I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt devestation
a death in the family took you by surprise
now you're contemplating suicide again
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt so proud
you graduated High School
you're screaming in your victory voice so loud
I stepped into your shoes today
and your heart is breaking
your boyfriend just broke up with you
you're throwing everything away that’s no longer worth saving
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt guilty
you cut after almost a year
now you're feeling ugly
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt depressed
you're getting ready to **** yourself
because you feel so helpless
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt scared
you're about to have your first baby
and the father isn’t there
I stepped into your shoes today
and I got a really bad tummy ache
you have Cancer and you're dying
there’s not much more your body can take
I stepped into your shoes today
and I started to cry
your husband was called into war
this could be your final goodbye
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt nervous
you're leaving for college in two days
and you can’t seem to find your courage
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt lost
you're five years old, you lost your Mom and it’s almost getting dark
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt overjoyed
you won an award for your writing
you are filled with so much pride
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt peace
you lived your life, you reached your dreams
you're as ready for death as you will ever be
I stepped into your shoes today
and I felt in love
you just married the love of your life
in front of your family, friends and God
I stepped back into my own shoes today
and I felt grateful
I realized I’m not the only one on earth with problems
and I’m thankful for all that I have

and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
  female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
  male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
   and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
  1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
                then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
  dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
    so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
         allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
    and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
   i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
             women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
      but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
  at the Australian Open!
             i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
             but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
      the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
   people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
  and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
   but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
    and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
             but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
              7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
     were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
           but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
      i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
           a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
           if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
    the national ghost?
                                     ha... ha ha... that would be
something...
          i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
                         human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
    i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
              but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
   what a terrible plight!
                         but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow...  or ów... however you speak it...
     depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
                    and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
   odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
                        if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
   i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
  and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
enough...
                   a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
                       it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
deconstructionalism...
                                     no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
        so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
     "ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
      Khmelnytsky -
                but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
     we have a pretty witty king,
     and whose word no man relies on,
     he never said a foolish thing,
     and never did a wise one...
    great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
   well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!

They all look so young and lively and free on the Berkeley campus
walking and smiling and dancing swing and exercising and studying in internet
cafes and along the college walk there are clubs: pre-dental society,
women engineers, others, worn signs that stay out all year long in California and wear well
like the Clinton/Gore bumper sticker still visible and affixed to the stop sign off Telegraph and I wonder when there will be an avenue called "Internet"
And along the walls of Cafe Mediterraneum are highlights of the sixties, photographed by the dead owner of the place and there are still students studying and wierdos and old people reading books but there is no inspiration here anymore
From my generation, the eighties there are no pictures, and none from the seventies either and from the nineties and this decade has come and gone without notice on the walls
because youth by itself does not renew and innovate and the pressures of culture are too strong to re-invent and
it's not like there's nothing wrong, nothing that needs to be changed in our world today if anything things are worse
but now youth is only thinking about youth and buying low and selling high and there is no more idealism, no more desire to rectify anything, only to establish oneself as part of the middle class or above and have a house and 2.5 children
when the world is quickly being destroyed now just not by war, or an atomic bomb
that would be obvious because it would be loud and white and then there would be darkness and drops of rain and devestation
but I think I want to drop an intellectual bomb on these young people and tell them to wake up and try to change the world again and stop watching Reality TV and
do something that will help the world and put your picture on the wall of the Mediteraneum because you are trying to help the collective good and not just feather your own nest and not just worship the rich and exploitive entrepeneurs and try to emulate them as we were told to do in the eighties because that is just selfish meaninglessness that can't keep being replicated in this world, because it can't withstand it
our land and water can't withstand this lifestyle and the dollar store selling cutesie things made in China are coming from child labor and blood money and this dollar store is on Telegraph and no one cares or notices not even the young,
as slave labor continues to produce goods, just not here, where you can see it
and even if you care about animals, you can think of two million cats and dogs torchured and skinned alive for their fur in China and you , Berkeley are wearing it onn your fur trimmed coats
There is an eeries silence on Telegraph now where there should be the aliveness of debate and not just to get ahead, but to give a voice to the voiceless and alleviate the real and obvious suffering in the world
So youth, you are not so young and fresh you are a dissapointment
you are cowardly, pondering your own navel
and submissive and I expect more
THIS IS NOT ENOUGH
change is frightening, but it is
the only thing
that will save us

If the dream dies,
Will it ever fly again?
Head on, crash course,
Destination Devestation.
So step on the gas, Baby.
We're gonna fly or die
In glorious flames.

we're all waiting in line
for the second to come
where we either fall off the cliff
or choose to jump

and get put out of our misery...
anticipation
impatience
boredom

a strangely familiar feeling of solidarity

it either feels like a waste of time
or like you have all the time in the world

either constrained
or free,

oh dear virtues of love and song!

what a slow painful bleeding
what an amazing violent relief
what a comedown
what beautiful brain swelling
an infinite white oblivion

what a sacrifice
what devotion
what passion

what music...

what a burden it must be for a musician
the bard who is to dwell in the ambivalence
the mime who wishes to sing
but remains a mute

oh cruel queue
oh manic elation
oh devestation

why must you rude & shove?
surely we can ration
is there not enough air?

this is not a line but a stampede
we remain trampled

have we not learned from the birds?
have we not learned from the herds?

we're all waiting in line
for the second to come
teetering above a white oblivion

infinite,
beautiful,
a comedown...
what a violent relief

what a slow painful bleeding

Laying on the floor Lying in wake
Waiting for the Blank
that will not come

Can't find the words
that express my face
It's all inside this shell
of Blank_

Dictionary aiding the soul
but is burned in translation
A darkness that fufills the rose
and is Blank devestation.

To express
To create
To release
To share
To unburden
To Blank__.

Money

     Corruption
     Change

             Loss
                   Devestation
                   Descent

   Stress
    Stress
    Stress

    Earn

Money

Work
    Hard
     Harder

   More
       Need
   More

Always

    Never
       Enough

Just
  Try

Survive

I knew it was dangerous..
To be in his very presence like a
Moth who's gotten himself too close to the light.
Like a natural born pacisfist picking a fight.
Like that "we need to talk" talk
that really isn't conversation just
candy coated devestation.
But no, I just couldn't believe what was so
easy to see.
I just got caught up in this moment like a
cat in a tree.
Like this rhyme without a beat.
And I'm sorry because
if I ever thought it would have to end like this..
Hell, I would do it again just to feel this bliss.

and my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
but maybe this story isnt mine
i always end up with the wrong words in my mouth
words that hail from bodies full of scars and cuts and long lonely nights and a bottle of pills that almost got swallowed and a phone call that saved a life
words that pour out of bodies hanging in poplar trees with their necks bent to the side like their raising their ears to heaven hoping to hear one last call from that angel's horn
words that taste too much like hell to fit with what little bit of heaven i get to live in
but my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
the bruises come from my own hands
my own hands turned claws
metal, grasping, crushing
digging into my hips like leaving bruises will make the words go away
it's not that i can't take a compliment
i mean
i can't take a compliment
but
i don't want this
i don't want this gift that won't fit into the puzzle of me
this piece with too many out-connectors and not enough in-connectors
this piece whose image is too bright
too colorful
too flavorful
too dreamy
too beautiful to match the devestation that i've built up
i'm too broken to be called beautiful
and not broken enough to complain
you see
i was raise the way you raise a good strong oak
take an acorn and dig a hole
drive that nut so far into the dark soil that you can't see it's top anymore
stomp the world flat again
and forget
but i was also raised the way a gallows is raised
with the reminder of all those that were hanged before
and the names of all those who will be hanged
my mother taught me how to mourn things that weren't my own
she gave me the gift of tears for others and took the tears i had for myself
she took so much
she was like Big Business or The Government
always asking for handouts and then getting mad when people don't want to pay up
my father just left
he didn't bother with goodbyes or sorrow or regret or fear or hesitation
he opened the door to a room just far enough away that i couldn't reach him
and plugged himself into a virtual world
one where his broken mirror reflection of his american dream would never catch up with him
and it worked
so now here i am
taking these words from a man's lips
wrapping both hands around them tightly
refusing to let go until the are crushed to dust
this is not a compliment it is a curse
a brand
hot metal pressing into skin and lifting smoke and screams to an eagerly awaiting sky
so i grab my own hips
leave hand prints there as often as possible
hoping to distract enough that i don't have to do this again
but then
maybe this isn't my story

In the face of devestation
After the nuclear bomb
In the voice of the survivors
The search for peace lives on

As they sit on there small island
Free from nuclear rain
They plead for peace
Spared to start again

So as they build a new world
Out of the ashes of the last
Born to strive for peace
After the nuclear blast

How many Martin luthers
Or John lennons will be born
The peace dreamers of the world
Slaughtered while we mourn

Is peace achievable
I guess we,ll never know
But to strive for peace
Is the only way to go

To hate is weakness
To love is power
Judgement day is coming
And in the final hour

As the buttons are pressed
And the missiles fly
And nuclear Armageddon
Blackens out the sky

As we fall to our knees
And accept our fate
As we finally realise
Peace came to late

When did hugging a
porcelain crown make
you the beautiful person
you've always been?

When did returning all
a day's calories make things
a bit better for you to deal
with?

Control. Power. Devestation.
All you're doing is losing.
Losing inches and pounds to
illness and frowns...ones that
are noticed more than you think.