We still have the summer
that we spent together
before you went to college
the nights we spent
drunk on the beach
you with your guitar
me with my smile
as the surf licked our feet
the times we spent
hip to hip
looking at the stars
on that patch of private grass
down the street from your house
all the times spent
wagging our chins
about whatever came to mind
we will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when the leaves outside my window
turn crisp brown, apple red, and gold
when the school bell rings
like the doorbells
opened upon
kids trying to make five bucks
When summer's lingering heat
beings to chill
and we are once again visited
by the ghosts of our breath
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when winter comes along
and maybe if we're lucky
it'll be a white Christmas
but this is Richmond
so probably not
but I hope we do
the city looks so pretty
all lit up on a snowy night
We will always have the summer

We still have the summer
when our birthday month rolls around
a couple of April fools
laughing our ***** off
When new life springs out
from all around
and the spring showers
turns the early morning grass
into a field of stars
or a Caribbean sea
meeting a setting sun
and the birds sing their pretty little hearts out
just like you
We will always have the summer

And when summer comes round again
maybe I will see you
not a care in the world
a world's worth of meaning
maybe we will go back to that beach
the sun and salt
turning our skin to leather
until we look like a couple
of Florida retirees
happy and wrinkled
Maybe
we can gaze up at the stars
or your ceiling fan
It really doesn't matter
Maybe these things will happen
maybe not
I find comfort
in knowing
that I will always have that summer

You stand before me
the opposite of a reflection
you are heads
and I am tails
as beautiful
as I am ugly
as sacredly spoken
as I am blasphemous
the angel
to all of my demons
as electric
as I am static
the spark of passion
locked within my apathy
The only thing I've loved more
than I neglect myself

In Los Angeles It is illegal
for dogs to mate within 500 feet of a church
and if that doesn't make you
want to host a dog ****
in the middle of an LA church
right next to the holy water
then I don't think we can be friends

I read some writing advice once
It said "Writing isn't a competition"
well I'm sorry to tell you buddy
but you can go right to hell
because If you're words are published
yeah I'd congratulate you
and then I'd be write at my typewriter
notebook or laptop
sharp scrawling and tic tacs
because I love the bottom rungs
of unpublished writers
throwing their entirety against a brick wall
over and over again until it starts to crack
and fall apart brick by brick
until we see that beautiful view behind it
and everybody who makes it
is just another grain of sand in the hour glass
making me nervous and restless
impatient
so everybody who makes it
is about ten new poems
and I'm not rue if I will make it
but I'm going to try
it's all I've got

I sometimes feel bad for writing happy poems
or silly poems
or love poems
It seems as if people only want a pained poet
like a sad clown
they want tears to make themselves feel better
the selfish little....
but I grew out of my metal head phase
a couple of years ago
and I'm sorry to say
but sometime this life is just
positively ******* awesome
okay okay I get it
a lot of the time it isn't
but that's just as awesome
how many good books have you read
where everything went fine?
we're the stars of our own movies
sometimes we take issue with the script
or get ******* at the director
but ultimately
the performance is up to us
and at this very moment
I feel like Brad Pitt ******* it
so you may have to wait a while longer
for the return of the pained poet

Like Lynyrd Skynyrd
I'm as free as a bird
and lord help me
I don't want to change

what if the story
of how Jesus
turned all that
water into wine
was actually incorrect?
What if Jesus
could drink wine
like it was water?
what if Jesus was
a total tank?
a typical wino?
the wine would explain
all the talk about love
and it would explain
all of his miracles
talking to voices in the sky
walking on water
sure you did Jesus

What if Jesus only
flipped the gambling tables
in the church
after he was already way down?
What if Jesus was a sore loser?
It would explain the coming back
after he was already executed
What if Jesus was just like all of us?
It would explain
the what would Jesus do
wrist bands

they walk among us
they are always in
the same places
seeing the same people
mixing words
with barely anybody
they seem as if they
are robotic sentinels
just going through
task after task
to us
the masses
little do we know
that while his body is here
his mind isn't
it's in a strange dark place
the only lights
are neon confusions
which flicker in epileptic patterns
they hide their mind
from the real world
so that their precious
vessel of transport
doesn't become completely destroyed
it's the difference
between 2 or 3 forty ounces of malt liquor
it's the difference between
one and two packs a day
the difference between
*** head and coke head
they aren't really mindless
they're just mentally misplaced

Poet for hire
will write for
cigs ***** or ***
please tip in the form
of microwavable food
because at this moment in time
I have a negative number
in my bank account
no job
no school
no smokes
no beer
and no ***
I don't remember the last time I ate
and living like this
can drive you kinda crazy

Are you a man
I'll pen you an ode
to your handsome heroism
and ****** conquests
woman?
I'll write you pretty little love poems
all **** day
which tell you just how
beautiful you are
and smart
and meaningful
and unique
whatever
Lesbian woman?
I can write about
patriarchal tyranny
(after all - I'm a white man)
and living somewhere
where you don't feel like a citizen
(because I'm not a citizen)
for ******* days

To contact me
you can find me
slowly losing my mind
in front of a typewriter
in my apartment
but until then
words words words
and a few more

Cascades of brunette beauty
A night of lost potential
Dancing in the still darkness
Lost in a flash of ivory
Deep in a pool of brown eyes
It could have been so pretty

Fluid enters and we move like machines
Graceful machinations of the weary
A collective howl into the empty
Wandering through fog no star to follow
No wise men just lost travelers
Bringing gifts to the unfaithful masses

The night goes on and the sun starts to rise
We come out with tides of golden beach
Crimson skies drip red with ****** tears
Painful thoughts rush away beneath waves
Razor blades melt and become smooth satin
Next, repeat
It could have been so pretty

I don't think I'll make it
until I know how to not fake it
until I learn how to break it
until I let them take it
the it factor
Harry J Baxter
because unless I can give me
then I'm just like that tree
that fell in the forest
through the safety net
with nobody around
to hear it yet
A sick dog without a vet
without a vestment of hope
will they like this? nope
is this really you?
your where why and who?
because people have
great ******* detectors
and unless you're the director
nobody is buying tickets
no more white pickets
see that bucket? kick it
like  a mangy mutt
kick it right in the ****
these rhymes are simple
I never had much skill
never got such a thrill
from fitting into a style
maybe in a little while
but I don't want to hear it
I just don't give a ****
if these long lines of words
leave your eyes feeling hurt
and your poetic sensibilities inert
It never stops
and I might take a shot
at making this poem
be needlessly long
an ugly song
sung by an ugly swan
or is it a duckling?
who knows? who cares?
It just leaves me scared
to think that I'm not
who I am
when I write

This might hurt
these words that blurt
out like a volcano
with debris to throw
raining down
onto the town
taking no prisoners
like an unholy visitor
why am I angry?
because sometimes
it feels **** good
because sometimes
what under my hood
likes to heat up
when I feel beat up
not physical
not mental
just a broken principal
and the hounds are set loose
I don't control these words
they control me
which accounts for
sketchy rhyming patterns
which I don't believe matters
leaving form in blood tatters
these words attack us
and sometimes
I want them to hurt
to scathing and scalding
because it lets me know
that I still care

There's an old road
where I spent much
of my childhood
back in England
that I miss
more than anything else

I tell all of my friends
"Yeah Virginia is ******* beautiful,
but you haven't seen real green grass
until you've been to that
small farming village"
yeah I'm from the sticks
it wasn't strange to come home
to stray sheep
which had escaped
from Farmer Neville

But where was I?
the road
that absolute beauty
on one side
proud oak trees
some of which are older than
the entire United States
covered in a sickly yellow moss
chlorophyll green shafts of summer
when we walked around
in shorts and t-shirts
the other side
is a field of grain
which was set ablaze
once a day
when the sun came down
to plant a kiss on the horizon
and we spent countless hours
playing on that tire swing

Now that road is closed off
overgrown
after we left
on our transatlantic journey
nobody was there to take care
no more children
whose laughter
echoed off of those
proud oak trees
and I do miss that road
I don't regret leaving it
life wasn't meant
to be spent
longing for old roads

God must have left us
or maybe died
if we are made in his image
does he get Alzheimers
his mind slowly muddling up
so he may have forgot about
his seven billion children
then again maybe we drove him away
or to suicide
because we have been naughty
boys and girls
who don't like sharing their toys
and when others
talk about their perception
of divine beauty
we throw rocks at them
for their endless fibs
because we can't be wrong
and we can't all be right
we devour and suffocate
our children
with our social expectations
and all we really give a **** about
is self betterment
not of the inside
but the external visage of our personage
weight rooms clang with
masturbatory grunts
and a piece of fabric
is more likely to go off the shelves
if it is branded with a corporate signature
or if it's what's in
****, if I was God
I would've left too

I like to believe
in partial reincarnation
that when people die
their essence is broken
into millions
of fragments
shards of spiritual glass
some with razor sharp edges
but these pieces
they need somewhere to go
so they find us
and we are made up of all
who came before us
always carrying pieces
so every new person
is more human
than the last
and maybe souls find like recipients
painters seeking out painters
and so forth
and I like to imagine
that a great writer
found my soul
but it seems far more likely
that it was the village idiots
who settled in my being

it takes me in its hand
I don't know what it is
or if it even has hands
but I know it exists
in some ethereal realm
pushing along a corkscrew hallway
which switches it's polarity
with every hard to draw breath
It has a plan for me
or an idea
and all of my other aspects
are thrown out of the window of a moving car
they are useless to this guiding force which has me
and the road ahead is hazy from the heat
and oasis watering holes fill this desert
with signs which read
"happy hour 24 hours a day"
and I've never been religious
so it's strange to have to
put all of my faith in something

It gets real hard to
keep track of the little imps
that run around inside my head
a healthy dose of ****
television and video games
keep them occupied for a while
but then their right back at it
a devilish whirling dervish
that keeps me up far longer than the sun
and when they get hungry
I crave a cigarette strangely enough
and I give them words
to keep them big and strong
but not too strong
I can't have them breaking out
and leaving me all alone
so i keep them hostage
praying for Stockholm syndrome
It wouldn't be real love
but it would be enough
because I would be so happy
if anybody read my work
but never satisfied
being an unknown poet
The imps in my head
are prideful creatures
that want to be known
in the legend books
as the biggest strongest imps around

there were always people staying with us
in that house
it was a real dump
too many transitory tourists
and drug induced lack of motivation
but there is Jake's girlfriend
frail and weak
like a *****
although she was mostly clean
she drank every now and then
but she was just sick
and she left
once Jake went to take the infinite sleep

And Martin never had trouble
bringing stray women back to the house
for days at a time
before he got bored
and went on to another
tossing the previous to the side
without a second thought
I stopped even trying to remember their names
those poor broken souls
like most girls who Martin coaxed into a world of loathing
frustrated self-destructive details
of a life headed no where

And Mia stayed for a while
a friend of mine
whose vices were klonopin, ***, and music
but she was far too smart
got out of there before the walls closed in
there was Sarah
just looking for truth
and love
but she never loved herself
and it was hard to love a pill head
who paraded her womanhood
to all of the drug dealers around town

There was Chris, smoking like a chimney
never sleeping
always running from his boyhood
we had to ask him to leave
when we found him
sailing the seas of golden brown

But these people
weren't built for this life
they are too easily destroyed by the ugliness
they haven't yet learned
how to shape them
into forms which are far more acceptable
so they flee in terror
from the glass house
their marks are marks of their impermanence

Sunglasses hide me from the hurtful rays
and like a bandit mask conceal my identity
pull the bill of the cap down
until I look like a sleepwalking hobo
and though I'm a regular recognizable face
at that corporate coffee castle
nobody knows my name
Because If I keep them at a distance
then I don't feel as bad
when I do horrible things to them
in my writings
I keep myself anonymous
so that they can show me
their true selves
because nobody expects to be observed
by a sleepwalking hobo

It's such a beautiful relationship
like birds cleaning crocodile teeth
feeding on what didn't make it to the stomach
these words rely on me
A vessel
and hopefully they don't
act like hermit *****
because without them
I would just be a ***
who drinks and smokes too much
But as long as I have the ability
to manipulate the world around me
in the chaotic rush
of my infinite mental expanses
and nooks and crannies
I can give them life
like a midwife
I bring them into the world
and name them poems
or stories
so that they might live forever
burned in the retinas of strangers
or etched on the wood of my desk
I hope we will always
need each other

whale ***** is in
every cigarette smoked
we inhale Jonah

My father
left my mother
waiting on a promise
but no more
pretty anniversary vacations
only divorce lawyers
and yelling
bitter compromises
drawing sobs from my mother
on the first Christmas Eve that you weren't here

I was eighteen when it happened
so It didn't hit me quite so hard
as my thirteen year old brother
but it did hit me
not a haymaker
but a series of sharp jabs
to the cerebellum
and it makes me mad
thinking back to all
the comparisons between us
and it makes me
absolutely ******* furious
that try as I might
I still love you
But don't call me son
because you divorced us
and I appreciate your monetary lifeboats
but I would make it without them
besides I think of it
as compensation for what you did to my head

Mother dearest's pain
flowing through open vessels
to the salt of lovers
and I've been falling in love ever since
every pretty faced girl
who ever looked as if she'd frowned
became angelic saviors
in my eyes
something to protect
and love forever
But I can't love every
cute girl I see
forever
I know that
and I love them too much to hurt them
to be honest I think you
stole the hope of me
ever understanding what real love is
I just want to save every girl
whose cheeks are scarred with forgotten tears
but I can't
so I revert to a one night stand
fueled by futility and whiskey and ****** beer
never allowing myself to give
that old poison that we like to call Love
I carry a cross
made of sins of the father

this life
has taken me places
sweet
and bitter
beautiful
and ugly
and best of all
beautifully ugly
I never expected to be where I am
and sometimes it can be a real
*****.
But that being said
I write poems every day
and ******* is that cool
and maybe they aren't good
but I couldn't care less
because they are mine
and I think I'd like to see
just where they take me
yeah it hasn't always been smooth
and I know I still have
a lot of rough patches
further on down the road
but it is surely going to be
one hell of a ride

My Uncle Dec
was really a ***** old man
and I loved him for it
Overweight, but you'd better believe
he ate whatever the hell he wanted
bad liver bad kidneys
but he really loved drinking
almost as much as he loved the horse racing
putting pennies on the ponies
and it didn't matter if he won
he just liked going to the ******'s
a lover of beautiful women
but a loving faithful husband
He died in the shower
and I was sad at first
but I realized he loved his life

I like to listen to people complain
about the things which
for some reason they take seriously
I like to make snide sarcastic remarks
which makes their problems seem
futile
just ******* and moaning
I find it amusing
I'm an ******* though.

ask me what happened to make the world this way
I will say everything happened
we were put here to destroy and destroy
to obliterate all that came before us
because **** those people
We are here now
and they never will be again
so burn the museums
and tear down the landmarks
salt the earth black
and then we can build an ode
to the false idol
of the post-modern fragmentary image *******
and our cult will go on living in caves
in ***** rags
terrified of the thunder
and the night

looming steel words of blunt violence
strikes at spinal chords
like a hammer strikes the sword
and with all of your vertebrata ground to dust
and every disc slipped
and you no longer feel the electric smoke signals of your nerves
is how you know the words were powerful
beautiful
disgusting
purposeful.
a good poem should hit like a snake bite

logos,
cattle brands,
what's the difference?
the difference is we pay for logos.

I need to start driving with a tape recorder
with the words of artists bathing me in contemplation
some living, some unfortunately fortunate to be gone
like some twisted Robbin  Hood of poetry
I eat their words, letting them fill me up,
and then photographic flashes of images
come tumbling out of me
Is there such a thing as freestyle poetry battles?
because for every poem I write
I lose twenty or so to the dead smoke filled air
my mouth forming shapes and vocal vibrations
create a stream of sacred sacrilegious words
and I speak them out to the God of all scribblers
like a possessed religious experience
touching the pure face of the divine
I only mourn my lost poems

reach out to a rubber band snap
the strain on the brain, the unfortunate sap
who weaves his way through the shades of gray
lost without his map
and you were so far away
like no way near arms reach
and his scribble soul starts to spray
poetic driftwood washed up on the beach
but he carries on chasing
like you're his white rabbit
brain racing heart pacing
his favorite bad habit,
because he's a total addict
and whenever you're away
he sweats and he shakes
and drinks away the day
and through the night
waking up's always too bright
and it ain't right
no matter how much he fights
he won't win this bout
until he learns how to reach out

no matter how liberal we think we are
how open minded and free spirited
we can only tolerate change to a certain point
because change is the calm before the unknown
or rather the chaos before the storm
you get the picture, anyway,
and we become so attached to our lives
and our friends
and our families
But people are not statues
they change like the landscape around us
they drift away
lose faith
or find a well of strength
that wasn't there before
They change like our lives
and it will always be inevitable
and yeah maybe change can bring ****** times
simply tests that we have to take
but maybe it will bring adventure
friendships
wisdom
knowledge
purpose
or love
and either way,
we have to take it as it comes
and be willing to let go
of whats already gone

In high school
my friends would ask me
"how do you not care about anything?"
and I would try to say something
a grand piece of witticism like
"100 years from now
nobody will know that I existed
let alone how I did on a ******* spanish quiz"
yeah look at me
Mr. Edgy
care free
careless rebel
but nobody knew
that my greatest anxiety
is that there will be nothing
left of me
after I die

we are young
and we maybe don't
fully know what
we are doing
or what we even are
But none of that matters
because If I know one thing
It's that I have always enjoyed
the time spent together
even if we went 2 hours without talking
I would never give those 2 hours back
I just want to say that I like you
and you don't have to like me back
Lord knows it's hard
but even if you hate me
or if I just didn't mean anything
I will be fine knowing
that I will always have
That one shared moment

The girl who played guitar
had me in the palm of her hand
from the moment she started playing
my hands began drumming
a rhythm on my thighs
which I didn't know
I was capable of

And when she opened her mouth
The songs which came pouring out
contained paradise
within each note
each syllable
and she sings with her eyes closed
just alone with the music
no longer human
but a vessel for beauty
I think that's what heaven is.

I saw her today
busking in the streets
and I couldn't help but grin
and go over
standing in front of her
throwing my everything
into her guitar case
I listened to every single
god ****** song
and before I knew it
Hours had passed
she stood up
put the old acoustic
back in its case
and left me
standing there
stunned

Sometimes I'm afraid of sounding pretentious
But don't get me wrong
I like *** and drinking and drugs
and a whole bunch of other dumb crap
and I will always find
farts to be funny
So there
I'm not pretentious
just a little kid
trapped in a pretentious body

Oh Mr. Orwell
why did you have to write
that book
you know, the 1984 one,
the depressing one,
because you exposed them
and they knew you had
so Big Brother was taken
back to the drawing board
and they started from scratch
It was the best trick in the world
Instead of watching us
we watch him
instead of thought police
they just steal our thoughts
there is still a box in every home
and it shows episodes
of two and a half men
or the sucker free countdown
and jersey shore
I mean Jesus
they even managed
to trivialize reality
Oh Mr. Orwell
couldn't you have just
lived long enough
to topple this tower block
of spiritual silence

Hot ****
would you just
look at her
She walks with a strut
which seems to say
"Just ******* try me"
and she looks like she's
seen her fair share
of chaotic emotional explosions
and ugly violent church choirs
and there's something about her eyes
maybe an electric charge
but I can't look away
and I'm afraid to look into them
No make up
because why the hell would she wear any?
Not objectively perfect
but a perfect object to this subject
Strong females
just draw me in
because they got strong
after they were broken
beaten bruised and ******
only to get back up
and spit in life's face
overtly toxic venom
the way her hips sway with each step
her shoulders behind her
chin raised
I'd like to ask for her name
maybe her digits
but she'd tell me her name is
Unclaimed
and she has never owned a cell phone
but maybe tomorrow
I'll see her again
walking past me on Broad
or across from me on Grace
swaggering her way
into my heart
so she can stomp on it
with her stiletto heels
that would be pretty nice

When I was a young(er) kid
I was asked to play a lead role
in the high school play
The only kid my age
and dreams of fame
and Hollywood
crept tantalizing into my skull
And when I got on that stage
all of the nerves melted away
and I know I'm supposed to be modest
but I ******* killed it
the school gave me a drama award
and took all of the award winners
to a book store
with a one free book coupon
and that was the first time I fell in love

I picked up a book by Darren Shan
it was for teenagers
but I devoured it
cover to cover
in one sitting
It was an addiction
and every time I got a new book
I also got the old warning
"Don't read it all at once this time Harry"
Not a ******* chance woman
I'm tweaking out over here
It all became very clear
It wasn't the acting I wanted
It was the audience
and with acting
I was always telling
somebody else's stories
but my words
were certainly mine and mine alone
Until I decide to give it to you
the audience
the only people I've ever wanted to impress
or help
or move
or even just make them crack a smile
**** the money
the women
the food
the real world
They would all come in the end
if they were meant to
So to everyone who has read
my throwaway little thoughts
Thank you
and I am so sorry

If they come don't let them go
if they don't come
******* it go and find them
if they bore down on you
like a run away locomotive
well you just need to stand strong on the tracks
with a hole in your torso
and stream it through you
and if it may happen to pass you by
drag those mother ******* back
and sometime they only come in drug induced bouts of *****
well put it on your pallet and paint your picture
a beautiful ode to the obscene
if it comes out of you
like bullets
with a shotgun heart beat
sometimes they come gracefully
or not so gracefully
like fallen angels plummeting to earth
like shooting stars
and when it comes with rain
it pours until you are drowning
choking on endless poems and stories
If you are lucky
you can tame them
and it wouldn't be a question of if,
but rather when they come

"you should really try to get clean"
That's what they would say,
if they knew,
but they don't
I can't let them
something about being a "man"
infected me with stubborn pride
and one hell of a fall

I just can't be open
nobody ever tells you
how hard honesty can be
and the truth of it is
I should probably see somebody
because the days spent sober
are filled up with
inescapable, palpable, crushing boredom
and the nights are spent
hiding from my own thoughts
afraid to sleep because of what it may entail
so the days kinda bleed together
like kool aid and water
and for good measure
a lot of *****

It's time to pack **** up
When that bad habit
Becomes dependency
When dependency
Becomes addiction
It's time to pack up
But I forgot my suitcase
So I'll take another beer

what happened?
a simple question
which is too complicated for me
a ball of nerves and synapses
electrical smoke signals
all a part of the story
of what happened to me
your own face a stranger
who mocks you
a reflection
which looks better than the photos
but it's a trap
a trick
its mean and it's *****
who care what happened to you?
what is going to happen?
and only you can answer that one

we **** our creative forces
ancient cultures believed
that creativity
was a divine entity
which assists certain people
from a far
so basically we **** God
every time a teacher
tells a child
that his or her talent
is worthless
that their passions
are futile
every struggling soul
who prostitutes their mentality
for another escape route,
pills which regulate
alcohol which regulates
coffee which regulates
drugs which regulate
and a regulation nine to five,
which regulates...
**** regulation

So here's the thing,
baby girl, sugar sugar
should i tell you of the future
would you be interested to know
the tale of our unseen flow
without skipping a single high or low?
Well then I'm going to disappoint you again
i'm not perfect, just a guy clad with paper and pen
but then again
you always preferred men
who didn't prefer themselves
because they are trouble
and with a little help from you
you make it double
or triple
I was never very good with numbers

But baby soothsaying behind us
I'd like to say
I really love how you are wound up
maybe a little too tight
but what's love if there is no fight
like day without the night
so put it behind you
in a box filled with yesterdays
i feel very inclined to
just let you know
I think you're so beautiful
even on days when you don't feel very useful
and in those times when life seems too brutal
to you I will always try to be truthful
because I'm your biggest fan
who goes to your shows
always following your tour van
and lets be real
nobody knows
what the future holds
but we know how we feel,
so take a leap with me
because I'm not trying to be corny but...
I'm pretty sure you complete me
so come and meet me
where ever the hell you want
because you are really somebody
I ought to flaunt

there's those certain tales
which are older than any city
never ending, always growing
and every generation
has a brave few
who wish to give parts of themselves
to that thriving monstrosity.
each tale
gracefully
bluntly
violently
mockingly
holds the elements of humanity
and are laced with honest expressions.
each tale outliving their authors
and nobody can remember
their names or faces

it's a seductive habit
**** and cool
edgy and real
intelligent and spiritual
all encompassing
a suicide mission
we all have our own blood on our lips
and we use it
to leave messages
cries for help
damnations and manifestos
or maybe just
a silly little poem
we just don't want to be forgotten
we just want to be
a never ending tale

The closest I ever came to understanding poetry
was in that crowd, at that hip hop show
and I know you're thinking
"come on kid, rap isn't poetic"
but i could never forget it
the live band blending seamlessly
the predetermined rhythms a symphony
which carried me away to infinity
And when my savior
clutched that microphone in his hand
it began to dawn on me
save your understandings, be one in a crowd
the words flowed out from the mic like jazz
and I knew that i didn't have to worry about being seen as
an over privileged, over educated, over sheltered
white boy who would toy with the idea of fitting a scene
it's more than just a phase
I'll take every last E.P. to the grave
and I will always support
those who have something to say.

It was okay to be lost
nobody is born with a map
but through that rap
I found the pace I'd like to walk at
until I'm in a lovely place, free from my fat
where street preachers use their words
like hot air balloons
and carry me away into the clouds
it seemed certain that I had found my crowd

The first time i went to church
I was terrified
It was an old church
and bore the cracks
and tombstones to show it
I was terrified because
I was convinced
that Jesus was trapped in the attic
chained to the rafters
malnourished and wild eyed
scruffy and emaciated
our lord and savior
a sunken eyed chattering skeleton
and I didn't know why
they kept him up there
feeding him our sins
while preaching their love
like scorpions
as the herd grows larger

ever since he was born
it was hot on his heels
pheromones lining cosmic nostrils
the sick smell of fear
he keeps on running
because he isn't getting more
and ever since he was born
the candle has been burning
and the wax drips onto the bottle
sealing him in a sea of suffocation
and restless frenetic vibrations
time always just one step behind
and leaps and bounds ahead

yesterdays like today
expecting what is to come
with the rising of the sun
like a Chinese whisper
passed through time and ancestry
the overall message
is muddied along the way

Maybe there will come a point
a turning point, swiveling on
the axis of my rotations
and I'll hear the whisper
barely audible small and infantile
and I will finally understand
until then the days are transcribed
into tally marks
etched out on the walls of life