On the 13th of December, 1996,
Tupak Shakur entered Heaven
Free styling to the angels whom
Found the beauty in a language
Lost to them when trying to
Understand mortals.

    The angels, amazed and petrified
    At the realness asked:
    " Who are you? Where did you come from?"
   And he flowed like a prophesy,
   What he spat was street life truth,
    And all the world was a ghetto.
    For a moment the angels were
    Concerned, but then the archangel
    Michael shook his hand and nodded,
    From then on Tupak was the first
    **** Angel.

fact: our subconscious decides actions half a second before your conscious even wraps itself around the situation.

fact: peer pressure can make people do the craziest ****.

fact: jellyfish are immortal. certain species can revert to an infantile, earlier stage of their life cycle when needed.

fact: humans cannot. this is one of many causes of our obsession with life and death, innocence, time, and many other subjects pertaining to similar matters; this inability is one of many forces propelling and pulling us towards the great unknown.

fact: this makes humans bitter and jaded and contemplative. this is something to continue to investigate.



fact: my subconscious is cruel and strange, having fed on a great deal of dark poetry and books I was too young to read.

fact: I get angry sometimes, and easily.

fact: I do stupid things, but it's not always peer pressure.

fact: I am bitter and jaded and contemplative sometimes, but not being a jellyfish is only one of many forces propelling and pulling me towards the great unknown.

fact: I hate you.  fact: I love you.

fact: facts aren't always true.

fact: I'm sorry.

request: Please forgive me.

fact: it's okay if you don't.

Loops feel cursed to me,
I've been living in them for God knows how many weeks,
I'd do anything to break the pattern,
anything to make them scatter,
I've been picking the scab on my chin for an hour,
You won't read my texts anymore,

Everything I eat,
no matter how sweet,
tastes sour,
Probably a side effect again,
Isn't it always in the end?
Just a side effect again.

I've been spelling words inside my head,
It makes me feel crazy but the patterns will save me,
Just make this all stop please,
I'm tired of this repetitive clicking,
It's really really itching,
I can't breathe

It's just the side effects again
They always say it is in the end.

Reaching over your shoulder,
A boulder is about to crack.

The giraffes, dinosaurs and pesky bores that glance
see you react.
It’s about language,
posture and poise

Presenting oneself like a broken toy,
One stepped on
broken and junk,
now its neck is whack thanks to that Chunk.

A paroxysm of coughing makes that Adam’s apple show
Somehow this perking out makes one dominant over a ‘poor girl’,
For some reason you think you’re a Hunk

Mystery how that fact of the Forbidden Fruit can paralyze your neck,
also sets back your assurance and confidence

1289

Left in immortal Youth
On that low Plain
That hath nor Retrospection
Nor Again—
Ransomed from years—
Sequestered from Decay
Canceled like Dawn
In comprehensive Day—

I'm not so active
I may not know how to live
and I don't exercise but I exercise my right
to keep this in my line of sight
at all times
and somehow my muscles are as sore as when they tear away
but only from the shivering
I've gotten done these past few days
I shake and shake
and my racing heart keeps pace
with the chattering of my teeth
as my entire being vibrates
from the inside out all except for my vocal chords
whom long to move with the rest of me
to let you know that you could leave here with the best of me
build your lifeboat and life vest in me
and we can sail together to the east
ignore reason
commit treason
while they're sinking,
we hold on tighter to this fleeting feeling
run around
until I burn myself to the ground
because it feels so good to burn
when you're always left this cold
and no exercise
can repair these severed ties
or even make me want to try
to find a stillness in my soul
to find my niche
to find a home
to focus on a mastery
when being fluent in one language
won't ever land you on the front page
no matter what it is you have to say
but I only know the language of the sleepless nights
in the dialect of "the fear of another wasted day"
and when I overhear comments
on my "newfound" accent
all I really hear is
"her words never mattered anyway"
but they'll remember with the Frost
that "Nothing gold can stay"
and misquote me
on my final day.

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?