If eight years we labored
in canals and valleys and
on girders and then
for four years we spilled **** blood and
the Depression is lifted or
the depression is lifted
or not really.

America, your deep vein thrombosis
the size of a
lilywhite Toyota Highlander
You don’t make things anymore.
Your Marxists winter in the empty museums.
Your union halls belong to the company.
You ought to be Haymarket men,
bloodcleaned and ready for anything
but instead you workshop one-liners.

America you are afraid to love.
America you are afraid of medicine
and the medicine you do take,
bankrupts you.
America reset your passwords
and the twenty-year-olds will help you find a mate
we promise.

Do you feel how distant you are becoming from yourself?
Do you feel how words must
towards the things they stand in for
  like a silhouette
  like an ironic silhouette
  like a sketch
  like a mere shape?

I cannot be certain any longer. No,
really, I am losing that skill. I lose myself
in coffee cups dreaming of painted lips. My bedtime
stories are of Robespierre and Louis Ex-Vee-I; they
put me to sleep instantly. I can read this poem eighteen times
and never feel a thing. If nothing makes sense,
it’s because we decided we didn’t need it.

America do you hate
but not really?
America do you listen
but not really?

America,
  you’re trying to eat better
  but the poor and ruined in Missouri
  still chew on plyboard and drink flat Mountain Dew
  you want engineers but ******* to starlets

America,
  not one thing will satisfy you
  not any screen or voting lever
  your children wander supermarkets
  putting everything they find in a basket

America,
  give Louisiana to the French
  cede the Black Hills to the Sioux
  retreat into your telephones
  and remember Tippecanoe

America a voice
is singing from the past
and you would do well to listen.

all my life
i spent waiting
waiting for the words
i should have said
flapping the desperate wings
of conciousness

                           a drugged pig

waiting for some ineffable her
with wendigo lust
and my ship to come in

                           a woman grinning with a knife in her hand

waiting for a new transformed me
that could do math
better than a decapitated dolls head
and write obscene poems
in plyometrics
of self-presentation
to **** by

                             catching up with a future that will never
                               come          

and not do it all wrong
so disgusting becomes beautiful
in the portico
of some gothic ***-mare
dripping imagination
that bankrupts reality
in a fashionably pretentious way

                             the devils ***** flirting    

maybe disgusting is beautiful
in a fierce burning of ethical piety
and praising moral turpitude
where islands of *****
tuck in sweet wet mouths and ascend
under ***** glittering moons

                                   dancing stiletto's in a savage hula

i wait to understand myself and others
in dumb silence
but my shadow alludes me
without a private moment of the heart
and rigid architectural order
to give a pathology of poems
sparkling language

                                    to find the blood and guts of words  

my fumbling
a catastrophe
as i wait to get up the nerve
imagining myself smarter
taller faster bigger
writing better poems of unrequited lust
in wild cherry red asymmetrical verse

                                   hoola hoops and dragons

waiting to get older
and wondering why i always felt
like i was waiting for others to die
and finally to die myself

                                time flies when your dead

could i handle it
in its juxtapositions
and fatal discontinuities
as if i get to decide
so called
master of my own ship

                                 Andromeda crashes the Milky Way
its unnerving
so lets get this over with
although i hope death
doesn't happen too soon
even though i make frivolous ******
and slippery associations  
with her as she welcomes my
galoshes wearing
Trojan horse
over the moat
passed widened thighs
into her grand **** courtyard

                                           ****** feet with pointed toes    

Venus is never
completely happy
unless she feels
Pluto's edge
forcing her submission
in willing chains
from out of proms' blazing date
into a congenial poem
passed a cliché of grunts

                                        *** slave grovels to be corrected

but the waiting
for a fanatical delusion
of waking tongues
and self-destructive fury
is only sacred
when it burns like hell
on creaking beds
that rattle about the room
in this grove of infelicities
and tapestries of flame

                                             prehistoric clitori indulge ****** politics

a performance
in a rearranged reality
we can not understand

Imaginating
world peace
Where lights never fade
Apart some glitch
What if ?
If
Fourth dimension stops
No gravity
Posting ‘ Hi , from top of the troposphere’
What if ?
Death wasn’t near
If all had feeling of care
If god listen our prayers
If we were living in mantle
In this earth full of layers
What if ?
If there was no poverty
No origin of bankrupts and robbery
No corrupted rulers -
sustained development either in urban or rural ;
What if ?
If no fights between religion
all were equal and be each others-
happiness reason
If guilty were prisioned
and inoccent freedomed
What if ?
Money was just the paper
Inequality was just in the dictionary
equity in all body  
If impossible was ‘ I m (am) possible’
If all of us were not gullible
If we first looked towards ear a way
If someone told , ‘’ look , crow took it away!’’
What if ?

I grew up around here

seven and a half billion minds in fear

I grew up around here

They lash you in public

For being queer

Not meaning to be gothic

But

yeah , i grew up around here

The fittest survive,

They thrive

But the rest never get a chance to feel alive

For two hundred thousand years

We have shed more tears

Than we have killed more peers

In fear

Of the sheer ferocity

And agony

With time we seeked hope,

Answers

Not knowing it would cause disasters

In a desperate attempt to cope

There comes this point in life

Where you do not know that which is okay

And that which is not

In this mystery called life i am caught

Is it not okay to be gay

Or to say that which you want to say

Or pray, to allah

Or messiah?

For I know what power feels like

It makes you childlike

Its a beautiful thing

To it though, one must not cling

For it corrupts you,

Disrupts those around you

Bankrupts you

Erupts out of you

Yet every single one of us

Every single one of us,

Who ever created a fuss

Fails to realize

Or hear cries

See through what they call white lies

To realize that

Maybe we are just humans

And that the things we do are inhuman

And that none of us are superhuman

But what can i say

All i can do is pray

But maybe even that is not okay

I mean at the end of the day

I’m just one of them teenagers

Not a dictator

Or a part of the legislature

I just write stuff

Trying to pretend to act tough

Cause at the end of the day

They can simply put me in handcuffs

Its okay for me to be unheard

Cause everything i say is absurd

And there is no need for my questions to be answered

Because,

I grew up around here

Cause i grew up around here

In this atmosphere of fear