The bridge to my ole factory
Crumbled under the fury
Of 70 stenches times 2
That welcomed me back to the Garden City in '06

The high priest of higher learning
and fulfillment
Had lured me away
For a few decades

And the wheels of time
Kept turning and turning
Along the long grinding road
To that elusive greener sanctuary of lore,
The El Dorado of every wide-eyed
Immigrant to foreign shores

A fat black cat floated sideways in the gutter
Between a bevy of fruit vendors,
Bloated by the pungent gases of death;
It was still there when I returned,
5 days later

The roads all seemed to have shrunk,
Overwhelmed by a tsunami
of trucks, cars and mini vans;
All in a rush,
Running late to their own funerals

I gave the driver a few extra dollars
To slow down;
I wanted to be on time
For mine

Feeling like a stranger
In my own backyard,
I scanned the crowded marketplace
For one familiar face
To ask about the dead black cat
floating in the gutter

"He used to run things around here," she said
"Back when rats were shy and scared;
But times have changed
And these new rats have no fear."

And they don't care about clean gutters either.....

~ P (Pablo)
(6/24/2013)

in the midst of powperpoint slides,
smart analyses and flash drives
stacked with loose facts and projections,
I mentally noted my objections

~ but never opined overtly...~

the mission colored green reigned supreme
to every white-collared stooge in the room
blinded by perks lavish and obscene,
we failed to heed that patented prologue of doom

~ how culpable were we....~

sales and profits grew by tens of millions;
stock prices drove  bulls to record highs;
gross revenues  ballooned into the billions
on the thrilling spin of blue pills and true lies

~  o....what a ride....~

but three stooges blew the infamous whistle
spilling the beans from soup to nuts;
and the feds flexed their regulatory muscle
flipping my gravy train from boom to bust

                           ~  the end ~

~ P
(8/3/2013)

there are no limits
on speed,
no bumps to impede
that singular rush of inspiration,
that surging wave we ride
to euphoric highs
defying doubt and disbelief
within and throughout
these paths least-travelled

where rhythmic beats
of compulsion
thrill the air
way beyond the mean,
and we glide
over ambiguous bell
curves
dispelling conspicuous myths
and null hypotheses
with relative ease

where iambic warriors
and wordsmiths,
high on lyrical amphetamines,
wage  epic battles
of verse and rhyme
and the blood of creativity
is spilled onto
finite scrolls and screens

where the thoughts and dreams
of poets, peasants and pimps
reign
eternal

~ P ( Pablo)
(8/2/2013)

something...
some match-making spirit in the wind
brushed his chin
with intimate persistence;
fleeting fingers of flirtation
determined to disrupt
and command his full attention
presently focused on the day ahead

his eyes responded
with predestined precision
finding hers
in a tacit turn of time and fate,
a second more
or less
would've been too late

and he would've missed
his soul's companion
with summer in her eyes
and tropical springs in her gait

she paused
and flashed the smile
of his amazonian dreams
as if she knew
the fusion of two passing melodies
into one seductive symphony
had begun

and his winters would never be the same again...

~ P (Pablo)

two hits
and I'm gone
holding my high
from dubai to discovery bay

I met John
on his black harley
along the way,
my nowhere man in ponytails
chasing Jesus off the charts

he gave me
his bloodied lens
and a dime

I peered through bullet holes
in his heart
and saw the devil

and the glazed eyes of Mark
frozen in time
like grime and graffiti
on the walls of Attica

he gave me
his smoking gun
and a pen

"Imagine......"

~ P (Pablo)

~ dad said she'd be famous ~

"...a doctor
or diva
like lena horne," he said

he'd been doing odd day jobs
and driving cabs deep into the night
through  these mean city streets
since ella's debut
at the apollo

and his smile
grew wider than
jackie o's
reservoir in central park
when this bouncing baby girl
made her grand debut
into his world

the dimples on her
cherub caramel cheeks
were irresistibly pinchable

and those twinkling eyes
knew she'd be spoiled infinitely
like a fruit-fly in a box
of rotten apples

~ reality check ~

....if you look closely
you might still see one dimple;
but the twinkles departed
back in '75

....and the burns
on her fingertips
and blistered lips

....and the bones....
jutting  like the bones
of refugees and anorexics

....missing flesh

...and the tracks
on her forearms
and filthy jeans

.....and the eyes....
shifting like the eyes
of senators and thieves

....telling lies

.....and the rotting corpse
in a black garbage bag
in fresh kills

multiple choices removed
from the doctor
and diva of daddy's dreams

hijacked by dream-killers:
smack
      crack
  and addiction

~ P (Pablo)
(8/1/2013)

I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of  eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...

It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...

like mania

this corridor precedes time
and space

it is the beginning
of faith and exploration

and revelation....

dead poets live here...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)

*****'s screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life

only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink  at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her

~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~

so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib

only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****

she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth

~ she needed some ***-wee therapy ~

seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind

~ ready to be ...reaped ~

*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~

knock.....knock....
~ silence ~

*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...

~ en el desnudo ~

curves, *****, legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...

then she started screaming....

~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)

I feel it sometimes
driving through the backwoods
of Georgia
along narrow winding roads
patrolled by tall solemn trees,
and no lights for miles...

praying my tires hold up,
that the thermostat stays cool...

this is no place for a *****
to get lost,
or stuck,
and this *****
doesn't need a history
lesson to know
what I feel
in my shango bones...

and yesterday I saw it
screaming in black
from an off-white wall
at a pit stop in Macon:

" I hate n#&&@rs
  let's killem all..."

and I started packing mentally,
stacking the frost bite,
hustle and rat race
that chased me down
south
in the first place

back into my duffel bag...

I had a train to catch

~ P (Pablo)
(7/27/2013)

as we run over the limits
of speed and slumber
where technology beats tradition
hands down
and free....
eyes-stuck...
heads-bowed.....ears-plugged,
fingers walking over screens
and oceans
between heartbeats

tweets stomping like clydesdales
over tradition,
kicking phone booths, kiosks
and cubicles
to the curb
with todays news prints
rendered extinct by noon
yesterday

if you paused...

for the cause
of a caffeine boost
or to order chinese take-out,
you missed 10,000 updates

and between styrofoam  sips
and chopsticks clutching
greased chicken strips
you play ketchup

but catch only
white-collar stains
and steamed rice grains
on your laptop

in your haste
and compulsive
obsession
to keep pace with
the text-generation

when you could've
been flipping through the
times back in '89

but that would make you
a dinosaur

~ P
(7/27/2013)

to sleep and rid the mind
of conscious thought;
to find a pillow kind,
a ***** soft

to dream of every sin
your heart desires;
to singe the void within
with ***** of fire

to plunge into a sea
of finite  lust;
to taste forbidden leaves
and angels' dust

to spread your wings
and fly into the night;
to steal the might of kings
and fame of knights

to chase a dove
across the milky way;
to fall in love
forever and a day

to wake and sow the mind
with blissful thoughts;
and find the thorns unkind
like winter's frost

~ P (Pablo)
(7/26/2013)

somewhere deep within,
sheltered from
the litter of life
unrecycled....malodorous...
like civic lessons unlearned,
ignored even,
stuffed into spastic bags
piled high like butter
on southern rolls...

sat a child
in a cocoon of innocence,
eyes wide with desire
to explore and discover;
staring at the sun,
chasing the sparrow
over solid rock
and red hills,
day-dreaming of play stations
and ice cream;
eyes blind to color
class and creed...

then the real world
started talking...

and the child listened,

and morphed into you...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/25/2013)

were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...

you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...

by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:

chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing

then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:

"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."

hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as  the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:

~ the miles davis nonet ~

featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet

'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
          riffin'....
boppin'...,
          po­ppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins

the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...

and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)

should civil minds believe a man who kills
with callous hand, a boy of seventeen;
who had a right to breathe and walk and dream,
a right denied, his body lifeless, still....
a man who cast his guilt under god's will
and claimed a motive pure, a spirit clean;
yet shot to death his neighbor's son who screamed,
a son whose  dreams will never be fulfilled...
the  scales of  justice swing for all to see
from hills up high to courts and jails near you
where coin and color trump equality...
will justice fair and balanced ever be
for every man who bleeds red, white and blue
to share this dream, this hope, this liberty...?

~ P (Pablo)
(7/22/2013)

while wedding bells
are ringing
and love birds
are singing,
a child is born
in london
and
yet another dies in chicago...

gunned down!

while coffee
is brewing
at starbucks
and dinner
is served
at ray's,
a child cries
in hunger
and
yet another dies in chicago...

gunned down!

while mercury
is rising
in DC
and the heat
win
title #3,
a child abused
cowers
in fear
and
yet another dies in chicago...

gunned down!

while the clock
ticks
on the wall
and senators
scream
down
the hall,
a child
is profiled
in sanford
and
500 die in chicago

gunned down!

~ P
(7/21/2013)

I
duchess in labor;
trusted royal storks on call;
where is the baby..?

II
duchess delivers,
trusted royal storks receive;
a charmed boy or girl...?

III
duchess is relieved,
royal baby is conceived;
it's a burly boy!

filed in
the most deviant chambers
of my memory bank
is a
summer of bliss
in a
breezy city
of blue lakes,
buxom blondes
and *****,
near the baltic sea

eva's skin-tight
****** white jeans
were the envy
of my roving eye

"hi"
she replied
to my
transparent thought

and I
bought her
a screwdriver
with a twist
of jive

we sat poolside
chatting about this
and that

and after the
5th *****
driver that is,
we both knew
'twas time for
some intercontinental
love-making

she was curious
and excited
to sample the coffee
in my african skin

and her talented
slavic tongue
stirred me gently
from
gdansk
all the way down
to krakow

I took eva
for a long
wild ride over
the serengeti
on my faithful thoroughbred
johnson

together
we climbed
the rugged hills of lust
to passion's prurient peak,
a blissful journey
that left us
gasping
breathlessly

we embraced
under a fountain of rapture
as words
hung dry
in our throats

we would wear them later...

~ P
(7/21/2013)

she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard

black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries

and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th

and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood

and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's

closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets

permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye

she lived alone..  

~ P
(7/8/2013)

in the foyer of midnight
bleeding into the lucid gallery of dreams,
a cluster of curious voyeurs
wait impatiently for the floodgates to open

they shuffle in the misty air
swirling through the room
dimly lit
like a theater in session
feasting the hungry eyes of patrons
with gore du jour

blood red drapes ascend
as my guests are seated
in the dark still of night

a staccato drum roll shatters the silence
signaling the intro to...

scene I

a recurring theme of
the one-eyed carpenter
hammering a nail into my coffin

tap...
tap...
tap...

"It won't be much longer now, sir pablo," he snaps
between gaps of rotting yellow teeth

"I'll save the best nails for the house-warming...."

what a charmer.....I muse....hugging my pillow tighter

scene II

a gang of my favorite seafood - giant king ***** -
is chasing me
down flatbush avenue in brooklyn;
they are brandishing broken bottles, bricks and machetes,
chanting, "payback is a biyaaatch.......payback is a biyaaatch!"

my peeps in the streets do nothing
to save me from the crustacean beat down;
they stop and stare and clown
as the killer ***** corner me downtown
in a cul-de-sac...

with *****-f$#k!n friends like that....I cuss...
huffing and puffing between the sheets

scene III

the fat nurse with a cataract in her left eye
bangs on the door to my small private room
in the psych ward at byberry

"It's time for your meds pablo.....make sure you're decent now....
I'm coming in...."

I'm curled up naked like a fetus
in the far corner
teeth, hands and feet shaking
under the nervous spells
of mania and parkinson's

she jams a long needle into my back
and fills me up with anti-psychotic cocktail
my crack for the week

she leaves and locks the door

I roll on the floor
it's moving
shaking up and down
there is a quake in my head
It's a 9
the bed's coming to get me
I'm losing my mind
there's a fat lady sitting on my spine
I can't move
she has a gun
stuck between my eyes
It's loaded
a 357 magnum
she has a cataract in hers
It's cocked
mine gets bigger

she pulls  the trigger....

ringgggggggg!

my alarm goes off.....it's 6:00 am

I yawn.....stretch......roll out of bed

wiping the cold from my eye...


blood red drapes descend


~ the end ~

~ P

remember...
when you were young,
very young,
recently untethered from
proximal parental strings...

that liberated freshman
rushing into a .... cave
of independent studies
and uninhibited sexuality...

that mulligan phase
of impulse and irrationality
and...yes...experimentation...

of wide-eyed science interns  with
mother's cheeks, daddy's visa
and the best animal-testing lab
on the planet...

with live uncontrolled studies of sleep deprivation,
orgiastic tolerance, *** toxicity
and the effect of extreme jello-shooting
on graduation rates...

and, of course, the ultra-rad LUG/GUG philosophy,
the ultimate pregnancy-avoidance plan
guaranteed
or your STD back...

then you got a degree,
a real job,
and a surreal 5-figure
student loan balance...

or was it 6?

or maybe you just
dropped out
like
bill, steve or mark...

and started a revolution...

~ P
(7/21/2013)

My son's a cereal killer.
I thought I raised him well.
He started chewing slowly
Now he's chomping like hell.

Froot Loops' his favorite victim.
Frooty Pebbles' a sucker too.
He takes them for a milky swim
Then kills them with a crunchy chew.

If his fave two are in hiding
And he's hungry for a ****,
Tony The Tiger gets a grinding
And Honey Graham takes a spill.

His kills are wet and chilling.
His appetite's mean and insane
Cereality is his calling;
Cereal killing is his game..

~ P

If by chance
or fate,
you leave for church
a few hours too soon
and the moon, drunks and ******
on the guilty path home,
see you walking by
in your solemn sunday suit
and your king james
with the black cover
and white cross,
and your holy attitude

and they hurl obscenities:
f-bombs, middle fingers,
daggers of disdain

flooding the street with
loathing

and you turn
the other cheek

and preach:
"I was there too....mere weeks ago...
let it go...let your light shine!"

and only the moon does...

~ P
(7/21/2013)

he went into national service
high on hope and his future;

I could see it in his eyes,
and his supersized smile,
and when he shook my hands
I felt it too...

my brother had grand dreams
filled with scholarly books, hard work
and college degrees
earned overseas;

"I'll send back photographs,"
he said

and the image of his happy face
stuck with me

they didn't show it,
what was left of it,
at the funeral

they couldn't...

according to the coroner,
and the fishes in the lake
where his body was found...

~ P
(7/20/2013)

you have a story to tell
and the world won't be the same
only richer;
for the refineries of your mind
are programmed to combine
thoughts, emotions and experiences
uniquely you,
into a narrative or rhyme
hitherto unseen,
a naturally wrapped gift of your creativity
destined to build a universal platform
that unites and uplifts humanity
one poem
at a time....

you have a story to tell

~ P
(7/12/2013)

my thoughts
often bring me discomfort;
untamed impulses with picket signs
marching and heckling
at the guardians of my comfort zone;
lyrical demigods hurling  verbal spears
into protective shields of conformity,
sparing no means necessary
to crush the mould,
and shatter the paradigm of paralysis
rooted in fear,
the fabled sphere of thespians that didn't...

heed the beat of spontaneity,
the clashing cymbals of discomfort
and dance to deviant drums
like ginsberg and ferlinghetti
and kerouac and wakoski...

disaffected thespians that did

~ P
(7/13/2013)

I
hands of justice bleed
into stormy sea of rage;
black boys are drowning.

            II
killer acquitted...
sidewalk the ****** weapon;
trayvon convicted.

           III
a smoking hand gun...
a bullet piercing the night
and a black teen's heart.

          IV
stalked by a stranger...
raindrops and stars bear witness;
he murdered that boy!

           V
the world stopped to see
the ***** hung from a tree
by a blind jury.

          VI
color of justice
bleeds white like cotton and lies,
and chalk around blacks.

~ P
(7/15/2013)

black chile o' mine...

the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs

the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide

who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie

and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni

a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side

black chile o' mine...

on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye

blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress

quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture

twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights

classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"

and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee

why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines

black chile o' mine...

flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook

tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter

while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential

and fulfill
the dream of slaves

gather dust...

you betta get your act right!

back chile o' mine...

~ P
(7/19/2013)

the earth shook
last night
sending a tremor
through six feet of
dirt, wreath and wood
to my rotting corpse
beneath

and I rolled over

for 16 months
I  tried to
rest in peace
as my spirit wandered
restlessly
but last night
even the stoic palms
shuddered in disbelief

and I rolled over

I was just
going home....ma,
talking
on the phone...ma,
when a '*******'
with a gun
shot be down...ma
now maggots and fleas
are crunching
my bones ...ma

and the '*******' is free???

maybe if
I were white
like lanza and holmes
I'd be left alone,
not profiled;
given a pass,
to commit
mass homicides,
not take a bullet
through the heart

for being black!!!

I was born in '95
the year 168 died
in OKC
and 1 million men marched
in DC
but last night
justice exploded
in sanford

and
I
rolled
over...

~ P

chosen by fate to fight
by night the blistering fire  
and face by day
the blazing storm

the mission called
well travelled feet
you climbed the wall
and faced the heat

of loved ones kissed
well travelled feet
the mission called
we watched them weep

of hearts you touched
well travelled feet
the mission called
we watched them bleed

of battles fought
well travelled feet
the mission called
you crashed the wall

of fires braved
well travelled feet
the mission called
you took the heat

chosen by fate to fight
by night the blistering fire  
and face by day
the blazing storm

~ P
(7/4/2013)

I ticked off my day
with a tepid mug of Morning Joe...

Then a liberal bowl of CNN
left me bitter like aloe...

So I asked the Fox and his Friends
to put me on the right track...

But Hannity prevailed
and I gagged on a cocktail of Rushian Kool-Aid.

~ P

When time, my treasured friend,
and folly knew no end,
then laughter pure did flow,
raucous echoes from the soul.

Woe whistled with the wind,
claws never sinking in.

Sin hovered in the dark,
waging battles for the heart.

Sparks of lust and love did fly,
flashing doves white through the sky.

Fledgling wings of feathered lies
swept us both to frenzied highs.

Cries of passion!

Miles of joy!

Ran by every girl and boy,
left us grasping breathless air
pillows scattered here to dare
a pair who knew such bliss
as this
would end with letters
torn to bits
and hiss like serpents
seeking blood.

Splattered dreams...

Broken chime...

O, how the heart corrodes through time!

Once my very treasured friend,
now a folly come to end.

~ P

many moulds of beauty
shape this scenic city
into a vintage masterpiece,
a montage of hues
from blonds to blues
stirring sacred senses  
into a frenzy of lust

roving eyes swivel
left to right
thrusting wistful rays
onto phenotypes
curved to perfection

open-toed stilettos
housing tasty pedicures
click on cobblestones
winding like a river
through Gomorrah

street lights glow dim,
shadows grow tall
scaling walls and towers like gray ivy

seeds of love are sown
between shrieks of inebriation;
some blossom into radiant nuptials,
most shrivel like leaves on seasonal trees

bitten by Winter's merciless freeze!

~ P
(11/2009)

I shall clear the air
of mystery
with a bold painter's brush,
blending cold facts
from blacks and blues
to soothing grays....

and callow eyes of every hue
shall dance and pray
on the tombs of villains
and buffoons
as if they were Gods....

~ P
(6/13/2013)

Between the din of dusk and dawn
Runs Sleepy Pillow Lane,
Where gators guard the Gates of Thorn
And cryptid creatures reign.

They glide across the midnight sky
Like grime in sanguine sewers;
White canines long and talons drawn
Spike rodents on a skewer.

Gray giants glare from full-moon eyes,
A ghastly ghoulish spell;
Sweet sleepers swell the wells of Nile
While centaurs swing the bell.

Horned vipers writhe into your fears
Like scythes through strangled weeds;
And severed heads of angel hair
From shouldered stumps relieved.

A putrid pile of newly-deads
Awaits the devil's scorn;
And legless maggots gorge in beds
From which the fly is born.

Hungry hyenas howl in packs
While circling carrions crow;
And chunks of flesh are torn from backs
Cracking bones bare below.

Scavengers feast on man and beast,
No rotting limb is spared;
From hanging tongues to napping feet
Blood splatters everywhere.

Brimstone and thunder fill the air
With hail presaging doom;
Ten toothless witches shriek and cheer
As zombies creep from tombs.

Masked mummies stalk with stakes and stones
In search of sleeping heads;
They crave the skulls and living bones
Of bodies slumped in bed.

Through R.E.M. you toss and turn
And roll on restless wheels;
Alas Red Rooster blows his horn
To end your grim ordeal....

~ P
(January, 2013)

she gave her baby sister
a bag of condoms
then took her by the river
to make rent before Lent

rats, tramps and pimps traded leads
on the ****** exchange
to fat cats with cheese
on the BIG BOATS

they came to the island once a year
in February
with blond bushy beards, ******
and beer bellies,
and a perverse preference for
pubescent pleasure

armed with Lust, Sweat and Disease
they threw the bag
over her pleas
into the raging sea

and between the rip of thongs
and licking tongues
and knees stretched from east to west,
her screams and dreams fizzled
south,
stifled on the ****** exchange

and the shame and stains remain
like a sordid refrain...

and the shame and stains remain
like a sordid refrain....

and she will forever be named:

the ***** by the river...

~ P
(6/17/2013)

Into the swirling Summer's gale,
Arms flailing to and fro;
Legs churning on the blacktop trail,
And miles of road to go.

Four months the mighty muscles screamed
Like torture on the Bay;
The price of every Patriot's dream,
And records blown away.

Four Kenyans storm into the lead
That stretched with every stride;
Four million raised for souls  in need,
And hearts infused with pride.

The dreaded wall atop the hill
Where only eagles dare;
Two hooded heathens dressed to ****,
And hope erupts in fear.

The virtual space of every room
From Boston to Belfast,
Explodes like meteors on the Moon,
And Twitter's horns on blast.

A line that many never cross
From civil creed to hate
Define the lives we live and lost,
And freedom swings the gate.

Into the swirling Summer's gale,
Arms flailing to and fro;
Legs churning on the blacktop trail,
And miles of road to go.

~ P
(4/16/2013)

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

In a rare respite from terror,
my dreams escape
this squalor,
this harsh reality,
and I ...

become you,
clean, clothed, cool;
shampooed head asleep
on plush cotton pillows;

charcoal skin caressed
by pajamas silky smooth.

Come dawn…

‘Which suit to wear?'
becomes my worst worry;

‘Being late for work,'
my worst fear.

O, to be free!

Perhaps someday
you'll think of me,
or send me a note
to spark a smile of hope
on my pubescent face,
two decades aged by hunger and disease.

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

~ P

the yoke and her mule
parted ways at independence square;
they'd been a pair
inseparable
since the early days
of hunter and prey...

and the mule's been dancing
in circles ever since,
chasing the pi on his tail
for answers to his circular demise...

the wise leech knew
but never clued
the dancing mule
into her pool of infinite possibilities...

she grew on his skin
as he stuck to his spin
like a pin in the 1st dimension,
growing old, weary and thin....

wishing his yoke had never left...

~ P

what am I...
if the mere color of my skin
smears fear, suspicion and dread
in the heads of perfect strangers...?

what am I...
if I feel the need to
recede to a sanctuary within  
my very own black skin
allowing the familiar stranger
sharing the elevator
to exhale
and set  her bundle of apprehension,
perceived and imagined,
aside
for the ride...?

what am I...
if I instinctively
hide my black eyes
in the screens
of iphones and ipads
avoiding icontact when isolated
with nervous strangers
lest I inflate the balloon of anxiety
to panicked proportions....?

creating that space of comfort
for all nervous strangers in my life
becomes my obsession...

and I switch lanes
by night
crossing to the other side
of  streets with dim lights
lest I collide head-on
with trepidation personified
in the eyes of perfect strangers...

and I ditch the hoodie
for a crew neck sweater
by abercrombie and fitch
lest some slug with a 9mm gun
profile me as a ****
and defy order, rhyme and reason
to exercise his license to ****
in the still of a rainy night in florida
with no credible witness
in sight...

what am I...?

~ P
(7/18/2013)