I would like to run my five fingertips
all over your carnal curves and contours
in every crevice, crack and concavity
in the vast canyons of your brilliant mind
dive into the ocean of your subconscious
delve into the deep valleys of your psyche
spelunking in the caves of your desires
uncover the ancient arcane secrets
hidden in the space behind your vibrant eyes
let us lay among the old oaks and laugh
arm in arm, soul in soul, floating upon
velvet sunsets on sweetest summer days
until the oceans dry, the ground cracks, and
the sun dies, I will never leave your side.

Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to Mother Nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a toyota
and lost.

The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don't seem to mind.
They march through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose-step.
The cacophony of their carrion communion is grisly and deafening.

Garish billboards burn
obscene advertisements onto assaulted retinas.
Street salesmen descend upon naive tourists
like vultures after fresh meat.

Policemen **** and pillage
what they were sworn to protect and serve,
and the Mayor's fungal tendrils
reach deep into the criminal underbelly of his city.

The voracious human hunger for wealth
knows no boundaries.
The grey-on-grey urban tragedy that is this concrete corpse
is always changing. Growing. Advancing.
however, it is not without waste.

Abandoned asphalt arteries stretch as far as the eye can see.
Somewhere, in a derelict parking lot, a flower is blooming.

We may spit in the face of Mother Nature
with every tree we cut and river we dam,
but soon she will be the one laughing
over our shattered
concrete
corpses.

somewhere there's a graveyard
with unmarked tombstones
and a distinct absence of bones
and the space under each headstone
is filled with all of the words that were never said
all of the tongues that were bitten and held
and all of the mouths that stayed shut
all of the thoughts that danced around the periphery of consciousness like shadows flickering in the firelight
a mausoleum of missed trains and missed chances
an ardent arrangement of alternate realities
a collection of the opportunities and objects that slipped through the cracks.
an obituary of What Could Have Been.

Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to mother nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a Toyota
and lost.

The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don’t seem to mind.
meandering through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose step
feeding upon the entrails of the mangled carcass.

Soon, their bellies full, gorged on wealth forged from blood, sweat and tears
of the less fortunate, they will pupate.
and in a frenzy of greed, gluttony and lust, they will burst
from their cocoons, and ****, eat, and relish in their wealth until they die.

Thus is the cycle of the city.
a cancerous growth, a festering boil, an affront in the eyes of the lord.
this grey-on-grey urban tragedy taints the land and traps us all.
no one ever really escapes.

as their corpses lie in rot and ruin amongst the filth and viscera,
the newest generation of eggs begin to hatch,
and the cycle begins anew.

"CONDEMNED" screams the offensive yellow tape
wrapped around my door like a furious snake.
I'm a crumbling abandoned city apartment
and the letters of your name can be found carved into my scattered bricks.

The memories we shared were sweet,
but you've moved on now. To a newer part of town,
all gaudy gold and glowing neon and soulless silver.

Even though you're hypnotized by its fraudulent shine
I wonder whether you remember
the love and mortar that once held us together.

For these walls still stand tall
through countless stormy nights, scorching days and freezing evenings.
But I don't know how much longer I can last.

Because my very foundations were made with your smile in mind,
and they are sinking into the mire now that we are forced to stand alone.

But what need to you have for such antiquated architecture?
I have been replaced. Your new home is far prettier.
More efficient.

Even still, I hang on by crossbeams and rotting wooden studs
and hope that you will find your way back
to the home I forged for you here in my arms.

I rot and moulder in solitude
the memories that echo in my hallowed halls the only comforts that keep me from collapse.

Far too proud to admit, though I'm sure
you see the bitterness of your absence
eating away at me like termites.

The lord only knows how I'd like to feel your feet
upon my wooden floors again,
but who am I to even dare to ask?

For now I am just a broken house
no longer a home
vacant
and alone
patiently waiting to be made whole again.

He- was alone
Oh so alone

He - wandered life’s paths aimlessly
He - was just another face on a busy Baltimore street
She - floated in on a summer breeze
She – lifted him from the gutter
And calmed his stormy seas
She - stole his heart
And locked it away and
He – didn’t seem to mind
She – gave him reason to write
And reason to fight
He – held her close in the fading light
He – promised he’d never leave.

He – returned home,
To learn, to grow,
He - felt absence as a knife between ribs
He - cursed the gods
The buddahs and the allahs
He – just wanted something to go right.
She – told him that everything would be alright
He – didn’t know if he’d last the night.
He – felt his mind toss to and fro
He – simply had to let her go.

He – thought it was for the best and when
He – realized his mistake
She – was already gone.

He – is alone
Oh so alone.

no one ever warns you that love is so painful.
heartbreak? car crash?
i couldn't tell the difference.
did i fall in love, or off a cliff?
both seem equally pleasant.
looking back, i'm not sure if you were kissing me or cursing me.
                                                                                                               (i'm sure you meant me no harm)

your voice, your smell, your smile;
these are all things I will never forget,
locked in a gilded display case in my mind until I die.

l-o-v-e is a four letter word i only barely learned to pronounce before my tongue and heart were ripped from my chest and open mouth.
i now sit in silence.
i wish that i could speak again, so that i may curse the universe for this torment.

slowly, i forget what my heartbeat sounded like,
how it felt to love.

I am.
I am fish and brick and sun and moon and sky and earth and river and forest and thunder and storm and silence.
I am light and dark and blood and sand and sinew and mud and bone and fear and loathing.
I am ambition and broken trust and betrayal and broken promises.
I am triumph and failure and love and loss.
I am the summer breeze and the arctic blizzard, I am the waves crashing upon the shore and the sunlight warming the lizards on the rocks.
I am the stars that shine in the night sky and the nebulae being born past the purview of your eyes.
I am the vast nothingness of space and the infinitesmal denseness of singularity.
I am the space between heartbeats and the silence between words.
I am the oneness of all things, the internal nirvana, the consciousness of the universe and its fleshy manifestation.
I am good.
I am evil.
I am god.
I am me.
I am you.
I am we.
I am.

sometimes i feel that the reason the sun chooses to turn its back on this world and set and the reason that all light leaves is because you are not by my side and i miss you

every time the cool summer breeze steals from beneath barely cracked windowsills and disturbs my blankets i wish that you were there to fix them and to kiss me back to sleep

and when those summer breezes turn into hard winter winds i wish you were there to help keep me warm

your absence is the elephant in this room except this elephant has decided to sit squarely upon my chest
my every breath is labored and my hear aches for rest and for you

i miss you like puddles miss being part of the ocean

i miss you like a retired jet captain misses his deceased co-pilot

i miss you

these words are quickly becoming the only ones i remember how to say aloud and it is taking all of me to not scream them to the heavens

i am consumed by myself and my sorrow and all i can think is that i miss you.

A Crush*

There was something different about you
something I can’t really put my finger on.

Maybe it was the way you laughed and flashed your dynamite smile
and tucked your hair behind your ear
that made me think that god might actually be real after all.

Maybe it was the way your blue eyes
were deeper the ocean and held twice as many secrets.

Maybe it was the way you always managed to stay on my mind
like the ink stains on my fingers that stubbornly refuse to wash out.

Maybe it was the way you carefully
calculated every syllable and significant sound to ever escape your lips
in order to never waste a breath.

Maybe it was just the way you cared.

Maybe it was the way you bought your sweaters large
and owned fifty pairs of jeans
to cover up your battle scars
and appear like other teens.

Maybe it was the fact that you recognized
that art isn’t really found in a gallery or hung up on a wall
but found in the way the wind flows through the trees
and blows each one of the leaves a kiss
and the way the sun rises every day
and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Maybe it was the way you manifest in this three dimensional space
the grace and poise with which you traversed it
the magnificent manner in which you allowed
the light to reflect off your skin
and the singsong splendor
you commanded of your voice.

Maybe it was just the concept of you
the hope that maybe
just maybe
you had these feelings too.

The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.

Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.

If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:

Do you remember?

Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?

Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?

How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?

They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.

Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.

Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?

Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?

Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?

Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?

Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?

Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.

I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.

I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.

I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.

I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
To
This
Day.

But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.

In fact,

I thank you.

I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,

For it is proof that I am alive.

I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.

For what is light without darkness?

What is life without death, and love without loss?

So thank you.

I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,

But with gratitude.

Because even through tragedy

The heart survives.

I look into the mirror
and do not recognize the man I see
once caged like a bird,
I have finally been  set free.

"Who are you?" I ask my reflection.
It simply answers, "Me."

I've grown new branches,
offered up fruit,
like a virile hazel tree.
Now I refuse to be chained,
ruled by any arbitrary decree.

I have risen from the dust.
Shaken off all the debris.

My fingers have become webbed,
gills adorn my neck,
and I begin my sojourn towards the sea.

Apart from any zealotry or wizardry,
apathetic to any bourgeoisie,
I look towards the future
utterly filled with glee.

i find it quite sad that the only thing stopping me from beng who i wish to be is a certain sequence of numbers.

numbers seem to have more power over people than any god or government-

this world was built-

and will burn-

because of numbers.

bank account statements cause stalemates between myself and my ambitions-

I am chained and restrained by my credit score, cruelly kept from exploring distant shores.

men slay their fellow man without a second thought

for a fat stack of cash and thoughts of what could be bought.

John Lennon imagined a world with nothing to **** or die for
no posessions too

but money is the cruel hand that tears that dream in two.

for as long as the concept of money
is the fire that drives men's hearts to beat

we will never truly see peace,
living at the mercy of the balance sheet.

Somewhere there is a graveyard
with unmarked tombstones
and a distinct absence of bones
and the space under each headstone
is filled with all the words that were never said
all of the tongues that were bitten and held
and all of the mouths that fearfully stayed ****.
all of the thoughts that danced ‘round periphery of consciousness
like shadows flickering in firelight.
a mausoleum of missed trains and missed chances
an ardent arrangement of alternate realities,
a collection of people and things that slipped through the cracks.
an innumerable number of ivory crucifixes
stretch off into infinity,
one for every version of oneself
that dies when you make a choice
and placed gently atop every edifice,
a gossamer bouquet of asphodel
picked from a field of your own buried regrets.
countless conversations that never passed the threshold
of lips pursed shut with apprehension
can be found scribbled upon the leaves
of the great oak trees
that watch over this necropolis.
iron arms reach towards the onyx sky
and hold aloft a rusting sign
that simply says:
“here lies everything that could have been.”

you were once the object of my affection
now you are the vehicle for my introspection
I used to love you, but now with every slipping
second
minute
hour
day
and week
I can feel you drifting farther away.
my once crimson heart has turned a solemn shade of grey.

this music sends electric
chills
down
my
spine
in all of the ways
i
wish
you
would

the bittersweet refrain
of your voice saying my name
is my favorite melody in the world

the lights in your eyes
illuminate my world
like the pulsing strobes ignite the dance floor

my heart beats at exactly
one hundred and forty
beats per minute
whenever you enter my field of view

the song of my life is really only
half written
without you

With bowed heads we genuflect before the wicked grin of the guillotine.
In my mind's eye I go to parlay with the Grim Reaper.

He is seated before me- cloaked in obsidian shadows
His ivory bones offensive against the inky darkness
His scythe glints in the candlelight
its thirst for blood and flesh almost palpable.
His laugh comes as a rumble of thunder
Punctuated by the cracking and shattering of glass (and my sanity.)

He leans close across the table, transfixing me in terror,
staring directly into my soul. He who has no need for breath breathes -
and the smell of earth and death and decay and rot and ruin
tells me that my pleas for pardon will not be heeded.

Snapped back into reality, I close my eyes in defeat.
Suddenly- the angry serpent-air
hisses
and is parted.
Garish crimson stains ivory cobblestones.

Silence.

POETRY IS NOT PUBLISHED IN A BOOK
OR SCRIBBLED IN A JOURNAL.

IT IS NOT COMPOSED OF STRICT METER AND RHYME,
STANZA AND STRUCTURE,
ASSONANCE AND ALLITERATION.

POETRY IS NATURE.

POETRY IS NON-SEQUITUR.

POETRY IS THE WAY OUR HIPS AND LIPS
INTERTWINE LIKE GRASPING VINES
WITH DETERMINATION AND GRACE
THAT IS SIMPLY DIVINE.

POETRY IS THE WAY YOU WAKE UP ON A LAZY SUMMER SUNDAY MORNING
AND LISTEN TO THE HEARTBEAT OF YOUR LOVER
LYING NOT TOO FAR AWAY.

POETRY IS THE COMPASSION AND SELFLESS DESIRE
THAT CAUSES US TO BUY MEALS FOR STRANGERS
AND TIP EXTRA JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT.

POETRY IS THE FACT THAT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US IS ANOTHER INFINITELY RANDOM MANIFESTATION OF THE UNIVERSE ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND ITSELF THROUGH CONVOLUTED COSMIC INTROSPECTION.

POETRY IS THE WAY THAT THE STARDUST FLOWS THROUGH OUR VEINS AND THE LIMITLESS POTENTIAL OF HUMAN CREATIVITY HIDES JUST OUT OF SIGHT BEHIND OUR EYES.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE WISE WINDS BLOW SOFTLY THROUGH THE TREES, WHISPERING SECRETS TO ANYONE WHO WISHES TO HEAR.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE RIVER LOVINGLY EMBRACES EACH AND EVERY PEBBLE IN THE RIVERBED LIKE A MOTHER HOLDING HER NEWBORN SONS.

POETRY IS ORGANIC.
MALLEABLE.
THESE WORDS ARE NOT POETRY -
LIFE IS POETRY.
DEATH IS POETRY.
LOVE -
LOSS -
STRIFE -
SUCCESS -
POETRY.
WE ARE POETRY.

What are we, really?
For as long as we have been able,
Humans have looked skyward and wondered.

Wondered about the timbre of our voices
About the pastel shades of our skin.
When we are cut, why do we all bleed the same red?

About our origin.
About our purpose.
About our murky past and our luminous future.

What are we, really?
As a species we are collectively stumped.
We have journeyed far.
From trepanning the ill, ventilating their skulls to drive out malevolent spirits,
To carefully calculating the oscillations of distant stars.

And yet,
Despite our ingenuity, despite our ambition, despite our progress,
The truth still escapes our inquisitive grasp.
What are we, really?

Are we god's chosen flock?
Are we simply another infinitely random arrangement of carbon atoms? Flesh and gristle and calcium deposits?
Are we overgrown simians with overgrown egos and obnoxious sense of importance?
Or are we a simulation? Ones and zeroes on the motherboard of the cosmos?

What are we,
Really?

“pinky promise you’ll be there for my play?”

i don’t do pinky promises.

“why not?”

I don’t make promises that i can’t keep. because a broken promise is just about as bad as a broken tequila bottle shoved into the soft spot just below your ribs.

“…what?”

speaking of tequila, let me tell you why i don’t do pinky promises.
it was a few falls ago, three if you really want to get technical.
i’d come down to visit you on a weekend instead of staying home to study like i should’ve been.
it was eleven to eleven. 

drunk. dear gods we were drunk. we’d just stumbled out of the greasiest mexican restaurant i’d ever eaten in. 
but hey. the margaritas were cheap, and more importantly, they were the only place in the area that would serve to minors. They even included a free shot of tequila when you asked for your check, that went down with similar smoothness to the way my debit card slid through the reader and emptied my bank account a little more.


but yes. you and i were drunk. and as we strolled down fifth avenue i-

“me?”

No, i mean her. not you.

“who is ‘her?’”

that’s not important. do you want me to tell the story or not?

“whatever…”

anyways. as we strolled down sixth avenue i-

“i thought it was fifth avenue?”

Can you not?

“sorry….”

as we strolled down whatever the **** avenue it was, i couldn’t tell my feet from the concrete because the street lamps tinged everything an odd warm shade of brownish orange.
to stop myself from falling i reached out and wrapped my arm around your shoulder. 

I can still feel the fur from your coat brushing on my cheek.
you didn’t protest, and i sure as hell wasn’t going to stop.
we were drunk. and talking. 
talking about nonsense, about school, about our grades, about boys… 
it’s funny that if we talked for long enough, without a doubt, our conversation would drift to the subject of love.

You knew that I liked you. back then i thought you just liked to torture me. 

we stopped at the burning open palm of the street light before us. 
i stopped you mid-sentence. 
‘i could love you better’.

after those five words left my lips i suddenly wasn’t very drunk anymore.
 
silence. 

there was no turning back now,  so i had to just roll with it. 

‘you waste all of this time on these boys who do nothing but hurt you…. but i’ve loved you for years now. you and i both know that you deserve better. that i would be better. every single time you come up in conversation with my old friends or my parents they ask whether or not we’ve finally gotten together or not. what’s stopping us?’

You stared at me for a long time, saying nothing, but it didn’t take a psychic to see the indecisiveness and longing and anxiety and fear swirling inside of you like your unmentionables in your Maytag.


“I guess i don’t really have a good reason. it’s just…. awkward, you know?” 

She paused. I tried not to betray any emotion with my face. 

"I'll cut you a deal. if in two years, we aren't seeing anybody... we'll give 'us' a shot." 

Not quite the answer I was looking for, but it was better than a flat out 'No'. little did I know at the time that they were essentially the same thing. 

I stuck out my pinky finger.

'Pinky promise?'
"Pinky promise”, she replied.

We locked eyes, locked pinkies in an embrace, and seconds later the ghostly white of the pedestrian walk signal shone down on us. 

We broke our gaze and walked off into the night.

That was three years ago, and it’s probably safe to say that we won’t be taking that shot.
I don’t hold it against her. But i learned through three years of waiting not to make promises that you can’t or don’t intend to keep.

i have forgotten how it feels
to have your fingers interlocked with mine
please remind me

i can't quite recall
the warmth of your head upon my chest
please remind me

i can't seem to describe
the singsong splendor with which words wander from your lips
please remind me

i have misplaced the memory
of the tantalizing texture of your lips
upon mine
please remind me

i have forgotten how it feels to be loved
please remind me

sparks light the darkness
for precious quarters of seconds.

the lonely lighter flame reaches its arms towards the cloudless sky.

lifting the stained glass sacrament to your lips -

inhale.
inhale.
inhale.

exhale, your worries and a small part of your soul.

your mind enters the fog, running from something.

neon lights oscillate like angered ancient specters
bathing us in an eerie glow.

hide the small square under your tongue. the familiar bitter taste fills your mouth. you've been here before.

"expand your consciousness", they say.

your heartbeat doubles, and your mind enters the fog, running from something.

pop the tab unscrew the cork-
pour.
pour.
pour.

gulp it down, soak it up like a desert floor that has never seen a drop of rain,

and chase it with a rainbow of pretty pills.

your body becomes numb, and your mind enters the fog, running from something.

from the dawn of time til our deaths we humans have been running from something.
running from our fears,
running from our thoughts,
running from our memories,
running from ourselves.

we chase the void so ravenously we fail to notice the voids opening up inside of each and every one of us.

there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.

i am hunted
                        and haunted
by memories -
            once good times turned sour.

                                                               ­ vines claw and grasp at my feet
                                                            ­ while i try in vain to trudge forward.

i am picasso with paintbrush poised betwixt my teeth-
                                                          ­                                                             arms bound
                                                                ­             by a straightjacket sewn from sorrow.

the lacrimose landscape of my limbic system is a scarred battleground.
fear and regret clash with my spirit and sanity like angry gods.
i fear i may be broken.

how many times have i apologized?
'til sandpaper throat
and crimson finger
from repentance and gripping pen?

                                              not enough.

i cry out the massed molecules of this  malevolent multiverse
for a cessation of this tortuous existence.

i never want to hurt anyone ever again.

i walk through the field of flowers and leave behind nothing but ashes and arsenic.

i am like a lonely hurricane inside a china shop
i destroy everything i touch
and only wish to be loved.

i have apologized
until sorry is no longer a word
simply a jumble of sounds spilling out of my mouth
with no meaning
and no purpose.

i could say it to you
in every language in this wide world
paenitet
désolé
triste
scusate
and none would be enough.

“Though my soul may set in darkness,
it will rise in perfect light.
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.”
I don the belt of old Orion
and sit atop the great winged Pegasus.
I steal riches from cunning Copernicus
and sing ballads to the lonely new moon.
Look there - my bride! Oh fair Andromeda;
She bears our band fashioned from Saturn’s rings.
Her dress woven from strands of silk stardust,
we read our vows to the watching planets
and kiss under the sun’s jealous blaze.
Starstruck, we ride, comets trailing in our wake.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

maybe it's related to the fact that there is no more history on the history channel

and the only thing the discovery channel wants to investigate
is the depth of our bank accounts

the word 'integrity' has become archaic. obsolete. unnecessary, simply, because nobody has any anymore.

whatever happened to learning for the sake of learning?

who was the sick greedy ******* who decided that it was okay to charge money for knowledge?

our youth are being put into ******* for the knowledge necessary to survive in this society

of inequality.

in the 21st century slaves toil away in classroom as well as coal mines.

and those who dare to resist the path of post-modern peonage laid before them are doomed to a life of minimum wage mundanity or constant criminal risk.

there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.

i too have become a slave. and a large portion of those who read this message have as well.

our souls signed away at the dotted line, sealed within great paper phylacteries adorned with the sinister sigils of Sallie Mae.

the chains of our debt will never let go of us. even upon death our progeny will have to hoist our burdens on their shoulders.

and for those of you who know not of our *******, i bid you welcome, like a Brother greater than I once said:

"welcome to the united snakes, land of the thief, and home of the slave. the grand imperial guard, where the dollar is sacred and power is god."

if your total net worth rests below a cool few million i suggest you stay away.

silly me. silly me, silly me, silly me. after all this country was built on generation after generation of genocide, **** and fraud, codified into the laws we hold so tight and so high, how naive was i to even expect civil discourse and equality from a naturally sinister state?

cloaked in the fog of pure ignorance we the people paradoxically bear the weight of our fraudulent federal government on our backs while simultaneously parasitically depend upon it.

parapets and gaudy domiciles all built with the blood sweat and tears of the disenfranchised. soft music composed of the screams of children dying from predator drone hellfire missiles lilts through the hallways.

news flash: the illuminati and the reptilian overlords are not trying to control your mind.

this is not about pineal gland calcification and third eyes but about the systematic disenfranchisement and subjugation of every man woman and child in this unfortunate nation.

they impose harsh sentences on small time drug crimes and outsource our only sources of economic stability.
left with no upward mobility, we then resort to any means necessary to simply survive.

'the world is your oyster.' they say. and they conveniently fail to mention the fine print which emphatically states that you may only possess the oyster shucking knife if you are white, male, and upper middle class.

this is not about checking privilege and white guilt. this is about the way that this ****** up world works. about the sinister cogs turning behind the scenes.

and if you dare raise your voice in resistance you'll find yourself staring at cinderblock walls, spools of barbed wire, reinforced steel bars, and armed guards for the rest of your sad life. your enclosed inmate existence making the coffers of the prison-industrial complex even deeper.

some say we should raise our fists instead and fight. and i say to them good luck fight the world's most technologically advanced military in its own home territory. Guerilla warfare and armed millitias stand about as good of a chance and gorillas armed with sticks and stones when the enemy possesses satellites that can see your face from orbit.

and i hope you don't mine being despised by the public of the modern world when you're slapped in the face with that dreadful catch-all term that is 'terrorist'.

but we can't just sit here and let the vines of greed asphyxiate our vitality away.

so herein lies the eternal question that i pose to you:

what are we to do?

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

in the supposedly post-racial united states of america

the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.

black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.

stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy

post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-

these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.

more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.

"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.

but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'

I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.

does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?

In a sick way it almost makes sense

that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved

that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.

the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.

our shackles are now student loans;

plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.

maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.

miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.


but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."  

our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way.  but their deaths will not be in vain.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.

and and fourteen and something isn't right

in the supposedly post-racial united states of america

the only thing this society seems to be is post humanity.

black americans are routinely treated with barely a shred of human decency.

stripped of our agency under the iron fist of white supremacy

post the cold blooded murders of Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Ezell Ford, Eric Garner, Kimane Gray, John Crawford, and countless others-

these are the strange fruits that hang from our nation’s poplar trees.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. or is it nineteen sixty four? many a time I have opened the morning paper to see headlines that would not be out of place in that era of bloodshed.

more care given to a cotton cloth flag than to the black bodies that lie battered and broken in the streets.

"think of the businesses!" they scream, mouths afroth.

but won't anyone think of the black children murdered for carrying BB Guns? won't anyone think of the fathers? the mothers? the sons and daughters whose lives are cut short by those who are supposed to 'protect and serve?'

I will stop "making this about race" when the police stop giving me reason to fear for my life simply for existing. it is not enough to be peaceful and innocent anymore.

does this conversation upset you? can you not cope with these atrocities that go on every day in your precious land of the free?

In a sick way it almost makes sense

that in a nation built from nothing upon the backs of the enslaved

that it would take a bit longer than a hundred and fifty years to stop feeling the pain.

the whips and chains that once bound us were not broken, but merely transformed.

our shackles are now student loans;

plantations were exchanged for privatized prisons and lynch mobs now wear blue uniforms.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.

maybe it’s got something to do with the way that all people seem to care about nowadays is iggy azalea’s new hit single but not the way that white rappers want to be black so badly up until it’s time to fight for us. to march with us. to die with us.

miley cyrus can prance around onstage fetishizing black bodies like modern day hottentot venuses but when black bodies are being violated by the police she’s strangely silent.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right.


but there is a light that shines through this darkness. that light is within me, and you, and within the hearts of every single man and woman of all colors and creeds who raises their fists and says "No more."  

our fight is not over. the road will be long. it is very possible that more will die along the way.  but their deaths will not be in vain.

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right. but it will not be this way forever.

a kind of cosmic static -
the background noise lurking behind everything since that fiery moment in which everything came to be.
human beings are the only beings with big enough ears and smart enough brains to hear it.
and it’s killing us.
it whispers about the space.
the vast, yawning emptiness that is 99.0000000000000000000058 percent of the universe
and how small and unimportant we are in the face of it.
the stars are deaf to the call of the void.
and all of the less arrogant animals simply don’t care.
but humanity is smart, and intelligence has lead to efficiency.
we’ve optimized and agricultured and technologized ourselves into a vast wealth of free time.
and in that free time we’ve taken up the hobby of thought; of navel gazing; of looking within and without.
and when we turned the rods and cones of our eyes inwards the void stared back. unflinching, unblinking. and it roared, and every one of us heard.
we try to block it out with our various vices but in the end they are all in vain.
we inhale glittering ivory dust, conflagrate various flora of every shape and size,
gulp down poisons like desert floors that have never seen a drop of rain, genuflect before effigies of deities of questionable existence, sing and dance, **** and **** and **** and steal and covet, all in search of a kind of purpose.
some soft cottony bliss to plug our ears to the roar of the void.
but we cannot stop it. the slow bleed of grains of sand out of the hourglasses of our lives is one wound we will never be able to heal.
for void thou art, and unto void thou shalt return.

From wretched ancient under-dark it spills
Aerosolized hatred, malice and strife
Indiscriminate in who it kills
The southern wind, enemy of all life.
Malevolent sirocco, seething with wrath,
Melting metal, human flesh, skin and bone
Painful is death for all trapped in its path.
For what great sin will this wind atone?
Eleventh plague, locked away by god,
Grisly screams for mercy choked off by gust
Nothing dares to grow were this wind has trod.
All who smell the wretched scent turn to dust.
Movements silent, striking without warning
Lucky are those who live until morning.

I am not your Romeo
and you are not my ******* Juliet
and yet
we are still kept apart
by miles and years
and no amount of wasted tears will ever
change the fact that
I am not your Romeo
and you are not my ******* Juliet.
This is not a fairytale,
there is no happy ending
and I am sick and tired of sending
prayers up to a god
that doesn't care
or doesn't even exist.
I am not your Romeo
and you are not my ******* Juliet.
this is the
seventh
time that fate has felt like
dangling a beautiful soul
in front of my face yet out of my grasp
(I keep count because I'm a bit of a *******)
and I'm not sure how much longer I want to keep playing this game.
but don't
worry your pretty little head baby I'll
be around until you're done with me.
I'll be yours until you decide to
move on and become just another number on my list
and sweet memories I wish I could forget because
I am not your Romeo
and you are not my ******* Juliet.

I've caught you like the common cold
but I have no interest in getting better
spare me the nyquil
I'll pass on the penicillin
I have no love for codeine
your presence is the most sobering thing I know.
I miss spoke a few seconds ago
there's nothing common about you
you're a rare strain of virus
and I'm patient zero
diagnosis: terminal
infect me,
corrupt me,
do your very worst.
break me down into my component parts
and return me to the earth from which I came.
I have made my peace.
I will rise from that same earth, lazarus of chocolate skin
a little stronger
a little wiser
immunized by your viral love to the horror of the world.
so take me
make & unmake me
I would die a thousand deaths by your hands.

I have fallen in love with the lilac trees
oh how i long to be the gentle wind
that blows slowly through their leaves

i could speak ceaselessly for a thousand years
and still not explain why
your magnificence brings me to tears

i looked upon your sunkissed face
and for a moment
the vicissitudes of the fates
seemed a little less vicious
the winds a little less harsh
and the world a little less cruel.

heaven is a real place,
and it is a few inches of skin
just below your nose.

i am a man of many words and metaphors
but none of them can accurately describe
the simple beauty of the fact
that you are mine
and i am yours.

i wish to give you the world two times over
and three more times just because.

i was so lost amongst the wilds
and yet you still found me.

the pair of hands i've never held
are the ones i am dying to hold.

my synapses fire like artillery cannons
and the pistons of my heart roar to life
whenever you grace my mind with your presence

i find myself wanting to be
more than fleeting glances
across concrete streets

i simply wish you'd love me like you love coffee
and old sweaters
and older records
and the smell of the ground after the rain.

there's so much space in my bed that you could be filling
all this and more is possible
if you're willing

i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare

i am the blood thundering in our veins

i am the rhythm that gives us life

i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you

i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop

i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline

i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels

i am titinnitus waiting to strike.

3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine,  Lysergic acid diethylamide,  tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better

i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool

i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye

i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.

i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.

i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.

i am the rave.

if i could paint a picture
of how much i regret the way things ended
it would be a sad assemblage
of pastel blues and greys and blacks
stained with flecks of golden yellow
not unlike the thunderheads currently taking up residence in my head.

If i could write you a letter
it would be yet another failed attempt
at describing how much my very soul aches
for something as simple as your presence.

if i could hold your hand
the nearby flowers would bloom
and the sun would glow green with envy.

if i could kiss your lips
i would certainly lose my mind
and not want to be found ever again.

if i could call out your name
i would hope that the winds would show me pity
and carry my voice to your ears.

if i were to sing a song
it would be a beautiful ballad
every measure dedicated to another flawless part of you.

if i could build a bridge
that spanned across time
it would lead me back to that wednesday in august
in your arms
slipping into slumber to the rhythm
of the raindrops tapping upon the windowpane.

if i could tell a story
it would be of the way the sun chases the moon across the sky;
to urge everyone everywhere to cherish those close to them.

if i could make myself stronger
i would squeeze the earth until
the number of miles between you and i
dwindled down to zero.

if i could look into a mirror
i would be puzzled by what i would see
and find it hard to recognize
the face staring back at me.

if i could give you my heart
i would in an instant.
in the time it takes for my heart to beat its last iambic
i would rip open true ribs one through five
and offer my crimson ***** to you.

if i could have met you any other way
under different circumstances
in a different time
under a different sun
maybe this would have ended differently
or not ended at all.