Did we not found this Country
to escape subversive elitism and unjust law?

What the **** happened?

Miles of ivory silk,
draped across the heaven's rafters
painted in the lightest of blues


The deception cheats your eyes
yet skin, oh clever skin,
is not so easily fooled.
The eyes state audaciously that
the day is pleasant but the skin,
in it's connected wisdom shouts "Liar!"
as the bold winter breeze picks your pockets.


The once refreshing diamonds of dew
that rescued from the suns angry rays
now blanket it's old damsel in crystals of frozen death.


The crunch of the boot,
unwillingly emerging from the warmth,
upon the already waning grass
sealing the blade's inescapable fate.
The action is welcomed
by the lowest lying fog and mist
as it rushes to kiss the feet of the new ally.


Upon awakening, a simple "ah"
releases smoke of a tepid body about to freeze
as the chilling bite is reluctantly embraced


Warmth must be sought
through the enemy's blaze
The orange dance is begun and grows
As hands of flame reach for the sky
eating, destroying the invisible foe
that naively wanders into the inferno
the crackle of wood hides the screams  


Day walks on and the cold ceases
it's relentlessly harsh attack
'til morning is received once more.

People regard *** differently:

Some see *** as a commodity; to be exchanged for favors and things.
Some see *** as a medium for emotive and spiritual expression.
Some see *** as merely a means to a purely biological end.
Some see *** as a good time and not much else.
Some see *** as a set of diminishing returns.
Some see *** as an escape from themselves.
Some see *** with a keyboard and mouse.
Some see *** as a communion of Temples.
Some see *** as something not to discuss.
Some see *** as just another thing to do.
Some see *** as a battleground for Lust.
Some see *** as an extra long shower.
Some see *** as profane and obscene.
Some see *** an personal preference.
Some see *** as ages-old Dogma.
Some see *** as Heterosexuality.
Some see *** as all that there is.
Some see *** as uncomfortable.
Some see *** philosophically.
Some see *** as a distraction.
Some see *** as meaningless.
Some see *** as a way of life.
Some see *** as a good time.
Some see *** as metaphor.
Some see *** as necessity.
Some see *** as a luxury.
Some see *** as a game.
Some see *** as Mythic.
Some see *** as a drug.
Some see *** as Virtue.
Some see *** as Logic.
Some see *** as Good.
Some see *** as Love.
Some see *** as Lust.
Some see *** as Evil.
Some see *** as Sin.

Few see *** the same way:

How do you see ***?
The only right answers for you are yours.

How do you see ***?
From the first person, or perhaps third?
Is *** a vicarious thing, or is it personal?

How do you see ***?
Is promiscuity absurd?

How do you see ***?
Can your ****** life affect others?

How do you see ***?
Does it matter who it's with?
Does it matter with how many?
Does it matter how rapidly?
Does it matter why?
It sure does to me.

Does it matter for how long?
Does it matter how often?
Does it matter where?
Does it matter when?
Not with the right person.

i was like your favorite CD
used and scratched and
worn from use

except you didn't really
love my songs
or the sounds I played

you simply kept me
on repeat for company;
so the silence was
not as heavy

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.

I wake up,
I never sleep

I fill my lungs,
I never breathe

I move my lips,
I never speak

Broken pipes that never leak

I open eyes,
I cannot see

I spire thoughts
I cannot teach

I drip in eighths,
I cannot listen

Outside you see happiness
on the inside theres nothing,

but tortured souls that cannot glisten