write a poem.
its been two long years
and i fear I don't even know what a poem is.
i fear i've never even written one.
i look back at my fleet and
i see forced words prematurely picked
from their fields.
thrust into the arena as dogs
with their tails glued to their thighs.
i have succeeded at preparing a dish of
I am submerged in the nighttime
My fur glistens, orange and brown
The night meows a six cat cry.
Your lips split in color, halved
in russet and scarlet, hidden
under every bite of his bottom lip.
How do you know you're asleep?
I woke up feeling like we are 3D beings
and we can sculpt our souls into existence.
There is purpose in this rotting corpse
It smells of unwashed clothes, dirty floors
and sticky, farting diseased genitalia.
I slingshot red meat and white duck eggs
At your warm neck and the cozy feeling
Of someone alive and breathing beside you.
My hands are wrinkled in sea salt tears
My skin is still tight and these muscles
Are strong, strong enough to scar.
I was told we could be more than slaves
To money and the system, that we could
Afford a beating wing to let us fly and live.
Yet, we cry like groans and growls of cats
In the nighttime - unnerving and pitiful,
we snarl and scream till the morning.
Of President Donald Trump
Had finally become sick and tired
Of all the Environmentalists,
Who were interfering
With Trump's promise
To "Make America Great" again.
On Sunday, April 22, 2018,
A Group of Trump Loyalists
Opened fire on Environmental Activists
Gathered in Denver's Civic Center Park
In observance of Earth Day
With High-Powered Assault Rifles,
Killing 180 of them on the spot.
It was the largest Massacre
In the History of the State of Colorado.
The residents of Denver
Avoided the corpses, rotting in the Park
For 10 days
Out of fear
That they would also be
The Denver Police Department
Was not on the side
Of these White Supremacist Terrorists
But the cops were intimidated
By their firepower.
Only the crows flew into Civic Center Park
Poking away at the eyes of the Demonstrators....
Sucking out the juicy, tasty fluid.
A Group of Native American Activists arrived on the Scene
With wheel barrels,
And loaded the corpses of these Environmentalists
Into waiting trucks,
Parked on Lincoln Street.
They then drove the trucks
Clear up to the the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota,
Where they had prepared wood for funeral pyres
Along the White River.
They burned the bodies as Hindus would
Along the Sacred River Ganges.
The Women wailed, moaned and screamed in terror,
As the Men said prayers to the Creator,
To as for Forgiveness for Humanity
For What we had done to Mother Earth.
It was said that a Lone Bison arrived on the Scene
And silently observed this Mass-Funeral Ceremony
From an Escarpment overlooking the White River,
Mourning the Victims
Of the Denver Massacre
Along with the Tribe.
Nazis march through Charlottesville, their faces morbid
waving their tiki torches,
while my friends and I are on porches,
smoking jazz cigs, developing rigor mortis,
of the mind. Tune in when we're out of orbit,
to another news program,
drink wine, as we stare at the corpses.
As hatred and evil are combining forces.
You're choosing a Snapchat filter; so ignore this.
Make a FaceBook status, about preserving the status quo,
Pop another Adderall, as we prepare for the savage woe.
West side, is where the baddest go,
the meek building
their strength in the catacombs.
Lil sis is just glad you're home,
But she's sad that you're mad and stoned.
I tell the strong girl, "I'm stressed about the world.
So I'm trying to relax and escape.
Whatever, perhaps I'm irate, what do I know, except
these facts are engraved in wax and mixtapes"
I could tell from the worry on her face,
she couldn't understand,
Man turning into a boy,
and a girl turning into a boss
Lil sis pulls up a chair, sits down, and holds my hand.
She says, "Don't be stressed, just be happy."
But how can I be happy
when things are black vs. white,
and then white vs black. I can sit back,
laugh and write, pen down,
what's "right" and "wack."
Write some jokes and punchlines,
try to impress some girls at lunch time,
You woke up finally, smoke a P-Funk,
and ash on the construct of white supremacy.
Speaking up, might be the end of me,
But I got my sights on the enemy.
And If I don't flex my voice, I'll always remember the
one day that I could have spoken up,
Instead of choking up on a memory.
Instead of smoking bud and drinking Hennessy,
why can't we get off the porches, and be the remedy?
I guess we fear death as much as perception,
when we should fear regrets and regression,
How many times can we take a pill
and forget about their weapons?
Shout outs to the 1% who are trying to protect their check,
subtle loving for the set who they're reppin'
All we need is the youth to come together to face the dreary weather. But they drained the water from the fountain.
Now we're in this complacent well and we're drowning.
Hell and heaven, I can't tell the difference in the surroundings.
Or between the finish line and mountain.
A yes-man, who's like give me mine, or I'm bouncing.
Forgive my crime, the one for hounding.
These high bluffs can take only so much pounding.
Fill up the fountain with some new thoughts.
As we vape and drink this wine on top roof tops.
Solve the cipher
Find the answers
You won't make it
Out on your own
Free the vision
From the daylight
Before it fades
The waking world
Is not a place
You must emancipate
Free and fleeting
Rain down from the clouds
You're holding on...
Too late, its too late, you must know
Let it go
Corpse sober, crumbling, not so slow
Feed the cycle
Feed the new air
Clean the new skies
Eye of god
Stanley crawled along the shore
Holding the ocean in his hand
Bearing the words "Nevermore"
He was quite justifiably mad.
He had without, a coin to his name.
Nor the age of someone wiser.
Stanely, without thinking met a dame.
Who shared his love of a crappy writer.
I refrain from telling you so thusly.
But I authored this text thinking of me.
In my room, on a bed.
Too bad no one likes reading about poor people.
Stanelys dame had given him hope.
And tore it slowly without a sound.
Crushing, to his very soul.
He refused to swim, preferring to drown.
But I dare not say where stanely ends.
Or where his story dared to lead.
He did not drown within those depths.
How poetic that must have been.
Stanely looked upon the beach.
Feeling four winds at his heels.
His writers note had overreached.
And stanely cried, forgetting that girl.
His bulletproof boots
decorated with wet mud, dried blood
trampled fields of flowers
fourteen years before her.
She, a cloud of fluff and rain,
was his first shower.
He, a kick of crack cocaine,
was her fifteenth.
Every departure had her,
tasting of his cigarettes,
teary-eyed against his shoulders.
Every mile of distance had him,
singing to her songs,
pulsing to another woman’s skin.
Tonight, with their hands interwoven,
his lips parted open,
sweating as if birthing a confession,
her smile lingers, glistening
like snow nobody has walked on.