To my young eyes
To my innocent heart
I remember the world was a blueprint on canvas
It was a dream undreamt
It was a song unsung
As if in a crib, I looked about me at the stars of the cities
Constellations of people hung about
Their wounds and aches, joys and laughter, were the myths
Like the Zodiacs, groups of these people
Could define a person
Yet believing myself undefined, I strode out from shelter
Fearless
Untamed, I ventured to find my purpose
A purpose that would shake the mountain
Rain down the ash of winter
Smother the pits below my dreams
Cull the nightmares that stoke my fears
I waited
I waited, I waited
I tell you the waiting became my purpose
Finally, there, in the clutch of time, I found my calling
I will tell you all of the waiting
I will tell you, don't wait...

Don't wait for the door to ring
or the latch to unlock

Do not wait for the song to play
or the band to sit

Open the door
Be the composer
Be the pilot of your dreams, be the chieftain, be the god

While waiting for what I could be
I saw everyone else become

With the zeal of their hearts
I saw them build, I saw them grow
This one built a nest
That one stitched a doll
Now the doll's a mannequin and my waiting missed the change

I waited for the waiting to end
I waited for the wanting to decide
I waited for foe or friend
I waited until
there was nothing left inside

Where is the zeal of my heart
The timbre of my soul
I lost the sight, the sound, the love
because waiting took its toll...

so im here to baby sit while u cry over ur
non ex
ex cause me
I dont buy it
I won't even waste my change on it
u can't change
I won't even give u a tip
ur just a cosmic tragedy
let ur emotions
dictate ever single movement
and that's why I cant see thru the *******
sorry but I got 30/20 vision
In both eyes
sometimes in my dreams
I can see our destiny's
yet u still here lying about the present
can't u see it hurts me to see
the truth come true
it's resilient
I see a truth 30/20 vision
dat u just can't accept
or admit to
telling u the end of us  begins with you
you just can't actually be true
u just can't actually be genuine
I pity you
a tragic comedy
something outta a Shakespearean tragedy.

My grandparents gave me a holiday card.
My grandfather wrote in it, "stay young as long as possible so we can watch you grow for a little longer."
In the card, they put a $20 bill for me to keep.

How ironic that they tell me to stay young then hand me the social construct of deconstruction; of internal combustion.
Part of being young is not understanding social constructs, like money, class, privilege.
Please don't hand me money if you want me to stay the way I am.

I truly do want to stay young, though. I want to stay oblivious.
It's hard when you hand me the world's struggle in the form of paper and tell me to stay happier for longer so you may have the privilege of watching my joy and be delighted for it.

Oblivious.

WHy?
I've been screaming it in your face
End me before I do the same to you
If I had met you before
Would we still end up this way?
Before I went down this path
I could have turned around into your arms
Yet one of us must meet the cold embrace of death
by the point of the knife that each of us directs at the other
chaste kisses we share with knives digging into our hearts
we share a love
we share a hate
but our goals clash and so do our lives
we both will lose
but only one loses their life

Why did you hesitate?
If you give me an inch I'll take all that you love
End me swiftly and let me feel your love one last time
tender words we whisper in secret
glances we take when no one is looking
even our dances of death together is an act of love
a love doomed is better than none at all
our time was meant to be short
we can't come out together
your hands shake as your sword digs deeper into my skin
Don't you dare pull back



don't cry
if you can't bear to blacken your heart
I'll do it for you
After all I can't let my darkness touch your light
Just one tug inwards and I can finally rest in your arms

Let's meet again in another life
I'll give you my heart without the ugliness of the world clouding my intentions
I'll live for you
my hands won't ****
We'll embrace until our hair turns silver
In every life after that one we'll be together
just not this one

I used to hang out in abandoned buildings.
Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor;
sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams
and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes.
Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick
where heavy glass windows once stood;
tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning
people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law.
The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble.
Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while
driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania.
I would park and discern through google maps on how
to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before
Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit
of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and
various sweatshops overseas.

I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA,
looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings
into which I could furtively enter and abide.
Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem.
It was me and my two feet,
a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories,
maybe some take out for dinner and all is well.
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends.
I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things.
I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a
posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community.
That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of
my slow motion odyssey of self destruction;
dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many
chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked
by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart.
Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.

Abandoned buildings are safe.
There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation.
There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere.
There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth.
There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor
and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.

My face was a Greco-Roman mask.
Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song,
the outermost edge of my heart.
That through which sound passes.

"She's long ago forgotten me."
"I hope she finds me in lonely rain."

We were in love with someone we can't keep or save.
We were in fight with that reality, we called it love and hate.
We were in suffer for this tragedy we called romance.
We were in trapped the way it called game, but nobody knows how ready they are.
The tragedy we called romance, the way the heart's broken, the adrenaline when we were in love.

"It's too late to grow a beautiful flower with the same sun in the wild street", said the man who was sitting on the park bench eating his own ****.

I’ve written enough small poetry
to start a nuclear war.
Do you want to die in traffic
behind the wheel of your car? Or in yr rodeer camp next fall.

Control eludes us. The hero
loses urinary control, the unified nation
loses missile control, lost my timepiece, lost my metronome,
now my music is ethereal as an archangel’s.

No owl hoots or duck quacks
or squirrels *******
or spiders spanning rampikes.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of nature.

No greater tragedy than a tipping
point that tests the hero’s gullibility, complicity,
self-control, comity, sense of humor
which is the only remedy not to hate those in authority.

Them guys with guns at the Michigan state house,
fat bearded tattooed ******* white bros.
Norsemen, Crusaders, Vikings, Britons.
For despair there is no forgiveness. Peace out.

Nuclear mischief, mad Man’s most incandescent bloom
and the devil who exists to carry the load
when we misbehave and fight among ourselves.
I wake up to my skin boiling off my bones.

Humor is the only remedy, or is ardor the best way forward.
We’ll see how things work out in the next generation.
The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s
      beginning
trying to reverse the future, making phone calls to get out the vote in
      Georgia, hating the desert for having no water.

Events keep piling up,
the future depends on ourselves.
Conflict is inevitable and in this conflict power must be challenged by
      power
so err on the side of patience, perseverance and impermanence.