If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.

What minor mischief makes me wait
a sweet fair hearted poetess,
a musical queen seen
on shores so far from me?
I will wait patiently
bare my curiosity graciously,
but my mind hastens to see
how you will respond.
Oh, how I long and hope
that your note comes very shortly.

Knowing that between each twinkle
in a poet's eyes lies an infinite space
of beauty, depth,
and an eternity's worth of wisdom.
The subconscious stays hidden
but for such sweet poetic purges,
reverses black holes
spewing pulses of light
that envelope us all.
Till, instead of the stars
I collapse
in a sated state
of cosmic bliss.

It is the dark that makes us appreciate the light, cold that makes us appreciate warmth, moistness that makes us appreciate dryness, and sadness which makes us appreciate happiness. That is one of the many reason I love stories that do not have a happy ending.

Listen to America? by graff1980 #np on #SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/graff1980/america

This is not some poem. This is pure truth. Right now I am crying , because no matter how hard I speak and write love my country keeps arming up for war, and attacking the army for its vile acts of barbarity is apparently like attacking a religion because people worship the military and soldiers.
How many ******* times do I have to cry love while other cry war till people listen. I am so emotionally exhausted but my pain is irrelevant compared to the victims of America's policies which are almost always enacted in the interest of the wealthy.

He only eats brand names
She only likes Loui Viton
Got to have a nice car
So they can drive on
To a fifty hour work week
Plus more overtime
Over worked to chase
The vaguely defined
Pricey good life
Fancy restaurants
Great vacations
But in between
Pleasures visitations
Pressure builds
Tensions tops out
Hours go grey
Before old age
Days turn to dust
Natures turns to rust
All in the pursuing
And eschewing
What they thought
They must
What they assumed was just
Cause markets never lie
And the only way to win
In this heavy human race
Is to have all the best stuff
Before you die

I do myself great harm
seeing the long arm
of the War Department
and all the innocents bombed,

while preachers and Mary Kay moms
go about their days.
I shift the rubble and clutter
that covers the internet.
I look for things,
I won't forget.

Forcing myself to see things
that make decent human beings
weep with grief and indignation
children lined up, bodies in bags
small faces wearing the veil of death.

I take myself to the brink of tears
and cross sorrow’s sick threshold
to learn and share my despair;
Hoping that like-minded hearts
will stop
what violent people have started.

I wish to speak with the elegance of a poet, the wisdom of a philosopher, and the intelligence of a scientist.

The pharmacist is not your friend
He may put you up in a high hotel
With slip streams of ****** pills
Paxil and Wellbutrin
Designed to defeat depression
To facilitate a fog like
Fugues of perfected moods
With drugs made to create
The perfect drone state
So you can pay your bills
So you can **** and sleep well
So you can keep your health
But it is poison
Kidney killing swill
And while you are under the influence
Perfectly sedated so you forget how to feel
One hand is in your pocket
Thinning your wallet draining dollar bills
While the other hand holds your heart
Crushing what is left of your already weakened will

There are no rings
of will’s green projection,
no sorcerer’s spells
of protection,
no magic hammer,
or mighty mutants,
no green monsters
or Inhumans.

There are no Amazonian warriors
there are no masked
caped crusaders,
no day walking vampires,
or any other special men in tights.

There are no gods
coming to save us,
no flying aliens
here today cause
all of our dreams
of grand heroics
are just fantasies
with nothing to show
for it.

There is no guarantee
that good will succeed,
no grand decree
from a higher being
that demands man’s
obedience
to a specific moral standard.

There is no soul mate,
no reason to think
we are all that great.
So, there is no reason to wait
cause there is only now.

I close my eyes
massage my eyelids
see impossible impressions
of the pressure
become spherical
abstractions
distorted shapes
rippling in the void
of sightlessness.

You better watch out
for wanna be tyrants
and opportunists
if you want to
protect the illusion
of democracy.

Love is a lie I tell myself
A little joke to poke
A hole to hopefulness
Mostly it’s like an illness

To feel the sickness
Of desire that turns into
Bouts of melancholic
Moody human mildew

The truth is this kiss
Is a token of destruction
Her tokens of affection
Our eternal damnation
That open me up
To more painful stuff

So many artists struggle to find their style.
Then fully become said style.
As writers work to find their voice
and fully become that voice,
but I have no voice or style
I am multitudinous,
multi-dimensional.
There is an infinite variety
of possible and impossible realities
which exist inside of me.
So I express such diversity
with almost the same variety
of verbal and visual tools provided for me;
Not confined to how you define I should write
but free to discover everything.

It is a perfect
fall day
for following
whatever whim
directs me
to ride
against or with
the wind.

I daydream
that I am being
chased by
villainous
creeps.

My bike crosses
the worn wooden bridge
with the thud of
loose boards
persistently
following me.
I imagine
they are my enemies.

Brown leaves
clutter
the dirt path
crunching
and crumbling
under
the black tires.

On the sidewalk
I speed up
preparing for
the air
I will walk
as I leap off
the top
of the three steps
to finally escape
my enemies.

I love
this ten speed
purple huffy
that carries me
wherever
I choose to be.

I hope that when you feel love for yourselves and others that it becomes a driving force, that inspires acts of daily kindness, and courteousness. I want love to be contagious, so that when you smile at someone, or help them out they can't help but smile back and pass it on.
-2010

One poem a day
is what I try to attain.
I don’t even require
that all of them
are great,
but today
I need three poems
get me to
the weekly objective
I set for myself.

So, I am searching through
that pulpy goo
and purple ****
to find the rind
that sits and fits
in my imperfectness,
because I fell behind.

Now, I only need two.

I thought you wrote of the heart you broke.
The poems spoke of sorrows familiar,
but not your own.

The verses were benign.
No identity to find,
just plaid sentiments
parsed out pieces
of other people poetry.

Pop sensations,
predictable platitudes,
empty verses
with no sign of your heart,
so many syllables to hide behind,
but what I couldn’t find.

It was you, I was looking for
in those words.

This could be a great place to rent
but I don’t want to live here.

So, I let the train roll heavy
breaking every bond
in my once well rooted
but now withering body.

These words don’t mean ****
when there is no one listening
cause I am just an over entitled
society fighter who think he is enlightened,
but in reality, I am just a coward
running as fast as I can.

It has been an hour in-between spent
just waiting for my metal chariot.
My cup jingles with ice water
because I can’t afford
the hard liquor
that other strangers adore.

Earbuds distract.
Loud music
plays strange extended chords.
The electric vibrations
swirl around
then wave in and out
as the tempo of the drum
beats in the background.
So loud and strange,
it flows faster
then the rain
that hits the rusted track.

I change trains
cause I would rather
hit the rails
then stay tamed
like a well trained
house cat.
Who never leaves his home.

A smile hides the month of November
Beautiful eyes of autumnal colors
Words that slip from a honey tasting tongue
Poetical genius
Salted words that split the world between us
The universe a cracked atom, nuclear
In desire I pleaded with broken eyes
To be connected instead of in love together alone
Leaving slightly fulfilled, soul spilled
In awe, devastated
Desiring more than desire

The words are my gift.
Like water skins
of wine
I drink them in,
drunken
with their delight.
Intoxicated,
I stumble.
Inebriated
until I am woozy
with their wonder.

They lift me up
on wax wings
whipping me wildly
around the world
in a whirlwind.
A tornado
of fury
felt,
a furnace
unleashed
in literature
and speech.

Oh, how I love them.
Though they
dally
with other lovers,
who are more gifted
then me,
I do not cheat.

I sing
in poetry,
and like a drunkard
fall with broken wings
swept away
in the melancholia
of knowing
no one will ever love me
like I love this language
you read.

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

Perhaps, I was a peasant in love,
a partly pleasant player
in the prose and poetry
that I present to thee
my cherished queen
of love laden dreams.

Perhaps, I was
the curious cockroach
crawling across
the curators
favorite canvass,
the portrait of our
beloved queen,
to be crushed
carelessly by
the callous king,
becoming a small stain
on the otherwise
unblemished
painting.

Perhaps,
before we past
parting ways,
pondering
old playdates
when we played,
I was your partner
in strange adventures
before my feelings
became too complicated,
before I became
the crestfallen fool,
the King’s favorite jester
who made you laugh
while I tore myself in half
for the sake of your wellbeing.

Now my twin wanders somewhere
out there
unburdened by the broken heart
and if you see him
send him back
so, I can be him
once again.

I'm starting to think that in a world were people can be convinced to do things that are not in their interest the guy trying to look out for them is going to suffer more then they are.

The walls are a litter
of chaos layered upon
the anarchy of
spray painted letters;

Various styles of
dripping calligraphy,
silver lines spilling
their energy down
this hard word laden wall.

A lovely looping Y
is engraved in flesh tones
while the rest of the word
remains unknown
permanently obscured
by the intent of
newer artists.

I am awestruck
to the point of
an autistic response,
paralyzed by the
thick presence
of chipping paint
that flakes off
to take us back
to a blank canvass past.

Till, a swirling view
twirling through
enchants me to move.

My hands tremble,
reaching for the small breach,
longing to be swallowed,
absorbed, and added
to this discordant beauty.

Dr. Cornell West.
is not a retreater,
but a bright spirit freer,
a spectacular speaker.
His vernacular is sweeter
than any lazy deceiver.

I sit in the dark
and puncture my heart
play poet to start
balancing all of those
uneven evening stars.
Till all of our scars blink at
the same twinkling beat that
blows me away like
an old-school gangster’s gat.

Now, I bleed
and I can’t get that red shirt back
this isn’t Star trek
but I use to figure that
we would be better than that.
Instead, we are worse.

So I curse this curious soul,
drop off to sleep and lose control.
I let my sub conscious go,
shrink my hope and let sorrow grow,
write it down so you will know
that we are not getting better.
We’re getting way worse.

Time makes grotesqueries of us all.
Tiny sacs of water,
flesh that holds itself together
withering with each year.
Skin bunching, and freckling,
time takes each smile
exchanging grins for winces.
Tumors bulge,
while the memory
of each loved one lost
recedes into an amorphous fog.
Hair bleaches itself,
slowly greying then whitening
as it thins.
Mobility becomes restricted
by pain, and exhaustion.
Labored breaths resist
Death’s inevitable kiss of black bliss.
Until, even loved ones cringe,
trying to touch,
but shivering too much
with a tinge of
fear and a slight vibration of disgust.
A single loved one down,
we know the score
and as we watch several more fall,
most of us
march on oblivious
to the fact
that these grotesqueries
will soon be us.

With the power of shared meaning words can divide, destroy, disseminate falsehoods and conceal ill intent. However when used to their truest potential they can elevate with education and shared understanding, by clearing out the closet of confusion. They empower us to see where we have been, where we are going, and where we can go if we choose to alter our course. Those who control the language control the course of history. Those who censor language weaken the collective.

This year has been the last,
failing falling fierce battle axe
hovering above my neck.
Panic keeping me in check
as anxiety for the end of society
builds up like a wall of water
which rushes in
ready to crush me and my friends
and drown us all in the end.

The clock in the waiting room
hasn't been changed to
reflect daylight saving time
just like the one in
the coffee break space.
The black liquid tastes
like a remedy to my lack of sleep
but since each clock is off
I am constantly caught
thinking my weekend
is an hour closer than it really is.

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.

Life is flagrant debasement
Inspirer of self-effacement  
So I flagellate myself
Skin raw and exposed
Like my heart and artistic soul
Ready for just a little more
And a little more
And just a little more

We write our regrets in stone
Monuments meant to recognize
Those who will no longer
Be in our lives
Tears of heartache mark
These harsh days
The cruelest and only real fate

It is blindness by consent
Not knowing where we were going
Not caring where we went
Just tearing up the world
As we play follow the leaders

The time is eleven oh eight
The clock counts
The end of shift
To tick tocking far away
Nervous tongue
That splits the tip
Restrained to the point of pain
Fear that some vain *******
Who feigns righteous outrage
Will take away
That which enslaves
With meager wages
And the fool
Will not have the tools
To maintain this vain
Footrace
Slipping off
That track that
He hates
But believes
Is the only real way
To exist

How many times can you clench your fists
Claim defense while proactively seeking conflict
Looking to others as the culprit when you did it
How many times can you wage war
Taking more and more before
The blood soaked shores
Come back to haunt your greedy heart
Are you a tin can machine man
With little or no heart to feel for
Your victims in this strange war
Or are you human with eyes to see
That the soft warm flesh you cleave
Is not an illusion or video projection
But a genetic copy with only minor variations
That your enemy is not a nation
That fills its ranks with fanatic monsters
But a funhouse mirrors that reflects
The same passions and drives that move you
To do what you do
One look through this cold Chrystal clear blue lake
And you will be forced to take their pain as your own
Look just one time with an open mind and it will be known
That there is no enemy
Only unclaimed family

To love is to live
risking darkness,
searching for light
in the face of madness.

Perhaps we should take comfort in our insignificance. The universe is indifferent. It neither needs or care for our existence. All the reason we need to care about one another is that our existence is so transient. It is most likely we will not revisit this or any other life, so why not treasure those by our side, and be kind to strangers for that reason alone.

Most times,
kindness is my instinct,
a reflex that I direct
when it is not
to inconvenient,

cause it feels good
to be nice
and cost little effort
in my little life.

You are not blazing a new trail.
You just failed to notice
that you had doubled back
on old trampled grass
that others had treaded
before you ever headed
in that revolutionary direction.

I’ve got anger for days
and you call it my rage.

I was seething before,
writhing on the floor
by the kitchen door
that led to nowhere.

Which is why I
never ever got there.
I just got more ******
felt like I was
being dismissed
because no one appreciated
my humble genius.

So, I put ambition on layaway
paid on it a little every day
financing life with a little hate
that drove me towards
working out late
and writing even later;

Popping ephedrine
to make it through work,
crashing all day
then waking up
with such a deep thirst
that my whole body hurt
that much worse.

Honestly,
the art wasn’t as good
as I thought it was.
I mean it was still better
then this modern pop ****,
but I hadn’t, still haven’t
mastered it.

I’ve calmed a bit,
but the anger is still in there
waiting to push me farther
then I went the last time.

I attach myself to achievements of another
Me in the string of consciousness
But I am a shadow of him
As he was an echo of older versions
Reborn in the morn of refreshed brain chemical
A regeneration and transformation
Working with the passions of past moments
Playing with old phrasing, claiming ownership
But for each verse edited, each syllable reworked
The me of now revisits and demolishes
The me of old, as I have done so many times
Today I am myself, yesterday I was someone else
And tomorrow I will be changed again

I am not some black sheep to be shepherded by some make beleive creep.

We are increments,
tiny moments,
moving from
one instance
to the next one,
and then on,
and on again
until we fall
and feel
our bodies end.

She wears soft shades
of feathery white
and purple;

A sensual
fantasy
casting a
casual glance
back my way.
An artist’s dream
of strange beauty,

no hair
just more
plumage,

her ornate
tattoos
cause me
to further loose
myself.

An exotic
extra-terrestrial,
a being of
supreme
power
to influence me,

too bad
she does not exist
in reality.

Maybe, she will
visit me
in my dreams.

She scratched
the brass latch.
So, I can’t open it
and get back
to my past
without a
a tnt memory
blast.

Weird yellow lines mark
the grey sparkling floor.
Lighter grey garage doors
roll open to export more
manufactured goods.

Plastic particulates
plaster the yellow painted
blocking fences that
keeps fumbling fools
from stumbling through.

Yellow metal monstrosities
powered by small black batteries
chase their own blue lights
seeming super sentient
with an electric consciousness.
They beep hard backing up
and plowing forward
with packed boxes of
clear plastic cups
coming from the factory floor.

Smokers come and go
in and out of
the glass double door
in a blur of blue hats
lunch lady hairnets
earplugs and safety glasses
ending the day
exhausted and underpaid.

I expel
thin wisps
of cold wind,
smoking breath
that looks like
cigarette vapors.

**** its cold.

I nearly slip
on the black ice
in the parking lot
late at night
cause I can’t
make it out.

**** its cold.

Fingers frosted
till they start to
turn from flesh tones
to a red pinkish hue,
then almost to
a light blue.

**** its cold.

Ears hurt,
and so, does
my chest
when I cough.
I try to sleep it off,
but the sidewalk
is bitterly unforgiving.

**** its cold.

No one ever
looks me in the eyes.
They just walk on by;
Too busy pretending
not to see
my pain
and humanity.
They don’t
drops single thought
or dollar for me.
  
**** its cold.

No one notices
the frozen form
of frostbit terror
and tragedy,
as empty eyes
stare out at
a world
that is colder
than the arctic circle.

We walk right down to the minute,
right up to the second.
We fall down in an instant
when the heartbeat is missing.
Black smoke become shapes
of whatever painful memory takes
our final beat and breath away.