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Mike Essig Apr 2015
Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile**

July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to **** or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black **** dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply ******
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad *** nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-***** possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.
Indian/Native America/First Citizen (take your PC pick) poet of considerable talent and power.
Father, Mother, Brother
how can you watch me burn and do nothing
why do I have to be something when you'll just sit there and do nothing
Could you wait just two years or 25 months
before I form and become a someone
even though I'll have to wait another 16 years for you to sell me into hell

Oh guitars, strings, beautiful women, burnt wings
Palpilated lungs, gross strings
5000 thousand punches for Memory
here you are, take your  guitar back
Without you Memory I am just a Moment and no one remembers me
Fly Memory, be the star of the show
Some things you cannot erase unfortunately
especially if past the times of threes

So a new chapter has to unfold naturally
Soon we go into old age and the occult evils **** our inner child
But Mother at 16; this feels like 1976
You couldn't wait until you were 18
And now a programmed memory has to take your punches just to have the momentous opportunity to be young again
So scarred and ***** - loose you regret the decision that you took

so from an artist here is then live tragic drama, we die because you fail to brace yourselves and lose the war against lust and its evil friends
why am I born Memory  to be abused and take the fall of the irresponsibility of others?
Whose Life is it anyway?
Why am I born to wipe the buttocks of other men and on retirement have them wondering where I have gone
Is it not their own filth anyway?
Are they so crippled that they cannot clean up after themselves?
To the crippled I aplogize that some mock you

It is out of the disrespect of Divinity
Out of the disrespect of Life
A spit on humanity
A shame to soul for those who do these evils have sold their souls
Much to the unfair despair of innocent children
I will tell you this from a child just born or 3 months old: "Why do they bring me into an evil world when they have not even bothered fighting and wrestling against these evils. for every child born how many souls are saved or the world changed?"

Poor child many of the poeple here don't live to fight evil.
They live to sustain it
They hold up its pillars and cast black magic like a futuristic video game
They cannot care sincerely and deeply enough for the scarred, the martyrs, those who die for their Nation
They serve self and ego and an age old reptile livelihood of feeding on negative energy
Without murders, evil rituals and sacrifices: they starve to death
You and I both on Deathrow, I don't know why you'd even bother coming here
What's sad is that the truth seekers and soldiers of Light have done all they had to do
it's a matter of the children of all nations to choose Heaven over Hell
But heaven does not beg for occupants
the Light is
not maybe, not predicted
Just is. like Justice
If that's anything, I have earned my Freedom
It's up to every soul to search within itself the voice and will to stand against the shoulders of evil
Memory I have taken all these punches for you and fought for you, time to get off the wheelchair and stand on your own
Memory take your guitar of burdens now, I have proved my point as a passing Moment.
Happiness was on my side but really symbols of Luck got me this far and my dead grandmother knew it before me.
.
King Tutankhamun Apr 2017
first there was darkness
then came along the light shining bright
was a brother like me
made insight
brought joy intead of a toy
mama got tears
cuz it was a boy
made from bed ruckus trust us
i aint going no where
stop and stare
At the spiritual Sun
and recollect what God set and reject
what society sets
as a standard
since im a ******* child
destined for. a casket
though i mastered
the game
puttin' enemies to shame
with a single flame
burn em til they
a grain
of salt takes sip of the malt
liquor the quicker
i get with my flow
lets not forget that indo puffin slow
as my visions sped
feelin the last of a dying breed
though a corrupt seed indeed
greed feeds
a hungry soul
yearning for cash rolls
only to take a
bad toll and stroll
down to the valley
of deathrow
with each and every breath
i plan my steps
got these demons watching me
for cheap currency
but they cant milk me
cuz made my own serials
knockin- imperials
down the system goes
stay on my toes
watch the game
cuz fools actin strange
its time rearrange
thangs the way they
used to be phonies actin' like ya homies
til the good times
run out no doubt
since i got no love
from the start
i knew my part
gotta black heart
got **** im feelin hopeless
struggle getting bigger
but they tell me
to hope less
dont got no posses
so i stay to myself
watching my health
keeps techs on my  shelf
just incase of a confrontation
it's me against the nation
gotta **** the litigation
if ya black like me
know you an enemy
to them devils around the
media
you know how they label  us
say we equal?
but I always see the cops bust
at our frame crimes go untamed
uncharged
feelin' left out of barge
as i sit back n charge
my mental sittin next to me is my pistol
tryna figure out
where do i wanna go?
is it life or death
im attracted to?
cuz these spirits that guide you
giving multiple clues
harsh ghetto blues
coming through
the neighborhood up to no good
black males misunderstood
can't help but bang my wood
cant a find a woman
whos really down for the cause
loves at a pause
got closed jaws
hand on my *****
as i stand against the walls
silent pains kills us all
got **** this aint life G
everyday they keep pushing us back
to slavery
but **** it
i fight against the will
powers that be in this reality
i know they dont like me
soon to see a jail
cell times aint well
can't break a job
so i guess its back to crack sales
hustle fiendin cash im dreamin'
adversaries come in
as tag teams and
can ya see me streamin'
up **** creek weak
loves to honor
the dead and gone
im in a new zone
prone to rippin- up ****
dont give a **** if die broke *****
lady liberty aint nothing but a *** to me
ya see trumps presidency
makin' po folks move residency
can ya see?
i feel like the begotten son
the only one
conscious sick of nonsense
somebody help me?
im going crazy
*** my mind refuse to  be lazy
cuz lately prophecy
be layin' on my mentality
cant focus in reality
cuz im spiritually touched
in world so clutched
by stupidity in actuality
my locality be
in the darkest state of mind as I grind
with this plot  made
hopefully we can all evade
the troubles coming ahead
and im in yo head
like thoughts soon to be said
this is my daily bread
feelin' invincible
which maybe explains
why???
im untouchable????
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
tenet fingers could ed braille,
hard-skinned fingers
could read nothing,
but morse-braille...
   and then there's stenography...
why o why
is the diacritical tilde
   (                  ~                  )
used to vacate either m,
    or the rattle-snake, trilling,
rolling implosion of the shape of R?
sure, b as 6... p as a copernican
north-by-north-west d...
   P as chiral narcissus 9...
     A as lambda (Λ)
and suma summarum:
a return to Phoenician
     jurisprudence and lament...
or rather lamed, subtle variations
circa 90°...
    E, I, K, V...
        how much of injustice
is grounded upon the "logic"
of stenography...
                         which could introduce
tilde to replace either M, or R...
thus said...
compared to braille,
and the simplified braille via morse
encapsulation? stenography
is cuneiform by comparison,
what's the point of shorthand,
when certain cases are delayed,
and delayed...
and 20 years later on deathrow,
enough time to see Johnny Cash
die of old age... and still waiting...
needless to say,
braille combined with morse
makes more sense than
     stenography...
                   almost as if...
you're begging to see a man
possessing a chronology of
20 years of sight,
attempting to discourage
braille writers from owning
punctuation marks, instead,
focusing on spacing...
    of man's notion of serving
justice... culminating in the nonsense
of stenography...
with either M or R,
marked by a tilde...
              should a blindman write
in braille... what the stenographer
writes in resurrected Phoenician...
as quickly as...
    a death sentence becomes
a liberty,
         for poor Xavier...
       than the upper tier of
zoology, lodged in a life
measured by: x cubed...
             man has another name
for passing law...
namely... imbedding itself in delay...
once a life, reduced to the frivolity
of micro-aggression,
culminating in, waiting for a bus,
five minutes late...
          that death that sloth
that slouch, that... ******.
Skyler M  Sep 2017
Dadda
Skyler M Sep 2017
Dadda
There's something I need to say
Dadda
There's something on my mind

I'm watching stars come crashing down
As the moon screams in delight
the wind whispers my name
Saying, "Everything will be alright."

I can't see your eyes and I'm tasting mud
But pools of static are haunting mine.
I wish to hold on to something strong
but the arm that I'm grasping is unlatching now...

Dadda
I'm telling the jury the puppet is dancing
Dadda
I've had your shoes, I put them on for size

Though I never saw the gun by your bedside,
Now I can feel your breath fading
I'll go crawling down
Looking for a dead body

He can't hear me scream his name
the jury's decided no more playing
Deathrow for the man with a tender embrace

Dadda...

Dadda...

Dadda...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
i sometimes wait for words to appear...
out of the blue...
spontaneity and all that: "wonder"...
i mean... what would that look like...
if it wasn't a hidden emphasis: (colon)...
and later something in talian...
it got it, it, got it, it got it? it it:
tags galore!

as to why people complain about their past...
i know of a quote:
some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must lead...
true cpt. ahab... or half an arab...
i like my past in that...
whatever wrong i have ever done...
i'm grieving...
the rest of it is... why do i fancy myself
a music buff over a movie boffin?
well... i like to think that my memory
is a bit of my very own:
cameo role b-movie cinema galore!
no wonder... alzheimer's and...
when all these people treat their past
as a regret...
a past is past.... and what not...
i like to ferment in the past...
as much as i once loved movies...
memory is a cinema...
never listen to the grey-area of
those paratroopers forever landing
in a cul de sac of "now"...

if you're going to toast rye bread...
you need to toast rye bed twice...
compared to toasting your standard white loaf...
rye bread requires... sometimes
the most spectacular revelation of patience...
your finger is already roving in a ***
of humos and the gherkins are are already
being bitten off: no heads to begin with...
but... whatever...

i like my past...
i have a memory bank like an elephant...
whatever i did wrong...
well: there's an iron maiden for that sort
of thing...
but i will not be told to uphold the sort of crucifix
masochism of a spectacle...
hey'zeus and je susan to boot...
rye bread...
you need to toast it twice...
if you want the crisp...
and the butter to melt into it like...
someone with a hangover attempting:
clarification bacon when... sun-tanning...

me? inspiration? i'd rather wait for a bus...
shuffle my feet in imitation
tango and scare a shadow while
catching a mouse using no amount of cheese!
that's me... secondant...
to major major: anyone not
milo minderbinder but me?
well then... quack salute and goose-stepping
a mile toward: the future a blank
with no cinema...

why forget the past when it can be such
great cinema?!
perhaps that's why i don't dream that much...
although...
the last dream i had...
i was pinching and pulling out...
splinters of wood from my right hand...
some appeared tiny at first...
later they emerged the size length and thickness
akin to legs of a table...
wooden splinters...
if these aren't dreams about teeth...
they have to be dreams about pulling
splinters from the hand...

what's next? giving birth to turds
and tapeworms?! or cackling penguins?!
what new dream?
attempting to melt a **** of butter
while rubbing it into the skin of a *******
walrus?! expecting to hear a purr?!

what is psychology? i thought that psychopathy
covered it all...
pathology of having a soul...
no... psychology counters psychopathy:
there's a second tier of thinking...
counter impulsive... conscience riddled...
chasm of: when aladdin meets the jinn...

little rubric friend of m'aye:
if... god is dead... this existence is wholly
materialistic: if god is dead
there's no need to cage the body
into a soul... and reverse...
the psychopathy of: the non-existence
of a soul... negation...
this psychology of: lost optics of 1 + 1 = 2...
the logicstics of: a soul with ****** logistics...
cage confined to a cage...

the logic confined to: a soul...
with is lent from god...
but the non-existence of god is...
also... a non-existence of the soul...
why bother then...
what then is the antonym of soul
that animates the body...
that which is unconscious is keeping
a solid heart-beat...
the functions of the liver...
i am the host... i am... while the body
is landlord...
psychology and psychopathy...
one side says: the other side simplifies
impulses... to have a soul is wrong...
psychopathy -
apathy... and to be psychopathic is
wrong "summa summarum"...

if not soul then: sigma (Σ)... we can call it that...
what coordination reprieve?
the Σ forgot the function of the liver...
when the brain demanded: knock-out drinking
habit... day in day out... 7 years and counting!
**** the liver: the brain needs a kipper!

and words sometimes do appear...
like so...
because they have themselves being circumstanced
against a blockage...
a constipation of sentencing the eyes
to staring at a blank piece of paper...
and no further avenues of coordination
the remaining 10 minutes before...
taking the pillow to a viennese waltz...
hugging... being reunited with Cain in Knox & Nod...
perhaps Abel was just a...
annoying ****-whisperer?
after all... last time i heard: Cain's ******
was driven by the fact that...
tomatoes have no blood...
cucumbers have no blood...
that Cain was a vegetarian...
some oops and some horseshoes making
their m.o.t. pass in the crux reminder of
seeking fit to trot via the cobblestone...

spoken like someone who would drive a car...
an alsatian and a sledge... yes...
a bicycle... yes...
a bus a train... yes...
a horse... yes...
but a car? do i look like a ******* h'american
whereby i drive a car: legally...
before i drink from ms. amber's ****: legally?
give me a horse and a bottle of whiskey...
i don't need mr. hamster and the traffic olympics:
for that one-once-upon-a-time "pull"...
sorry... sprain... of:
when no apple pie, warm, was handy...
the floral pattern of excess ******* had to do
"it" justice...

honestly: drink first: thirst first...
and adore the double-decker.... otherwise a nostalgia:
oh no... memory and nostalgia don't mingle...
not if memory is to be treated as a cinematic
escapade... nostalgia is not part of
the hong kong double-decker...
but... to drink prior to it being legal for you
to drive... well: no one of me
is going to be the designated taxi driver interlude
"watchman"...

from the day i started drinking,
it was a pretty ******* clear pythagorean statement...
you drink... you take the bus...
you drink... you walk...
what always eased the walking part?
it's the "deathrow mile"...
again... misnomer... the greater the meaning
of the walk... the shorter the actual distance
being walked...
blink and you might just miss it...
engage with former rage galore...
of clubbing and coming home with nothing
but regress and Greta -

i sometimes wait for words to appear.

— The End —