The Gargoyle on the roof.
How far you've come,
Without moving an inch.
Always there;
Often unseen.
Standing steadfast,
but time and the elements
Will always chip away.

The Gargoyle on the roof:
Sometimes small,
Sometimes large.
It will make itself known one day
When it finally flies but
Is found to be frozen in stone.
Tumbling, tumbling down
To hit the ground
And shatter
Or will it be saved
From it's terminal fall
By my unsuspecting brain?
Will I be the one
Who shatters?

thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live.
thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun.
thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural.
          (and those are the lucky ones.)
thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life.
thinking about the bodies in the street.
thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road.
thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified.
thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors.
thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting.
thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw.
thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close.
thinking about the eyes that will never again open.
thinking thinking thinking.

Rotting means having your brain
collapse in on itself in a grey gooey heap.
It means your eyes
falling apart and your tongue swelling up
and bursting
under the weight of a thousand maggots.
It's cutting your stomach into ribbons
and letting it shrivel into nothing.
It's letting your bones wither and crack
and your hair fall out
and it means curling up into a
dry
dusty
gooey
broken
slimy
oozing
ball.
I think I'm rotting.
Please help me.
Please help me,
I'm rotting.

The point of view
Is that it is pointed at you
of which your perspective is askewed
They will point to their point of view
demand that you start anew
Muddy the waters till it looks like a stew
murky and obtuse
gory and smelling of refuse
Lacking scenery the perfect image of destitute.
No refuge just excuse
one right after another
Soon all the words come together
Musty dusty and covered in leather
it all changes right before your eyes
now it looks right because your thruth started to die
now your whole life is just a big ole lie
That is the whole point of this
Your point of view
Is pointed at you
Now they are all the same
Your point of view is a point of view
It just isn't the same

Pink cherry blossoms fall like shedding tears
Gently caressing the earth as they land.
To me, it's just decay like rotting flesh
Of one once loved. Just bones and putrid smells

Idle conversation falling upon your tongue
As your bright eyes exclaim more than words could.
These words die out soon enough and I
Never cared for the company of beauty;
I am but a misshapen wretch beside you

Oh! Friend, lover, fiend and vagrant - sorry,
But I reject it all. My heart closes
Like a fist and all we were fades like
The stones at the foot of Ramses, devoid
Of what we once were; more ghosts than people.

Snows and skies of laughter slowly diminish,
I replace them with silence and apathy.
Soon I forget what was so funny
Nor do I particularly care.

The space between.

A time to sell yourself.

A time for passing.

Sometimes I touch the right.

Too much, the wrong.

Resplendent deterioration
we live by.

With casuistic slogans
and closing doors.

D'you know disembarkment
leads to land sickness?

It does.

And who can then make
heads or tails out of
the qualms of tolerance
and his cousin, ignorance?

Quite simply
I don’t care
lingering here
I stay, not listening
watching the world fall
I wear apathy nicely
it hangs right upon shoulders
and let the day build up
piling up around me
enjoy a cigarette
as I watch everything decay

Some people carry sorrow
In such a way that it flattens
Their shoulder blades
It erodes the spinal cord
And devours the skin
Until there is but a memory
Of a person that remains

And yet somehow
We continue to feast
On the crumbs of grief
That fall onto the dinner plates
Of our most fragile memories

And still we sleep
In the crevices of
Our deepest insecurities
Only to be comforted
By a gentle reminder
That the end is
Growing nearer everyday

And we continue to play
The part of the aspiring optimist
Always grinning and laughing
While what's left of our insides
Curdle and churn
For even they are aware
Of the lie that sorrow makes