That day I sat
naked and
                   alone
water collapsing upon my spine
acidic or compelling?
cradling what I thought was my hands
within themselves
and waiting for daylight to break me.
I was already broken

decrepit in fact.
caressing substance as supplement
the figurines of moving reality
plaguing consciousness
As     drips
                         drops
        fell
                     struck
My initiative was no longer to cleanse
or ease
but to forget,
God oblidge me
          please
ghosts of armies amidst armistices
raging with questioning calamity
every minute
every        second

It was easy
to hear and see it
placid           to act
as if gum on a shoe
was used and trashed
but stuck somewhere new
               disgusting

Meanwhile
this water
troublesome with cleanliness
corrodes my cadaver
(Cadaver, because it seems that way)
Blood runs with it
and overtakes the pigment
like color from the sponges
I’d used for the color the needle left
instead of creating

life in color
death in color
feeling in color
There were none

unnamed and buried
internal pieces of me
              Extracted
with simplicity
by mouth
and flushed
to not exist
               ever
to anyone
but deep in the realm, of conscience
hidden
and    drowning

Although I haven't witnessed
Darfur's eyes run red.
Rivers full of skeletons,
and bodies torn and bled.

I've read about the pigment
of fearful hearts so lost.
A dreaded world within a world;
there are no lines to cross.

Money paid for power.
Power, bodies, bills.
The Janjaweed at noon,
are cleansing for their drills.

Washing down stern orders
with blood on unclean hands.
Babies and their mothers
decomposing in sand.

Weapons worn like diamonds.
Lust and **** colliding.
Torture becomes normalcy.
Living only hiding.

So long as Omar al-Bashir
sees families as roaches,
death is understated.
In greed, he people-poaches.

Pity is for damsels
parading in a tide
of much needed attention
with ego on the side.

To you, my friend
who listens, but fails to comprehend:
Those who live for nothing
are nothing in the end,

I ask you, pray for Sudanese
fed horrors for their lunch,
their bones becoming rubble,
under tires they will crunch.

1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

I'm smoking solid cancer.
Wind in an uproar. Enraged.
I vowed to never let anything push me.
I lied.
Eyes travel from branch to trunk.
Veins run up the bark and collide.
Solid forms of nature, far outlasting Her prime predator.
I'm convinced memories are incomprehensible.
How does it work?
I'm intrigued by an object of no relevance,
and suddenly you're smile confronts me.
Strange.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Unimportant reveries is what they seem.
One who thinks the world is black and white is colorblind.
Ignorant.
Standing here, on this plateau.
How many lives have walked across it?
Rust - like skids paint the ground where I stand.
Butts scattered and running into the grass.
Predator?
Of violent and malicious intent.

Skies are hues of sullen smoke,
pavements glossed in rain;
falling softly, picturesque.
Where does the water drain?

Hands of many compromises,
eyes engulfed in pain.
Washing worries with off-brand soap.
Where does the water drain?

The daydreams, they are staring back
irises of shame,
that only scrutinize themselves.
Where does the water drain?

Tears are not expelling,
the force of strength; insane,
God swims inside them somewhere new,
Where does the water drain?

The only one who's ever seen
my soul beyond a windowpane.
A mist, a fall, a downpour,
but *Where does the water drain?

Your aura
Is like the fog
underneath the blue sky
beckoning the ground
and settling peacefully, pure.
Thick and lustrous,
completing the world
with every part,
every breath of you.

He waits for nothing
trapped inside vendettas of the past.

To compensate for all the pain.
Collapsed by storms, aghast.

Mouthing words into the plated
metal microphone.

Omniscient spy who gawks upon
his wretched monotones.

Patient Dr. Jekyll sits still
with longing looks.

While Heyde is toying endlessly
amongst his fellow crooks.

If only neither played a part,
and both were but a dream,

No plague of silent conflict
would crowd his every seam.

Within the realm of tragedy,
is where his soul endures.

Ty; intrinsic predator
searching for a cure.

And as his restless measures
of feelings coincide,

and harmonies escape his lungs
while beats start to collide,

The distant Dr. Jekyll protrudes
from vacant sleep.

Commences to erode a quiet
conscience, from the deep.

Sudden need for elsewhere
is all that Ty can see.

Every fiber recognizes
where he needs to be.

And suddenly the microphone,
who knows his every pain

is sitting lonely,
mesmerized
by silent noise again.

Ty is but a victim, sullen thoughts
that make him sick.

Never can he compromise,
when all his habits stick.

Forever now ambivalent,
confused and losing time.

Ty knots his laces,
bats his tears,
a façade: pressed and fine.

Ty's dreams are crushed,
disintegrate into the offshore sand.

When all at once he notices,
his life is in his hands.

A straw that Jekyll used before
is laying on the ground.

Heyde is shaking shamefully,
but cannot make a sound.

Ty looks upon the dreams he crushed
and searches for his will

its lined up right in front of him,
dispassion in a pill.