Doubt is the lonely father of fear
Not a clad caped hero
Waiting to swoop in
And save the day
But a two faced killer clown
Wearing ****** crocs
With electric joy buzzer shocks
Sending surges through your veins
Sending urges that drive you insane
It may be in reason
It may be in season
But the summer heat
Can burn your feet
Under the fire of fire
Place you in stasis
As you wait to find were your space is
Letting others tell you were your place is
While they race to chase
A better life
Doubt can be better than blind
Adherence
You just have to watch out
For the dangerous side of doubt
Turn detective to fix the defective
And Steer clear of the fear
That disparages hope and reason

I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free               myself      from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.

You crossover the cutting board
Quick witted leather fitted
Eyes blasting beautiful rainbows
Muscle rippling with truth
Capes and cowls
Heroes and villains
Smiles and scowls
A league of Avengers
A modern mythology
Patterned after past pantheons
DC to Marvel
The same side of two twisted coins
The same lie that I love to enjoy
Fiction intertwined with philosophy
Violence intertwined with morality
Leaving me with these power fantasies
Of superhero friends and families
You’re on my tv, movie screen
In my comic books, novels,
And even in my dreams

In darkest days
In sorrow filled night
Do not crumble in hardest blight
Burn bright by fires light
For the path of pure is still in sight

Asphault rats                             Lonely suits
guide longing                            snug tightly
hungry beasts                            around cigarette
under bridges                            smoke hidden
through afterglow                    under ******
oceans rippling                         Ivy League
snarling hoods                         fraternity paddels
through tunnels                       slapping clean
leaving subway                        bruised-white
cars lonely                                old-money *****
trudging aimless                     walking tall
after some                                through window
fortune here                             lookouts of
in S.E                                        shining N.W
corners D.C.                            sidewalks D.C

I called you home for 3 years,
now return to your urban streets
to say goodbye.  

Thank you, love you.

One of my favorite hobbies
is watching people
on the train.
Some on their
daily commute,
dressed in suits,
hurriedly sipping
coffee,
checking their
wrists with
frequency,
ensuring they
arrive not even a
minute late.
So many,
myself included,
travel along to
their own
soundtracks,
earbuds helping
them to tune out
the cabin noise
around them.
Bodies swaying
back and forth,
movement in sync,
limbs dancing
the train's tango,
left, right,
forward, and back,
and for the encore,
we all jolt and jive hard
as the wheels
screech to a stop
halfway down the
green line.

The raindrops felt refreshing
As they splattered gently
Down my arms
That loosely gripped
My half-busted umbrella.
My shoes splished and
Splashed,
Not even bothering to
Avoid
The puddles,
Ruby red of my moccasins
Dyeing the skin on my feet
As the liquid
Soaked in.
The rainwater felt cool,
But my flannel hugged me tightly,
Breaking up the
Onset of goosebumps.
The trees and grassy lawns
Illuminated a bright green,
Lapping up the raindrops
Thirstily into their wide mouths.
With no guide,
My dampened feet lead their
Own way
Down streets and roads,
Diagonals, bobbing and
Weaving
Through the city limits.
No fear, stomach dropping,
For I knew
I would find my way.
Peaceful afternoon,
Rain dancing down from
The cloud-filled sky;
I wandered deep into a
Blissful promenade.

First it’s the pearls—little moons falling in the puddle
and the rain has made sure to make it just deep enough
for the muddy water to cover their shiny surface.

Then the gunshots—one,
two,
echo through the alley and you’re certain someone will be standing
at the end of the dark pavement,
at least around a nearby corner,
and they’ll hear you, hear the gunshots again
and again,
and again.

Because you do.

It’s the blood you notice last—the muddy puddle
that’s slowly being fed by a red liquid you’ve only
seen one more time before,
(you fell)
and suddenly the bats return from the dark cave—you
have scared them.

Years after the pearls,
and the gunshots,
and the blood,

but not after pearls,
and gunshots
—more blood,

you realize the bat doesn’t symbolize your fear of
falling,
but it was the shape your parents’ blood took when a
J and a C painted their portraits.

At the end of the alley,
at the end of an alley,
at the end of many alleys
stands a masked man.
It does resemble you an awful lot.