I'm a white, male,
American dreamsicle
who says "****"
way too much
to not be cool.

I read about my father issues
on my mother's face.
I hate things and people
because the news told me to.
Art is ****** and ****** is art;
when Billy killed Sue,
my heart raced.
Do drugs with me
or do none at all;
promise me when we're high
we won't fall.

There are ******* on the street
and the cops are shooting them.
There are ******* kissing
and old, white men are scared.
There are mentally ill people
and they are "seeking attention".
There are women with voices
and old, white men are scared.

I am an American Dreamsicle:
cold, unhealthy, and killing your kids.
You can buy me for 40% off
and I promise to take 60% of your ideals.
I am what my parents don't want me to be
and that is the appeal.
Little do I know, I am every thing you are
and that is my cancer.

I dream of a place,

only I know that of.

A place

so far away,

far enough so that I no longer hear the noise.

The noise of the car engines roaring,

trains screaming,

and tainted beats,

blaring out of miscellaneous speakers.

So that the only thing I hear

is the sweet sound of nature

and the soft,

flowing music

that courses through thin wires

that connect my anatomy to

a powered, handheld device.

And in this place,

I lie

awake,

with only my thoughts.

And finally,

for once,

I am at peace.

I keep
  falling into love
and walking into walls
tripping over boundaries
    and overstepping limits
I guess the only thing
  you left me
was a diminished
      sense of space.

The story of you and me is my favorite story to tell.

A body has length, width, mass and occupies space
But in what relationship to time?
When did it begin and must it end?
A mere witness is required at the mark of the line

But a rock is not a baby
You could ask a scientist
But as we walk there is no need to know
For the body is there in motion and at rest

For man it is what it is
Utility, beauty, an obstacle
A nuisance
A receptacle
We perceive its properties
And what it means to us
We know it occupies space
Regardless of how gracious
Just because it is
It does not care about what
Unless it knows to survive
Or it bleeds when cut

What science
Tells me I’m cold?
What theory
Confirms I’m old?
There is a perception of what I have seen
Through my own eyes
Without reading a book
I wonder if I believe in lies

I know the absence of light can make red black
I know a rock is a rock
But the illusion is defined by a relation
For color or stone is defined by what it is not

To what end a distraction of sound unoccupying space?
A beautiful sound occupies time
And time stops for us yet we know this is not true
Because the witness has continued to draw the line
The scientist can measure
And I can walk in a circle
As I ponder what it is that I hear
I wonder if that is the particle?
For what man once saw
And could not hear
Was there all along
In the air
When birds flew near

What is next?
Will it erase everything we know?
I don’t need gravity anymore than I need long ago
For what change would be in me
When a magnetism between the earth and myself
Is assumed
While that thing between you and I
Is something I always felt

Someone called it God
Something I cannot explain
I wonder if they can
We are resigned to believe in a superior brain
I read the words about mass and volume
And a higgs and a boson
But the sun continues to rise and set
And the wind and rain fill each season

They broke bread and opened a bottle
They congratulated one another
But who was saved and who was condemned
In a sub-atomic world where no baby can find its mother?

The God Particle
Can it save my Father or your wife?
Can it save the world?
Can it bring my friend back to life?
I think we will continue to suffer
For as knowledge continues to make itself available
We retreat into the minds of others who think
And man defines himself by what he is unable
Yes by what he is unable to do
And what he is unable to know
And what he is unable to conceive
And how he is unable to grow

Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.

What would happen if, instead,
we digested
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and backs
and legs
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?

Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
and fondness
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
would it?

Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.