I pull a Sherlock Holmes
One look at you and I snap that steel trap
Right back
To cold facts
Points of business
There is nothing in you of interest
So, if gone
Shove the bible where it belongs
Maybe if you smoked a **** like Cheech and Chong
You’d be more interesting
After a cough choke you would take your ignorance
And get
and ten more tokes
You could learn to take a joke

We soft fingers
linger
on the locked
door
laid before
the world
we abhor,

wooden rot
ready to be open
so, we can explore
the radiant wonders
that lay
in the day
on the other side
of this dark night
life.

Imagine
That skin
Burnt
Under the sun
Not from fun
But from
Stolen labor
History’s black spot
From slavery
To Chain gangs
To the modern
Prison
Profit machines
Grinding
Human beings
Into to dust
They are us
We are them
Our prison
Our minds
Stolen

He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.

I am a smelly **** furnace
Sadly my flatulence
It potent
The powerful smell
Is hell to your nose
But I do not know its’ odor
All it does is make me laugh

Shadows form and flicker
Bodies moving in the night
Her presence lingers on my mind
Impression of her hand in mine
The smell of her strawberry breath
I awake and even the conscious thought of her is gone
Only in dreams can I see her
Only in slumber do I know her

There were greater writers
That no one will remember
Sinners singing for their dinner
Tale weavers not award winners

But they were better than some of those
**** famous deadbeat poets
Those dirt dry boring heartless poets
Anthology barn describing
Empty mind driving
Generation after generation
Stale lifeless shells of poets

You missed the raw talented
Death seeking reeking writer
While you were pursuing some tired muse
She was riding through the darkness
Spiting you while inviting you
To partake of the snake that eats itself

The academic was systemic
Of the social sickness
That wants grammarly fitness
Till the point they cut the fruit off
And ate the bark
They plugged in the tv man
But ignored the spark
Lost the heart in pursuing
The same style the old poets were using
Till they changed styles to the new old poets

Meanwhile the cutting edge
Was in back water cities
Bleeding all deep poetry
Feeling everything but pity
And writing it so fast and beautifully

But you never took the time to see
Wrote some stuff that puts us all to sleep
Now we are creeping toward the two thousand and twenties
And I have found those once lost voices
They are rocking the twitter feeds
The facebook pages
The tumblr streams
Welcome to the digital age
Don’t need the old guard
To raise us up
It’s a true poets dreams
Were voices scream dissonantly
But still form a social harmony
They won’t forget me
And I won’t miss out on them

It’s not like some city of angels
Were people will dangle
The peach pit in front of your ****
Even if you succeed in seeding them
With the greatest kernel of truth
They will still forget or despise you
Because people want to invested in
Living in
The normal or the cool instead of
Trying to find out how to be in love
With the strangeness of this life
How to keep on dreaming
Instead always demanding meaning

I send wishes like star light
Praying we will be alright
All night long where we go on
But the darkness is strong
And as deep as the sleep of the ocean
History is cooked in
Gas chambers and ovens
Despite all my loving
I can’t heal history
Still the best of me
All I have left you see
Is telling stories
Compelling strangers in danger of forgetting
To remember what I mean by regretting
Knowing it is not our fault
Doesn’t lessen the pain
Nor uncut the historical vein
I just want to teach them and you to
So those human horrors don’t happen again

I got the nice guy rage
Anger that stirs
Beneath the pages
Past the posts I pasted
Parceled out in controlled fashion
Because my passion
Stems from the pain of the world
Floods and fallen stars
Broken expectations
Failure to pierce the infinite void
Of human ignorance
It is unhealthy

A weakness

A fear

That even if it is justified
I may find the same monster
Lurking inside my mind
That plagued my matriarch
The rage that darkened her heart
And contorted her face
As she lashed out at me
So with every available icebox
I freeze and lock
Those dangerous emotions
Till I am numb
Allowing only a fraction
Of said passion to ever surface
In my writings
Now I am afraid
That I locked to much away
Disconnected the locks and lost the keys
So I can never get back to the real me
All because I am afraid of the anger

The couch creaked in rhythmic fashion. Darkness permeated everything. There was music, as my mother bounced back and forth in an autistic fashion. The stress of the day working itself out in her movements.

I played with my tiny figurines. GI Joes battled at my feet. I could not see them but I felt them. How could I understand the level of her sickness. Her pain would evolve adapting and developing into darker reactions. The playful tickling mother would become a spirit of vengeance.

During the daytime we shared the music, dancing and playing. My thoughts were not straying. It would take many years for me to evolve as well. It would take many more than that to find a semblance of peace.

I cannot fault her heart. She did not have the tools to understand. She only had god and work. I had books and tv shows to show me love and truth. I had dreams of something greater. I saved them all for later while she lost bits of her soul. I am certain she swallowed her own sorrows to save me from starvation.

I am sure she struggled to protect me from life’s cold hard reality, until she became the darkness herself. I am sure that a better me could forgive her, and maybe given enough time I will feel strong enough and deep enough to do it.

But for now I am seeking the truth and strength I do not have. Plucking painful and pleasant chords; There is still music here and I will play it again.

I don’t know how to be normal and most times I don’t care
I could read for hours and contemplate the ups and downs of whats fair
But sometimes I feel a spark of despair
A deep dark longing or apathy beyond compare
Sometimes I feel like death would be grand
Who gives a **** if the normals wouldn’t understand
I get tired of this life and all of its pain
Of the suffering existence is a trifle insane
To walk through this life which is so **** mundane
What do I have to show for this trip but a broken heart and overactive brain

Silver, white, and glittering scales
Cross fins as they gather themselves
Cool pond partially reflecting
The warm lamp lights on the ceiling
With the grace of a cat the carp
Crosses over coming closer
His mouth bubbling open
Expecting food pellets from me

Sacs of flesh water skins
Bleach white bones
Will burn from within
Cancer sticks
Fleshy *****
Human animals
With parts that fit
**** to ****
Desire this
But I resist
Wanting love
From the lust that I missed
We kissed and now we are dust

Lovely light hearted Layla,
my lyrical inspiration,
the source of my hopeful heart
and tear felt frustration.

I want to ride the night,
to stand by your side,
and hold your hand
as we cross this land.

I’ve heard the tears
other broken hearted lovers cry,
and seen nothing,
but the blackness of the otherside.

Oh, treasured friend of mine
is there something there
behind your eyes
that I might find,
perhaps a slight spark
lit in your heart
that parallels mine.

Layla, I long to hold you by the hearth,
hot and ***** loving affection
that burns against the dark
of the cold winter woods.

Layla, you are my wild one,
in whom I trust
but I doubt that my love
will ever touch
the summit of your desirous affections.

Engage, in deep conversation not just hollow pleasantries. I want to see what is deep inside of you, let your universe unfold. I am certain through intense dialogue we will peel back the dark mask you hide behind. You are more then your previous relationship. You are more then the binary politics of society and all their simple slogans, and obfuscating talking points, you are more then the religion and ancient texts you turn to to find meaning and morality. You are a set of unique experiences, in a unique vessel, in a unique time, and a unique space. You are transcendent flesh formed from the cosmos with consciousness. Please do not squander that gift.

The beautiful dawn burnt sky
Clouds colored with purple pastels
Blue and bluer night shades
Beauty in the nighttime

The killing fields blood soaked bandages
The fanatic’s face distorted with rage
Beautiful language turned to bile
And the corpses rise in piles

The flying birds singing
The squirrel trying to hide
The dog barking playfully
The deer running at night

The Cops throwing tear gas
The cops shooting young blacks
The cops get off scott free
Blaming the black community

The warm rain washing my raw skin
Splashing in puddles
Laughing with old friends
Rinsing away the stress

The starving child
The bitter pundit
The crooked politician
All of those nasty statesmen

It is getting harder and harder
To separate the hate
From the beautiful things
The music from the screams

And I keep slipping and slipping
Faster and faster into the depressive darkness
Defeated by the heartless
My heart is breaking and unlike the dawn
There will be no light coming

I am a terrible human being. **** storming, anger machine that spits hateful things in poetry.
My memory is a landfill, of abuses, and poorly remembered happier times. I struggle to find the truth behind my anger, sadness, and regret. Is it what I remember, forget, or can’t forget that has ****** me up? Her face causes the familiar rage to rise. Voice spewing lies, or what I think is lies. I spent most of my life trying to figure out how it was my fault. I am still trying to figure how it might be my fault. Hyper kid, tired and lonely mother, the formula does not mix. I cannot calculate the value of her violence minus what I did to deserve it. Did I earn it? People aren’t all bad? I can remember going to the movies a couple of times, traveling and listening to music, holidays and presents, but in the present all that is shaded. I am jaded by being locked in an unlocked room, cut off in solitary confinement, because she got busted for the violence. I remember how she had to know what I told the counselor. So I stopped telling them anything.
A smart man knows that human memory is not perfect, so I keep trying to figure out how I deserved to get hit, why I deserved to be isolated, verbally degraded. Part of it had to be my fault, cause people just don’t lash out. I struggle to find out what it was all about because I am scared. If I can’t figure out the reason, if there was no good reason, could I become her?

The curse of power is that it tends to corrupts
The hearts and minds of those who want it to much
Even those who have already acquired it
Can lose their way and get mired in it
But if by some miracle you remain unscathed
Then you have the obligation to use it the right way
Cause all it takes for evil to prevail
Is for good men to do nothing while wicked men turn this world into hell

I put a quarter in the bin.
You take more than ten
back out again.
You’ve been
gambling
with my life
wearing silver linings
and golden green
shirts with ruffles
and jackets
that are sparkling.

While someone is
parking your Benz
your cashing
government checks
turning poor people in
for being impoverished
while you abused
the system
you want to make great again.

You want to make America hate again
but we all know that is
almost the easiest road
to pave,
****** that some
descendent from a slave
made it great.

So, in your resentment
you simmer
to a boiling point
of rage
setting America on fire
with your political lies.

Don’t tell me I am crazy
Cause I know war is wrong
And the American war machine
Is to **** strong

Don’t tell me I am crazy
Cause capitalism doesn’t work
The free market isn’t free
Cause any system that celebrates greed
Will eat itself alive and take
The poor and imagined middle class with it

Don’t tell me I am crazy
Cause I know religion harms us all
Phony leaders and cloud kingdoms
Keep us from seeking the truth
Keep us from speaking the truth
Ties up our youth
Binding them in the chains of ignorance
Not the liberation
Of curiosity and information

Don’t tell me I am crazy
When the crazy one is you
Most of the world is crazy like that to
But hold on to your hat
Cause I am bringing you the truth

I’m not crazy and you don’t have to be
I’m not a prisoner and the prison confining you
That chains that keep binding you
Are easily removed in the pursuit of truth

Are some things better left buried
Sandy covered secrets
Red welts masked as rashes
Flinching PSTD trauma from past ****
It’s not golden dablooms
Under the moon
It’s bruises from ill-uses
Suspicious glances
Struggling to ever trust again
Never leaving the house
Never letting new people in
Never finding a healthy balance
Blaming yourself
For the insanity of someone else
And the best thing to ever come out
Of it is the poetry you write about
You know, all that buried stuff

In lines of age
we find a trace
of history,

weathered responses
that come to haunt us
as we are weighed down
by all the gravity
that we have found
in this life,

creases of flesh
molded to express
all of time’s
presence.

We earn each line
with perseverance
resisting death’s
determination.

Until, the end
when death finally
takes its revenge
and wins.

Bets placed
eternity takes
all the wrinkles
on our face,
and turns them to rot
and decay.

Blueberry brains with baked banana muffins
Artists do doodle and strain to abstain
From the tragic fallacies of the rational brain
Childlike wonder left under the covers
Adults will never see such joy again
And I oh so fool hardy so full of malarkey
Walk between both worlds my friend
Popping in and out again and again
Trading tears for fears and tripping on dreams
Making masterful failures of all of my schemes
Adult or child, neither or so it would see

Someone whispers to him “calm your heart,” but the crimson streaked flesh that beats soft wet palpitations hastens his impatience to face what’s coming. He has no armor or weapon only the determination to do what is right.
      Four chambers are thudding like the boots a coming. Men in black garbs marching with fully loaded chambers, clear plastic shields up, and black sticks ready to bludgeon. Their anger is oppositional to their opponent’s fog of fear, fatigue, and determination.

“Breath my child,” a gentle voice says. A sharp pain pierces on the back of his head. A thin line begins to ride down his neck. Someone yells “get down!”
One row of men raise their hands, eyes turned upward. The soft voice in his head says” be strong.”
Billows of grey smoke spew from a black canister. Strangers and familiars choke and gasp, eyes watering. Dreams of a bygone era play out in his mind. A tall thin brown sweaty woman smiles, moving down the road while singing we shall overcome. Dogs snap viscously at her compatriots. A fire pushes her siblings back with skin scraping pressure. A few of them fall, and couple falter in the struggle but most keep marching. Her brother, who is tall slightly bulky but wears the well-earned muscles of a man who labored hard all his life, clenches his fists, preparing to strike. She pulls him back. “Be strong, and gentle baby brother.”

They continue to sing “We shall overcome.”

       In his mind the young man sees his mother smiling, saying “"Be calm, saith my heart. I am a warrior. I have seen far worse than this." He smiles through the pain stands up and chants “Hands up don’t shoot. Hands up don’t shoot.” Another brother rises behind him yelling “Black lives matter. Black lives matter.” A thin nerdy pale white guy cries we shall overcome, not in a singing tone, but it still rings beautifully. The struggle continues.

The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.

To me it’s a dead man’s barren land
Barely functional mostly boring
Gravel road with only two solid streets

No one meets a stranger
There is no danger of the unknown

People pass away becoming
A checkmark on a checklist
Five hundred to four hundred and ninety nine
Not including me

One water sac down and then another
One by one my family becomes deceased
Till this town feels like a disease
Till my instincts scream death trap

Heavy hearted but lightly packed
The road beckons and I leave it like that
A ghost town fading with the sundown
All my past buried in innocence and memories

And even though they are still very precious to me
I do not ever intend to return their again.

Foreswear thy love
Thy breaking life
To challenge death
To barely survive

Foreswear thy time
Though ill-consumed
The antidote
Is a poisoned brew

Forswear thy seconds
That you rush upon
Racing to each new experience
Not resting or facing
The thoughts fast pacing
Thy reason is muddled
Left to your passion

You would have been
Better served my friend
Foreswearing the folly
Of flesh born pleasures
In trade for those made
Of the intellectual variety

She is a walking heartbreaker
In pictures, words, and lust
Tears form flowing outwards
Falling faster and faster
I sit foggy eyed and find I must
Distract and extract myself
From her painful poetic presence
From her deep dark hungry essence
Sultry and sulking for another lover
She breaks me so quickly and easily
Once a regular communicator
Now I barely register
Perhaps it is better for her
And a lesson for me to lessen
People’s ability to infiltrate my heart
For my sanity I unfollow and unfriend
But occasionally go back there again
Like biting my tongue to see
If it still hurts me and if I will bleed
I find that she still holds to strong of a grip
Over my heart and mind

We are citizens,
victims of a system
of stratification.

We use fiction
to relate
us to them,
women and men,
social programming
for the progress
to do more then
just began again.

While the filthy fat cats
are raking it in
doing more then
making a killing
by selling weapons
made to ****
foreign children,

making profits
off the violence
while calling us
immoral
criminals.

So, we use fantasy
to cross the breach,
break the cranium
so you can see
reality
through
that fictional brew,

and gain compassion
from the stories you read
or the movies you see.

This is the time
to select a brave few
who may follow you
through

Father creator artist of my birth
I have seen the dragons that you sketch
Their skin scaly and dry
Their breath like orange exploding flowers
Your power exist within my hands as well
To dream and to shape I am the maker as well
You sketched death in all of its skeletal grace
Woman with strong features and amazing beauty
With your course and worn hands you molded reality
A gift which I am grateful to have
With a word I can bring light to a void
Reason to confusion and humor to sadness
For that I must express my gratitude
And let all know that as a dreamer
The only way I can fall and fail
Is to give up these rapturous visions
TO sacrifice my passion and settle for scraps
This I cannot do I will not do
I will paint the world with my strange sanity
In my arrogance I will demand much
Bullet for Brushes knives for pen
Peace through aesthetic and verbosity
The words may rip and tare at my gut
Force their way from my throat till they are expunged from my body
But they will always be mine
So I must Thank you thank you a thousand times and more

You were the chaos
of swift currents
sending me under
in a ridiculous
blunder
as I was consumed
by my desire for you.

Angry, jealousy,
all things I thought
I had discarded,

but the brick wall
that was ****** red
which I built up
to protect myself
crumbled
in your clumsy presence
as you intruded
in the life
I had carefully constructed.

Sleep deprived,
driven by emotions
which I knew
clouded my rational mind,
I still longed for you;

And the thought
of the loss
of something
that never was
caused
black waves
of anxiety.

Until, today
when I found me.
I am not hurting
or heartbroken,
but working
on knowing
that some attachments
are better than others.

The night is lonely
stinging me
with all of its
silent beauty.

Seems like
the stars are
predators
stalking me
in this city,
this savanna of
stone and concrete.

I look at
all these
little beasts,
scrambling mammals
who are stressing,
dressing
anxiously,
trying to impress
all those
other oppressed
consumers.

I look at
the glimmering pond
then on
to the whining blond
who is carrying on
like a spoiled diva
ruining my once pleasant
silent evening.

I listen to
the rustle of
shuffling leaves
on those
old oak trees.
I stand quietly
in deep shadows
and listen to
the sounds
that you forgot.

Night birds chirping,
skittering squirrels,
dogs barking,
almost drowned out
by the loud cars honking
parking right up on the curb.

Then it hit,
silver point
bombastic
metal
piercing
my back
till I faded to black.

I wonder why people measure success by the level of their wealth, their beauty, or other things that indicate class or status instead of the good they do for others. When I am close to death I hope I am able measure my success by the times I made people laugh, or smile when they were sad, helped them to think when they were confused, and was able to learn from them becuase I knew that they had vauable insights share.

In the movement of space and time
We are less than footnotes in a sentence
In a paragraph
On a page
In a book
Of a never ending story
To be read or not
It does not matter
Time takes all

An explosion
Rage at the system
Red
Violent
Rage at injustice
Blood
Anger
Rage forced inwards
Backlashes
Brawls
Or Self-harm
And the rage
Rages on

I tell my internet friend
That she is safe
As much as I want to
I will never get to
Meet you
There will be no café date
No train station meeting
The miles between us
Are more than I can overcome
So she will never have to see me
Or believe that she will be deceived
For some ulterior motive
I am not out for lust
I am not out to touch **** or ****
And even if I fall in love
It will never be so she is free to be
As honest as she needs to be
Because she is my favorite
Long distance internet friend

I wanted to raise the coffin lid
But I never got to see how the city
Treats the ones life defeats
How the skin rots when it’s not
Maintained by being embalmed
But the coffin was locked
And the hour was late
The crowd was gathering
And the service couldn’t wait

They did not come with super suits
tight black leather, flame retardant,
massively muscled or otherwise.

They did not bring sacramental salvation
speaking in tongues while healing the sick
at the feet of saints and seraphim.

Instead, they came as strangers
speaking words of wisdom and compassion.
They came as counselors, and teachers
with kind hearts and good intentions.
They came to help and we are all
better for their goodness.

Life is the art of disarray
Knowing that systems decay
And entropy reigns
That much can be gained
But more will be lost
Even as we live
Death chips away
Taking some now
While savoring others
For another day

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

Lover of darkness
Queen of the cool breezes
The seas of light expires
And set me free
Winds washing
Like clichés
Over me
Ideas sprouting
In the subconscious
Under the stars
Where sleep comes
Somewhat naturally
Naturally I rebel
And keep to myself
Freest of all
King of the shadows

It runs so deep
The rage at sheep
When you let them
Switch the script
You got flipped
And fleeced
Had your morality
Phased shifted
While you were asleep
Subliminally
Subjected to group think
And you blame me
Go ahead
Point your guns
Direct your rage at me
It always seems to be
That the messengers
Gets you the truth
And then gets a bullet
From you

1.Today I am  not celebrating the greatness of one nation but the wonder of humanity as a whole, and the hope that the illusion of borders, nations, races, religions, genders, and all other distinctions used to classify and separate will dissolve in order to form a more perfect union

2.You do yourself a disservice when you forget that we are not separate and in competition, but part of a collective that spans more than hundred thousand years in the past and hopefully a hundred thousand more in the future. Lifting up the weak strengthens the whole, educating the young enhances the potential future. Kindness and wisdom our the gift of the human.

3.Sometimes I forget the heart of me; that little boy who dreamed of love and fairness. Sometimes the road darkens, the heart is broken, but eventually I come back to the core of me. I am a child of light and love. So come dance the dance of humanity with me, grow and live to see the beauty in truth and our potential. We can be better.

to all with love

Your humble human scribe

Joshua Amos Graff

Could it be
sweet dreams of thee
that break me
from the shell
and take me
from the hell
of ignorance.

As merry sprites
split in two
and come together
again in view
like night lights
or those flickering few
glow bug butts that
fly crookedly in the air.

Could it be soft stirrings
that bequeath
a wreath of
rapturous love.

As Puck surveys
a sunny to
rainy blue
beautiful day,
preparing
for the sharing
of tricks
he plans to play.

As cold skin
starts heating
with lust’s
full intent
and the furies
are tame
compared to
the passion
I bring you.

Oh Ariel
what a tempest,
in a midsummer’s dream.

As golden strands
of fantastic plans
unfurl,
I see the girl
who could be
my whole world
but she is
as imaginary
as all of Shakespeare’s’
strange characters.

Your body of work
Is quite impressive
The taste of lips
Those summer kisses
The curvaceous hips
Deep inner thighs
Soft sighs of delight
Seductive moans
Are delicious
Your hazel gaze
And flowing red locks
Soft bulging *******
And knee high socks
Your soft pink slit
In which my desire fits
You are desirable
And I desire this
Your shoulders defined
Your musculature
Your tight frame
But most of all
Your mighty brain
The fount from which
Your creativity flows
The universe
Were worlds of words
Come and go
In my mind
Yours is the hand
I would love to hold
But I only get to see you
In the poetry and pics you post

He cannot take the violence
Cringing with every drop of life
Flinching with every human touch
Even tv violence is to much
Stomach knots up
And the shell hardens
As his head sinks in
And this hell envelopes him
Tv shootings wife beatings
Soldier bombing
Bullets flying
Every shadow is suspicion
Every stranger in his vision
A possible perpetrator
Another traitor
With loud noises
And sudden movements
Eyes avert
Shoulders slump
He stays away
Because the violence of life
Is just to much

In the before, before we ever were
We were the primordial
Till our ascendant transitions
Overtook our **** poor positions
On the rearranging food chain

When we changed to five fingered beings
With high octane ape brains
Transcending our vocal limitations
With new sonic imitations

A long lineage lining up
For one improvement then the next
Rising with each step on the DNA stairway
Loosing and gaining, gaining and loosing
Till, organs become vestigial
And even we cannot suss out
Their original purpose

We barely know the steps
To this historic dance
Just taking each adaption
As a matter of chance

Till tired tangents separate
Grow and aggregate

A billion years finds us here
Stewing in fear of
Our own irrelevance
Not knowing that by growing
Such creative brilliance
We have discovered
Our own non-magical miracle

Twigs sprouting leaves
Protein powered trees
Our heritage ascending to the state of
Such a prodigious poetic primate

I bring you flourishes of superb poetic sentiment
Superfluously inspired by my desires
To touch, to see, to hear, to be near,
To succor on the sweetness of your lips,

To worship your poetic passions,
In each verbal nuance, and embellishment
But not from such a terrible distance

To let whatever fury you possess
Consume me like a wave after it crests
Washing away the very core of my distrustful heart

It has been years since I saw the shores of love
Like a long lost utopia, Avalon still waits in the mists
Storms shadowing each precipice
You are dangerous but the perfect fuel
If you crush me I believe that I will bleed beautiful poetry
Still being better for loving you from such a distance

It is the last day
to feel this
particular wind
on my face,
to absorb these
particular sun rays.

The boxes are packed
uniformly matched
except for
the black markings
that indicate
which room
the things inside
came from.

I slide my hand
across the
kitchen counter top
and find no dust
or dirt to speak of.

The carpet
feels thick and stiff.
I rub my bare feet
across the floor
one more time.
Then slip
my shoes
back on again.

It’s time to move on,
you’d think
it would get easier
with this
roaming disposition
that holds me
in its grip.

I’ve moved so much
but I still miss,
all that history
I associate
with each old place
that I once lived in.

I pick up
the last box
as little ghosts
of memory
follow me
melancholily
out of the door.