The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,

she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,

gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic *******,

meanwhile resistance is still futile,

and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,

feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,

and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill *** whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,

and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,

or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,

because,

the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…

∆ LaLux ∆

Free link for new book: www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps

Here in America, number who knows what in education,
Where we excel in standardization,
Of souls and resumes
Where you need a 4.5 gpa
And hey, I know I’m one of the ones in the 1%
I’ll repent for my hypocrisy in saying “break free”
I know, poor me, being reduced to numbers just isn’t my thing
4.33, schedule block B, math, PE and chemistry
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe
I can feel my chest cave and shrink
That chewing glass feeling
And imagine the kids sitting on the brink of failure
Which has grown to become something:
A cacophony of the anti American dream
And therefore we’re stripped of autonomy
In the land of the free
“I pledge Allegiance to”
The US public education system which finds its niche in the fact
That witchcraft seems to be the way to survive it
Deviation from the norm is only embraced for a profit
So basically unless you’re an actual prophet I’d color in the lines
It’s not like you could find the time
After the 7 hours of school, 3 for homework, 2 for sports, 7 for sleep, 2 for eating, and half a minute for breathing
So on Gregory, on Denise, to your 9 to 5s
Of course there’s those that thrive
Living their best life outside the American Assembly line, like in algebra there’s an exception to every rule
So I’ll run the rat race September to December to spring break to summer and then start it over
I’ll chew my glass, if you’ll fill one up with champagne for June of 2020, when the real world begins,
Because the world of high school and imaginary is where I live.

see I wrote my pains plain because I know the struggles real well,
now the only shells I see are seashells,
now we pass the days surfing wave breaks no emails,
and all seems swell as we swim out when the sea swells.

Swimming in an ocean,
in a rainstorm,
lightening lights the liquid horizon, thunder cracks waves crash,
beautiful chaos,
within and without,
choppy waters commanding currents,
no definitive lines everything’s blurring.

She’s with me,
an angelic beauty,
fittingly,
from The City of Angels,
as am I,
we find,
we’ve found,
beautiful chaos in this ocean and these thunderous sounds...

The H Trilogy
Volume 1
7/7/16
∆

god bless america
and the free men shackled
in chains we deny ourselves to see,
and bullets that cloud our vision raining rivers of blood
that we wash off at night so we can sleep in peace
because we'd rather not believe that bad things happen here,
that a black man can be shot down because his blackness was too suspicious to be ignored,
so let us pledge our allegiance to silence
let's hold our tongues
and maybe we'll survive this corporate jungle,
and live the American Dream


A L Daniel

A year ago today my grandfather passed away, but he did not die. He lives.. and if you want to find him, find him within the crevices of my actions, my tenacity, and success. Crouch down and find him underneath all that I believe in, all I stand for, and all I will accomplish. Open me up and find him in everything that empowers me. He is the fight inside me.

Abuelo, a year ago you passed away, but you did not die. Your story radiates through my reality. Because of you I wear Cuba on my sleeve and I made sure that when you passed you did not take our story with you. Abuelo, I knew you were of Cuban pride, but I did not know that the shop you struggled to open is what allowed Cuban culture to cultivate so strongly in Elizabeth, NJ. I did not know you gave refugees gold jewelry for free so they could sell it for profit, and that you trusted them to pay you back whenever they could and settled that on a handshake. I did not know you were part of an organization of Cubans. I didn't know that hundreds of men revered you within that organization. I did not know you can make a room full of grown men cry. I learned this at your funeral.

A year ago my grandfather passed away, but he did not die. I am here, in the US, succeeding without financial burden. I am here because he left everything behind, including old friends, a successful business, his money and his culture. I am here because he took all four of his children with him. I am here because he refused to stop there. I am here because he had deep-seeded ambition and pushed through every challenge with his chest out and his head adamantly on his shoulders. I am here, I am happy, and I am secure--And because of that, he lives.

Abuelo, I must confess I took some things from you without asking. In the pocket of my heart I hold your ambition. In the pocket of my conscience I hold your integrity. Abuelo, you are in peace, but never will you be put to rest. Not within my lifetime.

Hands of rugged mysteries
typing letters    fast
counting down the minutes
time is standing still
  creating distant fantasies
within a neverland
knowing I will not fulfill
dreams and wishes   true

money spent
buying smiles
approval, but demise
for paper only melts in fire
souls go somewhere else

what is worth
effort
daily
for only
bones will
endure

confusion overcomes me
I'm at a loss
tossing money
wasting life
sitting in this cube
typing

Ring ring, screamed the teens phone,
Ding ****, cried the bell,
No ones answered a door for a friend,
Since the great wifi curtain fell,
Pay no attention to what you can be,
A wonderful world awaits,
Ran by blood and money,
Oh! The beauty of business baits,
The one true God,
the almighty dollar,
Dethrones that fraud.
And silences a Hollar.
Why feed the hungry,
When you can feed yourself,
Why give clean water,
When you can stock your shelf?

Well maybe I'm just tired,
Of always making excuses,
And maybe im just sick,
Of the horrible things we do,
I want a world desired,
Otherwise we're all useless.
I've given up on the *****.
That claims he wants what's best for you.

On the West Side of a flagpole,
In December's later breaths,
The wind whipped Winter's white quilt
Burnishing words, words, words,
From the ***** metal monument.
Knives and pens had etched
Their love into malleable matrimony
Beneath the flicker of that flag,
But the etchings became wishes
Of Winter's White Wedding.
My fingers grazed the forgetful frost
As muscle memory recalled
A pair of initials and an addition sign.
Fresh drops of condensed ice
Hung within the ridges
Of our four lettered addition problem.
I exhaled a condensed breath
Which sifted towards the pole
then dissipated.  
I glanced over as the moths
Attacked the only streetlight
Causing flickers of light
In the starless night sky.
A half second stare
Was a half second too long;
I looked back at the iron pole,
And the letters were gone.
A white wash of frost
Mixed with my exhale,
Covered the West Side of the flagpole.
Pockets of wind snapped in the flag.
I peered up at the streaks of crimson
And field of blue whipping in misery.
The seams of the flag's fabric
Became weathered and torn,
As I walked away from the flagpole—
Tired of dreaming in the stars.