In school, they used to teach us phrases like:
The fast car, or, The big tree.
But never did they mention the man who,
Upon losing his education like his keys,
Takes a fast car into a big tree-
On purpose.

Then, in school, they taught us drugs are bad,
*** is dope, crack is wack.
Yet never did they once speak of the father who,
Uses drugs to feed his kids,
so that they grow and feed their kids too-
Through purpose.

And, in school, they showed us pictures.
Of Syphilis and AIDS,
To scare us.
But, once again, the graphs and facts were missing,
As though seeing was trespassing upon some truth-
Some purpose.

So I pick up a pen and write:
A suicide story, a poem from the block.
And I sketch a Polaroid of a shaken scene,
Of the things I am not. So that I,
Yes I may lead a life-
With purpose.

This poem resides in the wrinkles of a frown,
an actress makes, when she watches the old movies
in which she had no wrinkles.

This poem stinks of the irony, and the bigotry
of each minority, that we-
Ourselves, created.

This poem sounds like a blind man,
a-tip-tapping down the street, who says:
“I see my reputation precedes me.”

This poem feels like the selfishness of a suicide,
meant to change a father, and recycle potential-
just to escape.

This poem, this poem right here, is everything
you wished you thought and thought you wished,
but didn’t get, ’cause that he doesn’t exist.

My lips are still blisterin,
From all that whisperin, that
Made me kinda sick, so I
Search for my chapstick, but
Find in it’s stead,
A pen, orn’ry and red,
That chooses to be used,
And true to my cue, I
Seclude and intrude
On each and every muse-
-ic, -ing, -ment, of my peers.
And its clear I have seared
Every page I have seen
And heard of my herd,
Pulled apart at the seems
Teeming with teams
And half-assessed dreams, that I dreamt
But have since beheaded like queens.
Yet who is the jester? The joker? The fool?
It’s me from your world, your country, your school.
It’s me who coos uncool, and caws too rawly
And so rarely, Even I’m a bit scared of me
No! No fear or fervor is necessary, tremors and
Heartstrings tremble headlines on the Daily.
Oooh, calm, soothe, my tongue, my soul, my lips,
I’ll cool them off but remember all this, or else you
May be blistering, and searching, for my lost chapstick,
But be lacking in trust, ‘cause I used it all up,
Quite a long time before you even lusted that luck.

Sometimes words don’t work,
And aren’t worth dirt.
But I’ll try anyways,
And be amazed at the words
I just vent with intense invention.
That I phrase so crisply
You couldn’t have missed me
Nor my words, that breech your
Ears and mouth alike,
Forcing you to swallow,
Til your stomachs full
And my head is hollow.
And the seed planted in you
Makes you realize
Each of these ties
For which we live and die
Mean nothing without the worth;
Of words.

A ****** of Crows delights in death.
Now they can come out, in novels and
poems and such, ominous and black.

For a moment, or many, a Crow is the center
of the universe. Perched on its pole, an eye
sees and its pupil becomes more.

Telephone-pole cities sprout from the earth,
each Murderous populous digs with hollow
claws, making their wooden crosses bleed.

Woodpeckers poke holes while Cardinals
warble nervously, the network is failing.
Communication begins to falter and cede.

Rotted from within, cables splice and
beams splinter. Crows, whose claws were
too embedded, struggle to break away.

When the last of the Crows have flown
away, gone, the earth flat is barren.
Tiny antennae peek out between the dirt.

A muster of Storks delights in birth, bearing
little yellow Finches to their new home;
easily foreseeable babes born to grow black.

The Commercial says:

Collect the whole set!
Buy Tommy Toddler™! –Now says 6 gibberish phrases!
Buy Hannah Housewife™! –Laundry basket and stove included!
Buy Stanley Stepdad™! –Comes with realistic child abusing action!
Buy Cole, the College Student™! –Life-like *** and beer ***** scent!
It says: Buy the whole family.

Batteries not rechargeable, but included. Residing inside.
No assembly required unless buying Ralph the Retired™ – in which case,
Go to the hospital and inquire, am I covered ?
Have I expired ?

At the store I’d, see them all sorted, and sordid, clumped in little bins. Together.
Sort of. See,
Lawyers, and scientists, and authors were all in higher priced bins.
I felt shorted.
A cheap skate like me couldn’t afford it, wait-
there are the janitors, soldiers, and waitresses, each only a quarter.

Somewhere in Taiwan, thin children wont to wanting,
Are making Model Americans.
Patching together assembly-line-lives, no breaks inbetween,
Workers named High School, College, and Career sew mini seams.
So many seem, to delight in dreaming the American Dream,
To leave earthly bodies and become pristine; little dolls.
Toys colored C.R.E.A.M.

“…and the home of the brave!” ?
maybe, home of the depraved.
Home of the pre-made, pre-packaged, and
Enslaved.
Displayed, in plastic tombs engraved. With phrases like:
Save! 50% off!
or perhaps it’s 50 stars off.
50 stars that are missin.
Cuz Old Glory sure looks like a **** question mark ( ?)
End transmission.
Restart television with Remote Control.

Chivalry is Dead.**
or so she said,
Each and every her who:
Thrusts that lance,
gives that look, which
pierces even my armor.

I am a Knight, of sweet
Of “Nice”
I am Just
not good,
enough.

Armored in dead, smiling fish
that stink of rotting morals
and whose scales,
whose scales have lost
their luster, their luck.

I should be so lucky as to find
One Girl
Who finds me,
Finds my fishy armor:
enchanting.

The last green scale glints
Opaque, as her eyes may.