I
I stopped writing
because of the sun
I could not see the dark
and my letters
became invisible
so I stopped
and waited for clouds

II
And darkness crept in
through the cracks
of a fake smile hiding
the real
painful enlightenment
that truly blocked
the sun

III
But in the dark there were letters
like keys
to boxes of treasured light
that did not sting
or burn out
like the sun

I used to take pride in my ability
to stand on my head
with my palms flat on the floor
forming a triangle with my head
or yoga style
head cupped in my hands
and forearms to elbows
taking the weight
I could kick up
one leg following the other
to come together  
and form a perfect column
or I could tippy toe towards my trunk
balance my knees on my jutting elbows
lift my hips through ninety degrees
then raise both legs skywards
or I could tuck my knees in
and unroll upwards
like a punga* frond
perfectly controlled
powerful
exultant
I remember the feeling of triumph
when I balanced there
the soles of my feet visible to God
my blood pounding and pooling in my head
upside down against the world
loving it


*Punga- the New Zealand tree fern

Many moons later;
God knows how long.
Same broken pen,
same old song.
Neglected plants now wilted.
Feelings somewhat quilted.
Sewn together with trembling hands.
Or so it seems
to anonymous players on forgotten teams
when the sun rudely crashes through lazy shutters,
and intoxicating sand is blinked from eyes
to reveal partially clear skies.
One can only hope...

There's this thing,
I hardly ever had.
Deceitful, un-trusting
These words describe my dad.

I hardly ever see him,
Because he is tucked away
"I'm coming home!"
Oh please, I hear that **** everyday!

You have been lured into the cave of joy.
We sing,
We dance,

Once you're tired,
We take a rest.
I'll smash your face with The Killing Stone.

I'll remove the stone,
and lap up your blood.
I'll show them
How sweet revenge really is

Where is my schoolboy?
Where is my bomber-jacketed
          sensate?
The articulate flyer,
The gray-eyed smiler,
The man of God?

I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
We are what
The French would call,
Bourgeoisie.
What the ghetto calls,
Bougie.
What the successful calls,
Day dreamers,
And what we call,
The future leaders.
I live in
The land of rebels.
The people who fought against their oppressors
Because they know the truth behind
Social Darwinism;
And the fact of the matter is
That no race
Is a superior race
Because "race"
Is a manmade idea
To justify the injust
Ideas of slavery.
The rebels who ran out of chains
Because they weren't
Supposed to be chained down.
The rebels who walked midnight railroads
To escape the clutches
Of the white man's burden.
The rebels who refused to stand
In one spot
When there were plenty of seats available.
The rebels who refused
to bite their tongues and
The rebels who refused to be spoken over
Because they had
A lot of important stuff to say.
The rebels who dreamt outrageous dreams,
So that the complexion
Of your pigment
Was never a deciding factor
In your life.
The rebels who refused
to follow unlawful laws
Because they were
Law abiding citizens
Only when laws were just.
The rebels who challenged what was superiority,
The rebels who changed the course of history forever.
I live in
The land of the outsiders
Who conform the
Preconceived ideas
To fit them
We roll small blunts
of white paper
Filled with the words
of novels and poetry
And blow through those books
Inhaling every letter
And letting it cling to our lungs
Flowing the grammar
Throughout our bodies.
We stand spittin
Absolute value bars
Rapping elongated equations
Of X equals
Y +/- root Z
Divided by root A
Times the quantity of
B - C.
We stick up
Banks filled with
Material and instruction.
Stealing all the information we can take
And try peicing it together
So that more than words
We have knowledge.
We *******
Our brains,
Pleasing its sapiosexual
******* with
Grammar and arithmetic.
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
The people making history
In their everyday lives.
The revolutionaries
Who fight for even
The smallest of issues.
The individuals who stand out
Amongst a crowd of people
That look just like them.
The inbetweeners,
They who refuse
To subjugate themselves
To society,
But will subjugate society
To themselves.