reveals
new ways to
think and feel.

The strength
of experiences
translated
into
a brand new
pre-used
world view,
transcribed
behind eyes
that do more
than merely
entice
but enchant
and expand
what we
understand.

Myths take
mistakes
humans make
and elevates
them to
proportions
we can view
from history’s
fictionally
inflated
perspective.

I’m not a prodigal prodigy,
just a product of
the poetry I read
and love.

I'd like to tell the police
to stop helping these
people into an early grave,
considering they were the ones
cops are supposedly paid to save.

I don't need any emotion regulator.
I am the poetic pain appropriator
reading stories and saving
the suffering for later
to share with my fellow agitators
and other hopeful aspiring humans.

I just ain’t feeling it,
dealing with the *******
of cops profiling
black people driving
or just walking
and killing them.


Taking less than
minutes,
and stealing
lifetimes,
building
fields of
lost ones
who were
and still are
loved.

Why?

Because?

What?

I am data driven,
taking in
information
all the time.

Spewing
pretty but
polluted
perspectives.

Looking for
new directions,
and mind blowing
paradigms.
Then changing them
with the changing times.

More books,
audio, paper,
digital, hard bound.

More shows,
and music
so I can use it
for my own artistic
development.

Keeping going.
No settling
or finally letting
the sediment
under the water
stop moving.

I need constant
electrical currents,
cause if I slow down
then I will have to
face the sound of my
own unsettling thoughts.

Life is the aftermath
of a blood bath
that ******* were laughing at.

Even though, I know that a
multiplicity of alternate realities
is not a certainty but has a minor probability;
I have an affinity for infinity and eternity
with all the weird entities therein.

If time is linear
then any human error
becomes inevitable
when the time is here
and gone.

Never was a life
hit so hard
in my back yard
as when I saw
that broken heart.

Until, it was.

Never was a sorrow
felt so deep
that one could not keep
the pain they see
away.

Except for yesterday,
and all those days
that made their way
to become the one
that we call today.

Never was
a lie so bold
than the one
that we told
ourselves
forgetting the past
and all previous pains.

Never will be a joy so great
that we will be able
to overcome the shame
of all the mistakes
we made
by making
strange assumptions,
by disregarding
one another.

Never was a greater tragedy
than not being able to learn
from the suffering
of other human beings.

Unaffected but afflicted, convicted
of the crimes my people have committed,
and all the pain of history that was inflicted;
Sometimes, I get white cisgender guilt
for a system that was already built.

There's a memory I got locked up,
but it's time to unseal it,
sunnyside eggs burning on the skillet,
a ****** boneless steak but I didn't **** it,
so ravenous that I can still feel it.
There is a beastly side lurking
and I can no longer conceal it.
So, I let the lion out to feast.
Then see the lumbering beast
go yawning calmly back to sleep.

The devil revels
in his wicked rebels,
those bouncing beats
and hyper treble,
blasting bass sounds
and destructive percussion.

White winter fields sparkle like frosty glitter.
The city street smokes thin wisps in the driver's view.
While bright lights line the night road,
green promises it's okay to go.
Then yellows mellow to a slow cold flow.
Until, a rebel red screams stop.

Enlightening sentences,
heighten senses,
take fixed countenance
and furrow them
in fierce concentration.

He is a simple simpering
person bothering
everyone he has
ever seen,
a clinical refresher
pounded under the pressure
trying to get much better,
and not let every other
******* conquer
his unearned ego.

It should be a rarity,
this wicked wealth disparity,
but look at these crooks,
these modern-day land barons
coming in with their horns blaring,
not caring about the poor despairing
population they're supposed to be serving.

Instead, we got politicians earning
lots of profits
while the impoverished suffer from
the loss of options.

Sorrow spilt silk streams,
thin lines of pain falling.
They are like old fuzzy dreams,
tiny inklings, hints to a puzzle
that I’m not trying to solve.

A spark of a memory
which I no longer recall,
a place in my brain
I don’t visit at all,
but once in a while
a shadow creeps
from the closets that keep
little pieces, jagged edges,
sharp parts of my heart
that have been shattering
for as long as I have been
living in this cruel world.

Tears come but I disregard,
hit reset so I can restart.
After all I’ve come so far,
too many miles to be hindered
by the chains of a ghost
I don’t want to remember.

Like a frozen dead bird
that refuses to rot,
just sits under permafrost,
I hope I never thaw
because spring will bring
all the sorrows of lonely.

Space it out
when faced doubt
do a turnabout
don't double down
listen to the sound
of decent people
pleading with the seething
haters who are marching.

We are needing the seeding
of kind hearts succeeding,
because what was proceeding
was an inhumane beating
and defeating of compassion.

I’m so tired of the cruel violence,
of people talking smack and trashing
kind acts of passionate benevolence.

It is not a small favor that I’m asking,
as I speak from my perch of privilege.
I’m not coming from a place of ignorance,
and I hope I’m not being too **** arrogant.

On a bad day I do not believe
that we can be better than
the basest and most reprehensible,
that humanity is indefensible,
indivisible from our worst ways.

But when I write it out
thinking about the lines
that we have crossed,
the blessings received,
and what they cost,
I want to remind you
before the beauty of
what we can be is lost.

How diligently do you
deepen discourses
on philosophical,
social, and political
truths?

What is debatable,
palatable,
until it is unsayable,
cuz the unstable
will make horrible things
capable of happening.

A carnival of
constant rotations
declines and elevations,
disturbing mental visitations
paired with terrible hesitation.

The fetishization,
and circulation
of cultural appropriation,
hastened by caucasians
lack of emotional relations
to different groups
and their enforced stations
in our society.

How do we address
the inequality
when so many resist
the notion that it even exists?

So, the systems persists,
as I bang my head
against collectively created
mental bricks.

This poem is a study of sturdy storytelling.
Conflicts don't have to be complicated.
We don't need any super or normal villains.

I may not have the ability to be commercially
as successful as those other persons I see
who are spitting sick **** provocatively.

I may not be technically terrific.
Each line may not be perfectly specific,
but I can take new experiences and refashion them,
take enemies passion’s and make them friends again.

Till we all give in to the compassionate whims
that do what we need artistry to achieve,
cause we need other artists to believe
we can be better than what we currently see.

I have retracted
my high esteem,
and redacted
the way that you acted
from my memory files.
Now you are just
a bad dream.

There is no way
to unmake hate.
You will not
manipulate
me again.

I’d rather be
in a stampede
of caribou
than have to
go through
the **** you do
one more time.

I’m not coming back
for a round two
to watch a rerun
of what I know
you will do.

This is my hour
of deliverance.
I’ll forgo
giving you all of
my grievances;

Cause I am leaving
this very instance.

Let me be clear
I don’t want to be here.
in this month or year.

******* Valentine’s day.

You go on living,
keep on working
while I am giving
all the poetry I have,
all the jokes to
make everyone laugh.

But, I suspect
that we won’t connect.

I don’t want to ask,
but why don’t you
love me like I
love you.
Please come here,
please go away.
I feel so isolated.
Please leave me be.
I am happy with
my own misery.

So, I know
where I follow
you will never go.

I want to reveal myself,
share strange stories and relate
to those who suffer the same,
even though I am doing great.

You’re inspiring and beautiful.
I am inquiring about your youthful
passions,
passing certain questions
asking about shared obsessions.
You go out into the world
and really live in it,
while I want to see life
and write brilliantly about it.

Maybe, someday you will read,
feel and see all the things
that I tried to share.
I won’t be there
and I suspect
that even if
we do connect
it will be
far too late for me
to see.

How inappropriate,
she’s my ******,
cute and flexible
barely detectable,
definitely delectable.

She’s a wonderful,
super comfortable,
good dancer,
a little dangerous,
perfectly fit,
and slightly psychotic.

I’m a caterpillar
and she is
a caterpillar killer.

She is fascinating,
and good at debating.

What a dream
a tragedy
that she is
imaginary,
make believe
at least for me.

In reality she
is dating
the kind of guy
I have spent
my lifetime hating,
confident bad boy
without the brains to
back up that smack talk.

Chalk it up to
a society that
doesn’t value
the truth
but prefers
*******.

I am already one among many,
a stranded stranger in this city,
but despite my plight they still
try to steal my identity,
try to change my name,
leaving me out to dry as I
am barely hanging from the windowsill.

There is no place for a poet who
rebels against those that want to
make him into another reflection
of this destructive urban infection.

I would run with the wolves
but the only wildlife we got here
are the wall street predators
and the other beasts who drink
up the destruction and misery
of the lost souls creeping on
cold hard and hungry city streets.

The roads are slick, and I could easily
find myself slipping, and falling,
succumbing to the dark and beastly
urges that want to consume me,
as my empathy is drained and changed
into a deranged competitive side.

It would be better to become
the moon that loves the sun,
or the ever-changing stream
that runs through my dreams.

The forest calls with all of her
grand green beauty and wonder.
The stillness and quietest
place that supplies this
momentary escape and inspiration.

White petals floating in the wind,
dirt brown paths that go down
to the lake and then
back around to a field of corn.

but I seldom return to that safe place,
just muddle through a sick polluted storm,
brain dead instead of wearing a smiling face,
I start to blend into the crowd that is moving.

Tightly packed automatons,
memory fails and now the poet is gone.

The city devours the last brilliant hours,
and the poems no longer finds a pen,
and the phoenix no longer rises again.
The sleeper no longer dreams.
He just keeps walking and walking.

A stranded stranger still talking,
but not saying anything.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

She's a protester
not a warrior
but something
so much better,
a singer song writer
a warm and brighter
lamp that keeps us
from succumbing
to the mind numbing
dullness with which
greedy men try to use
to **** our muse,
and give us the blues.

We never walk in
the same stream cuz
these rivers are always changing.
Still, where you go
I will follow.
It doesn't matter if
the ground is
solid or hollow
because it is
the hope of love
that keeps me walking.

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.

I am not a perfectionist
but I want to
write such works
that make words strike
like bullets that hurt
when they are finally heard.

By which only the bad
and severely mad
could avoid being affected,
and for years later on
my art would be dissected
by other artists and historians,

and the wisdom that I’m bringing
would reach out and touch
millions and millions
of open-hearted civilians,
would enlighten the frightened
women, men, and children;

Inspiring the tired fighters
to stop the riots and
indict violence inciters.

I want to put people
on the edge of their
consciousness.
Till, they are forced to face
the plain reign of pain
that stains people’s brains.

I do not expect my experiment
will be successfully permanent,
or start any sort of social movement,
but in my wildest most hopeful dreams,
in my grandest poetic schemes,
I am moved to move other human beings,
and make them feel what I have felt
and see the things that I have seen.

I am but a passing poetic fool,
who hopes that you’llcont.
humor him.

So, I can sit and write again
and again, calling on
my current, past, and future
treasured friends
to appreciate what lays
underneath different tints
and shades of skin.

That by taking these verses
and polishing them,
you might finally listen
and act with more compassion
and less greed and ignorance.

My modern masked queen,
writing word warrior
with flowing prose
as beautiful as the growing rose,
whispering inspiration,
forming a glowing sphere,
a secret sacred space where
I long to go to but
she will not let me in there.

A goddess of nature who owns the air,
vibrating and bending all the ears near,
piercing hearts who hear clear
what wonders my Amazonian friend brings here.

So many stories to tell,
so many things she keeps to herself.
Chaotic but she keeps it under wraps,
as she covers all her scars with laughs.

Layers upon beautiful layers,
multiple masks that overlap,
sometimes they come a little loose,
but she always puts them back.

I wish the façade would crack,
and I could see behind the armor,
that she would let me be
the sharer of strength that she lacks,
so she could finally relax.

My modern mask Queen
would probably have to ****** me
if I ever got to close.
It would be a strange exchange,
but part of me wouldn’t mind that trade.

I can hear them shout,
but I keep thinking about
every day I wake
with an inkling of doubt.

Always questioning,
constantly questing,
I seek answers
to questions
not many people
are asking.

What about kindness?
What about empathy?
What about the brilliance
that I see staring back at me
in the form of
universal diversity?

What about daydreams
and all the hopes they bring?
Have I dreamed enough
or are there so many more
left for me to explore?

What about reality,
neuroscience,
and biology?
What about the glory of
all the natural things I see?
What about hope,
Is there any out there left for me?

What about the finality
of death,
or the endlessness
of infinity paired with eternity?

Stereotypes and hyperbole
do not serve our needs,
but diversity plants the seeds
for our growing adaptability,
socially, mentally, and biologically,
allowing us to overcome adversity
and turn it into a transition to
a grand brand-new world view.

It’s the same stew that took us from
clay pottery to awesome cartoons
from Plato’s cave to the moon,
from spoken words heard
around campfires to
digital and audiobooks that
we can learn so much from,
from my mind to this poem
on to you who I hope
takes the full scope
of my creativity and intentions
and use it for your own inventions.

So, tell me please as you see
what makes diversity great?