You walked in
a pool of sharks
knowing where the good fish is
and the plankton floats

You were floating in
a great ocean of possibilities
some so foreign, your eyes dilated
some so familiar you felt elated

You slid next to great whales of knowledge
and shook the tentacles with wise octopi
with strands of experience

You got bitten by piranhas of isolation
and even bled internally from bumping shoulders
with beautiful heartless corals

Then one day you met a seashell and her friend
you marveled at the intricate art of nature
and became friends
this time you had the courage to knock

Not all hard exteriors
reflect tough
personalities

You just
had to
knock

He laughed a little, but
His eyes left
Already forgotten
What I'd said
As I slipped from the room.

Waved, gingering hair, it did,
Likely to miss me on
That busy head.
Surrounded by the thick dark
That feels like swimming.

In truth, I enjoyed our chat,
However short he made it,
But I couldn't forget
Those quivering eyes
And the way they settled
As I left.

It wasn't only me,
Many others try
Miners all the lot of us
But sculptors carve the rock better
And by now

All he is is stone.

How come we fight for our country and put our lives on the line, for a corrupt political system and officials that lie.

We fight overseas for our freedom, and we do so with honor. Yet how can we be free, when our government is secretly keeping all of its citizens monitored. Its no secret Americas broke, so its a joke that we still spend, billions of dollars a year on our nations defense.

I guess when your obsession is power, the best direction is war. When were face to face with recession, how can we justifiably spend more.

We stand by our leaders. We expect their actions to  honor there name. Only to be left with corporate corruption, financed for political gain. Now a days the word justice, fails to hold its function. When big business contributions, purchase the people that govern us.

So how do you tell the people, that our debit is so vast. That our currency is becoming worthless, without panicking the mass.

By consistently creating conflicts, that create a flow of cash.
This is how it all works, with the current system in play. The poor go to a war, that the the middle class pays, the people in power see a profit, and the soldiers feel the pain.

The middle class idea of theft--
where we eat at semi-fancy restaurants
seated at faux leather interior
deep seated dimly lit coves
dine in a sarcophagus of tasty mildew.

A youth lends their smile
teeth faintly shine through,
but roughly cut short of sincere;
on their lapel in fine print the label says Sandy.

Flexing water spotted plastic
black brim borders
and articulated names of food
that would put all of Italy to shame.

Porcelain plates hold lofty portions
of what is purely compensation
as texture and flavor remind me of my adolescence
this is when Playdoh and Crayons are used for flavoring.

A slate for my signature is provided
and the upside to this all
was the perfection of a pen they lent me
it was ball tip and bright pink--
finally something I'd be glad to take home with me.

Tear it up and turn it grey
for the sanitized miles.
Turn it grey and tear it up
for clean-cut faces' ***** smiles.
That's the uptown style, boy--
                  the predator's call--
so bring your knives and brass knuckles
to the board meeting ball.

I've watched my town follow gridlines

from city parks to parking lots

And I can read the prescription

spray-painted on the Wal-Mart wall

               I'd turn away
                if I could...

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
WITH A BELLY FULL OF MEAT
WHEN ASPHALT COVERS ******* FLESH
AND YOUR DREAMS ARE ALL CONCRETE

TWO A DAY
TAKE TWO A DAY
Then try to get some sleep
where the wires and the tenants wear fatigue.

Turn it up and tear away
all the sanitized grins.
Watch the businessmen play checkers,
watch the crocodiles win.
That's the uptown game, kid--
                  the alpha wolf's goal--
lap the blood off boardroom tables,
let the necktied heads roll.

They used to watch their kids play there.

Trees, voices, playgrounds are all gone.

And you can see the prescription

spelled out above the mini-malls.

              can't run away;
              wish you could...

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
OR A MOUTHFUL ALL THEY CARE.
WHEN LIONS LEAVE THE BALLROOM,
THERE WON'T BE ONE BONE TO SPARE.

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
WITH A BELLY FULL OF MEAT.
AMBITION RIPS THROUGH ****** FLESH
AND BLEEDS DOLLARS FROM CONCRETE.

TWO A DAY
TAKE TWO A DAY
Then try to get some sleep
where tenants and the wiring are fatigued.

I left her room for improvement, but then she occupied it with other people's shoes as if any of them could ever suit her. The company she keeps wage minimally. They place their bets where she places her rest. I placed my bet where she places her plate. She knows exactly what I brought to the table, but yet she is in bed with them? Business partners she says? Well then that's just bad company and this is precisely why...

I left...

The Tie is a bib for men.
For different sorts of messes.
No longer exclusively dribble and bile.
Yes, we may use them for mornings
after our red solo sippy cups
time machine us neanderthal.
But men also have other messes to bib tie.

Like:
friendly faces at work.
not friendly faces at work.
faces on ex's at work.
Ex's faces on not friendly faces and other various places at work.

Men bib tie their feelings.
Or at least that's the media stressed norm.
Men can also not bib tie their feelings
Or bib tie the wrong feelings.
bib tie love when it's wrong to feel it.
Bib tie love when it hurts to feel it.
Bib tie their opinions
when speaking to people who disagree
Bib tie the need to look, only...
Touch, just...
Grab, just
Have, just
Use, just....
Put it in the bib tie.
Stuff it right in there.
That's where all your messes go now.

At a funeral, men do not use their bib Tie as Hankie
They let their tears fall.
Bib ties are not tissues.
You do not simply wipe up your mess with a bib tie.

Put the pain inside it
At the end of the day
You take it off.

Put the used up bib tie in patchwork briefcase under bed.
Passed down by fathers.
Full of generations of used up bib ties.
Like ***** dream catchers.

Knotted hands and looped desire.
fastened snuggly into their folds.

If only more men wore Ties.

It's odd to be a peon.
To sit in a grey Office.
Blue tucked in button up.
Red tie.
My opinion is irrelevant.
It's hard, it's rough.
It's not safe.
I am disposable.
All face to face is false.
My red tie doesn't help me.
It only stands me up.
I look left and find a man
both dressed and sitting down.
Whiskers ***** from his chin.
Teeth behind them smile.
A bit lip, a burnt tongue.
From the coffee on his desk.
He doesn't seem to have a soul left.
This cubicle has leeched it away.
I too have bit lip and burnt tongue.
From coffee on my desk.
I too am dressed and sitting down.
Am I doomed to a similar fate?
I wear the costume, blue shirt, grey slacks.
I look like I fit in.
But I add a flair to my uniform.
White and pink bunny ears.
Not too silly
Just enough.
My foot thumps the ground at excitement for my call.
My nose twitches at the smell of strangers as they pass.
I may not nibble carrots or hop around grass.
But I'm the call center bunny.
I'd much rather be different.
It feels wrong to fit in after so many years of being different.
I need to be looked at, laughed at, loved.
I can't be cookie cutter.
But I can cut cookies and hand them out.
Being ignored just felt so wrong.
If i do this right. They'll remember me.