#lux
The last time I was on this train it was a one way back to the city we hated the most, you were off fighting your demons and I was was here trying to forget.
You were everywhere I looked,
even on a bus ride into a town I knew you hadn't touched still made me feel closer because it was the shortest distance we had been in months.
I often wonder if the you are lingering somewhere inside a body you no longer belong to.
If getting on a plane to somewhere far and unknown was a way of escaping for you, I can understand that more now than I did when I was 18 . maybe you just figured it out before I did
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 3:58 PM UTC
I tried to recall your face again.
I haven't tried in such a long time,
I remember the frame being as familiar as the back of my hand,
the white of your eyes being too white, eyes like a sunset
how your smile took up your whole face
the faint sound of your laugh,
I always come up lost within your floating matter
which quiet frankly just doesn't matter anymore.
(at least it shouldn't)
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 3:31 PM UTC
I still haven't forgotten how close we were to the edge,
We could have taken one step
and almost found each other curled up beside one another in the morning. What you're thinking is right, "almost".
There will be a day when I forget because "almost"
is too small of a word for me to hold on to.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 3:12 PM UTC
I realized that this town and this state
is as hollow as the people who run it
and i am finally understanding
why it was so easy to leave
e v e r y t h i n g
and never look back
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
You're like the ocean, I can never get tired of looking in your direction
and I've never seen brown eyes look so blue.
No matter how rough the waves got,
The noise the water made when hitting the surface
never bothered me,
I can only smile at how beautiful it was when the sun hit the shore.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 2:55 PM UTC
A mother ignoring the cry of her baby.
A wife in a mans gear.
Heavy pan of pain, ignored to the smile from the smell of a paper.
Respect lost, control in hands of currency weight.
A lonely woman
With no dream or ambition.
The gift of child birth ,
Now the token of burden and regret.
Love painted in hate.
Smile cloaked in anger.
Subject to his satisfaction at night
Bearer of his weakness in the day
A girl deceived by love
now a mother stretched to the core
The love for lust
Backwashed in a pain that last
Memories are a reflection of the present
Caged by the decision to love
Chained to his lax
Hope of smile ... a matter of course
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 6:57 PM UTC
Feeling like Diogenes,
exhausted from extensively searching for an honest man,
a Cynic Philosopher,
with an astonishment for that which is the common man,
which has him hiding way all disgruntled and,
trying to find a way to rewrite regrets and make amends,
by writing amends,
because I’m not fooled by the Commoners sins,
see the opulence on display doesn’t fool me a bit,
opulence is actually a not so thinly disguised belligerence,
actually opulence is belligerence,
most modern day luxuries are all worthless,
most people are too thick to admit this,
but we all know there may not be a higher purpose,
luckily the lethargics are too lazy for skullduggery,
that’s why to this literature I’m in service,
only two I’m loyal to are Legits an literature,
because honestly I don’t feel anyone else deserves bliss,
especially when all these luxuries are actually worthless,
while poems are praised and paintings are appraised priceless,
and when I receive acclaim and praise for these verses,
I often get awkwardly shy & don't reply because I don’t think I’m worth it,
makes me want to flee and retreat to the words,
or go live in a barrel like Diogenes,
because we all die that can’t be denied,
but we don’t all really live life let God be my witness,
we all die,
but we all don’t live again,
though from what I write,
I live forever through this pen,
and until then I will ponder,
as I wander in wonder on the streets I am in,
searching likely fruitlessly,
for that mythical creature, The Honest Man.
∆ LaLux ∆
New Book FREE Here: https://www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
Who cares who shot JFK I wanna know who shot Tupac,
who cares about the CIA's JFK Files release date,
it’s 2017 and I’m on a plane watching All Eyez On Me,
flying westbound outta the Westside of LA,
on All Hallow’s Eve and it’s all feeling kinda spooky,
because I’m on this plane with another Libra The Boy Drake,
and I don’t care who shot JFK,
I want to know who shot Tupac,
met Suge two times and got the feeling he didn’t,
plus when they hit Pac even Suge got two shots,
so who shot Tupac,
as I write with all I’ve got,
in red ink as my red eyes blink,
pen lines looking like blood drops,
all eyes on me,
until my eternal slumber,
but enough about the words,
what about the numbers,
75 million albums sold,
713 songs,
7 films that’s 777,
same as the title of the latest book I put out,
seems Tupac and I,
share a mutual obsession with the #7,
plus his last album Killuminati was subtitled 7 Day Theory,
not to mention the fact that Pac was shot on September 7th,
as I trace the early similarities,
between me and Tupac,
I think back to when I almost signed with Suge,
and I too feel like Tupac,
I too was raised in New York,
I too got put on in LA,
I too almost lost my soul in Vegas,
I too am both profane and a saint,
I too feel confused and conflicted,
I too both sin and pray,
I too write with a sense of urgency,
because I too know tomorrow isn’t promised today,
I too have found my street instincts to be risky,
I too have gotten it on at the Luxor,
I too know there’s a thin line,
between Love & Hate and between Enemies & Lovers,
trapped between over the top celebrities,
and detectives undercover,
and I’ll a pirate sailor sailing high,
but still I have to fight from going over,
oh Lord,
forgive me for I know not what I do,
and maybe the reason I feel guilty,
is because I waste my gifts on **** and *****
choose,
your own adventure,
lost,
caught up in the trap that’s why they call it a trap,
winnin’ till when that window rolls down and you don’t know,
if it’s gonna be a gun shot or a camera snap,
I know what’s coming even though I don’t know when,
signing my own death certificate,
like Pac signing to Death Row,
see he thought he was just giving Suge his Music,
but really what he was giving him was his soul,
nobody know when they’re gonna go,
we’re at the table at the Last Supper till they pull our card,
which I guess is sickeningly befitting,
considering Tupac was shot in Vegas on Las Vegas Blvd.,
and all that’s left of him,
is this movie that I watch on this plane,
and what’s happened to our music,
lost Tupac and gained Drake,
and that’s not a shot at Drake,
I mean Drake’s cool,
I’m flying with him to Australia,
but Drake doesn’t have Tupac’s soul,
our music has been watered down,
now Hip Hop sounds like Pop Rock,
I mean how can you even compare,
Hotline Bling to Keep Your Head Up,
what the fck,
how’d we go from Black Panther,
to ***** cat,
how’d we go from I Ain’t Mad At Cha,
to Best I Ever Had,
and I’m not even mad,
I mean I respect Drake for sure,
he gets that money and has always been good to me,
but Drake is no Tupac that’s for sure,
but I won’t elaborate further because,
we all know what happens when you ask too many questions,
so I’ll just keep getting my money and writing my books,
& keep going to church without admitting confessions,
and I’m ending,
this poem right here with an RIP,
RIP to Tupac,
Rest In Peace,
another leader slain,
and I’m so caught up I forgot what I was saying,
even forgot where I was,
which is flying westbound on this plane,
writing verses in blood red ink,
feeling like Pac All Eyes on me,
wondering who shot Tupac pen lines like blood drops,
as I write what I think with all that I’ve got in ink,
ink as red as my red eyes that blink,
sending this poem off as a literary Hail Mary,
with California Love even those it’s Me Against the World,
Keep Your Head Up & congratulations Brenda’s Got A Baby,
and I know I’ll likely Live & Die in LA,
so I wonder if there’s a Heaven for a G,
& if there is Dear Mama I’ll meet you at **** Mansion,
& please know I Ain’t Mad At Cha but I’ve gotta go so peace…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
30/10/17
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
Famed to have brought light into being, but
dark, dark you are my friend, passing
through me effortlessly, though I know
there is an interaction: week, very week.
Deep there buried somewhere in my soul
was a throb heard, when every miracle
that forms the chain of my life surfaces:
and I've been searching for you. I thought
you were beyond oceans, where sky meets,
until my ship turned around at the horizon;
I looked for you in the womb of terran vaults
and then in the planets and the stars,
and you have been collapsing fields and
manifesting timelines so I proposer, meanwhile.
You are not what I worshipped in image and
then smashed it and sought in formless word.
Every time I grasp you, you vanish, retreat,
bubble-being, who knows what exists beyond
this expanse we inhabit, these membranes
and curled up manifolds, where in the knots
I'm still searching; But before even this unfolds
in full, I discover, it is all dark, darkness
that holds these tiny galaxies of light in its
densest folds; Magicienne, wave your wand,
let us know beyond the dark and the illuminated,
let us in, into the secret chamber of kinship.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
a break
and take
a breath
digging holes
taking pills
sliding down
murderin'
fillin' hills
the chills
my thrills
no bills
countin' kills
ten fingers
smell lingers
hell bringers
not singers
give me that...
bring me there...
–
shovels
the troubles
my doubles
be bubbles
black moths
white veins
no money
hopping trains
you blame
the rain
for pain
insane
to think
a drink
of water
taught her
brought her
to the edge
nothing left
to take
so...
give me that...
underground....
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
a breath
ahhhhhhh
give me that...
bring me there...
we're going underground
–
your games
my flames
the names
we tame
the light
breaks night
we slide
we hide
in
the
dark
so take
a breath
Underground...
hip-hop
split my mind open,
hear me flip-flop
happily irritated
watching your
constipated
face break
heavy tears
you shake
you ache
so take
take me
bake me
shake the dirt
from my bones
love's
no longer
got me
in a
choke hold
feeling bold
stories told
so grab
a hold
as we unfold
underground
no longer bound
by fear
my dear
the present is clear
growing and sprouting
underground
–
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
Do you see my red as your words come out?
(I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope you do)
Do you see the smile while I reach presence?
(I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope that you do.)
Do you catch my chest double when in front of you breathing?
(a.round.u.)
I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope that you do
feel the way I find lightness in your sentences while you
just speak about the day.
Do you feel my leg with conscious intent?
(I really hope you do but I know you wouldn’t mean that)
Do you touch me when you laugh for reason?
(I really hope you do, but I know you wouldn’t mean that, would you.)
Do your eyes remind me of mine or is love deceiving
( me ?? )
I really hope they do, but I know you wouldn’t mean that.
While I walk away
While I lie my head
While I wear - ily wake
(I find)
to find your face a hologram
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
while I may do you perfectly. the snow angels on gasoline st., did you
see them? All of the houses were dripping wet too, one girl with gold laces on her leopard shoes wore red plastic pants; totally soaked to the bone.
to train ourselves to brave the heat of each others' bodies as we awaken in one small bed, one small blanket. the both of us yawn. it's so fun to make waffles but neither of us like to eat preference. I love you to death but prefer to brush my teeth alone- one tooth at a time.
embrace your new t-shirt, even though not everyone enjoys a good show of a flock of crows. hand drawn indie wicker-hipster prints. coffee by the pint. you crack me up like vitrifying glass sheens of the individual bubbles in a bubble bath or the ****** glazed eyes of the monsters' eye while a shark attacks.
creaky sounds of bodies mapped by fingers, tickled tummies rippled by listening to witch house singers. you crack me up, count chocula. It's Saturday, I love to laugh while laying down. everybody's funnier when they're laying on the ground. we toast to ghosts.
luminous lengths of birthday candles
lickediddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd d 0 y0urself as best you can
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
In day's prime, in summer's sweet eyelids,
Two lives arc, their eyes struggling to break a stare, sharing trysts through dulciloquent exchange,
After the deep blue blossoming lake. To avenge time, we sought it and drove our pupils
Down through the bluff and the green trees, limping past the arenose and albicant sands
Into it's quivering- I must say.
Hey fancy. You make me smile regularly,
I need you to know, because I don't always say so,
but if I didn't read what you write about
your interactions with life,
I'd definitely be not the half that I am of alive.
So thank you, from the perfume of my heart,
and the plastic that is my legs,
the opossum hair that makes me who I am,
and the light of my malaise.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
Black Rook In Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
The Response
Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels just don't matter anymore.
And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all tied up. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.
The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.
Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.
We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC