Certain curtains blind
to not work in
worth it?
grind/
jobbing jogging
through
these vision in my
noggin/
Aww man I'm all in
flogging/
i just do this
I thought you knew this
pardon    my excuses
I'm Popeye you Brutus
or you Brutus I'm julious/
cease of Rome
this is a non movement
gone
no where secluded/
Nothing to prove
I proved it/
engulfed in normal nothing's hypothetically speaking
theoretically thinking
poetically sequence
abusive knot tied/
if we fade apart
not for the faint of heart
nor for the tainted dark
for those With the lighted spark/
despite
no regards when harsh
delighted to ignite then march/
Cause opposing forces to stop
Draws equally not pause
never
a continuous plot/
wondering if Evers
enough
till it drops/
sun down until my days up
what's your purpose here what?
Minds are tough/
Hold that thought
Clutched/
This fights brutal
Resistance is futile
The  feeling is mutual
I love you
you hate me/
Viewed what they can't see
Once in a blew moon
Vacancy?
no you just faking see
Contented  complacency/
Miss placed eyes
Go find your looks
Certain curtains blind/
If yours heads down
You will never see da-skies/

An uncompassionate crowd of 20,000
are tensely sitting in a stadium
bloodthirstily waiting for a cruel spectacle
they call a ‘bulllfight’
which is actually a ‘bull-harass-and-****’.
This brutal bloodsport
is celebrated as a national artform
in Spain
so the matadors (bullfighters) strut around proudly
in their suits of golden thread
to loud cheers and excited applause.

The bull, frightened suffering,
is harassed and killed in three stages:

The first stage is called ‘tercio de varas’
‘the lancing third’
when armoured-horse mounted lancers
use a long sharp lance
to spear the bull behind his shoulder muscles
to weaken the bull’s neck muscles
and begin the bull’s loss of blood;

The second stage is called ‘tercio de banderillas’
‘the third of banderillas’
when the matador attacks the bleeding-weakening bull
with banderillas (sharp barbed sticks)
stabbing the banderillas above the shoulder blades of the bull
to anger and agitate
the frightened bull fighting for his life.

The third stage is called ‘tercio de muerte’
‘the third of death’
when the matador baits the bull
with a red cape
then stabs the bull with a steel sword
aiming for his heart
but often missing
leaving the bull suffering multiple stab-wounds
bleeding, slowly miserably dying.

I wonder
when will this barbaric bull-harass-and-****
be banned in all nations?

Parley with me in a language I understand,
Talk with your heart and I will listen,
I will forever be there where you ask me to,
My submission is absolute and undeniable,
I will not betray your path,
I will not deviate,
You can ask me what you ask all,
You may not get the same answer,
It will be brutal, but measured in truth,
It will be loyal, but measured in words,
I will love you with all,
I will love you my child.

They say blood is thicker than water.
They say family matters the most.
I am the child of matrimonial diplomacy,
A ritual to bind the two ends of human nature,
I am a child of brutal union.
One of flesh, not of minds and hearts.
Yet now, as I am a relic of shattered times,
The world around me heals.
I am a painful reminder of the time I was ravaged.
I am a stranger to houses with warm hearths.
They say family gives you roots.
But what us the fruit of the plant whose roots have found no place?
Always misunderstood.
Never sad, unknown to joy.
I am a stranger to those who have lent me their blood and name.

Caronte, piloto del fúnebre río,
que marcas el rumbo del viaje supremo,
hundiendo en las aguas el remo
tardío…

La cauta corriente desliza su onda
y el remo se cubre de negras espumas...
Y en tanto la proa redonda
taladra las brumas…

El pávido grupo de reos se hacina
y ceden las tablas del lento pontón
y arando su estela sinuosa rechina
el timón…

Caronte se yergue impasible,
flotante y revuelta su barba senil.
La sombra destaca su rostro terrible,
su enérgico y tosco perfil.

La densa tiniebla condensa
sus torres de ébano mate.
La lívida horda indefensa
mantiene su fe en el rescate...

Cual hosca pared de ceniza
se erige la niebla compacta en redor,
y el brillo fosfórico del agua plomiza
bifurca en la estela su efímero ardor.

Un pálido efebo se inclina en la borda,
y mira fatídicamente
la túrbida y sorda
corriente…

Un vasto silencio prestigia
los labios convulsos. La barca repleta
proyecta en la Estigia
su lúgubre y móvil silueta...

De pronto, flamígeras vetas
incendian la opaca quietud del confín,
y entonces se alargan las caras inquietas:
la gris travesía ya toca a su fin...

Hinchando sus músculos rema
con súbitos bríos el torvo piloto.
Y se oye un crujido. Caronte blasfema:
el remo se ha roto.

Caronte contempla el remo inservible
y una áspera mueca le arruga el perfil.
La cólera inflama su rostro terrible
y agita su barba senil.

Unánimemente,
los reos se ponen de pie:
tocando la meta del viaje doliente
parece salvarlos la fe.

La turba, frenética, danza
en torpe tumulto triunfal:
parece cumplirse la loca esperanza:
la barca se aleja del puerto fatal.

Y entonces Caronte
dilata su tórax velludo y potente,
contrae su recia testuz de bisonte
y se hunde en la espesa corriente.

La fétida onda le sube hasta el cuello,
pero él con brutal energía
ritmando su ronco resuello
remolca la barca sombría...

En grietas de viva escarlata
le sangran los bíceps por anchos rasguños:
el bárbaro esfuerzo amorata
sus sólidos puños.

La férrea mandíbula cruje
y emerge del cieno la tensa rodilla:
y sigue el titánico empuje
que acerca la barca a la orilla…

Apáticos, mudos, ceñudos,
reintegran los réprobos su grupo sombrío.
El viento flagela los torsos desnudos
rizando su látigo elástico y frío.

La espalda robusta se enarca
y entonces concluye la ruda faena:
con tardos vaivenes la barca
encalla en la arena…

Y el fiero barquero,
irguiendo sus hombros de atlante,
afinca sus piernas de bronce y de acero
y extiende la diestra sangrante...

Y entonces -nublada la frente,
vidriada la inmóvil pupila-,
resignadamente, trabajosamente,
la trágica horda desfila...

bring me in
brutal honesty
I want to feel you fingertips
all over me and under me.

make my hair come undone,
true intentions
my clothes all on your ground.

breathless
and mesmerized
I want small things about you
to become big things in this world of mine.

the way you taste
and the sounds you bring forth,
it won't go unremembered the reason
we're here for.

You say that you wish to be making this call from an
apartment in San Diego but instead you are
making this call from a rental car in Boston and you can't

figure out why. You don't know the meaning of the word
ephemeron, but you don't know who does either. You tell stories
of brutal attacks and high-priced lawyers and being subpoenaed

at the age of 12 for reasons you still don't understand.
You used to hide your big ears behind your sideburns but now you
hide them behind a woolen hat with dark green *****

although it is not cold. You walk alone through the cities,
stopping for nothing and going for something
that you can't quite put your finger on.

You claim to know the words to every song and the
directions to every house, but you have not been alive long enough
to achieve anything quite yet. You have seen a license plate

from every state except Delaware, but the only one that
sticks in your mind is one from Arkansas. You quote the wrong
Shakespeare play and the wrong Vice President and believe that

the only thing you'll ever be is correct. Your calendar
still reads "March" although it is June and tomorrow you will go
to your doctor's appointment instead of your son's

birthday party. You think things that cannot be said but never
remember them. You check into a motel on the 11th and check out on the
19th as if nothing ever happened. Your thoughts read

like a news article about the runner-up in a dog show. You
buy a plane ticket and cancel it at the last minute
because it turns out there ain't nothing for you in Oregon

anymore.

when I bomb first
betta believe muthaphukkaz
touchin the hearse
I'm cursed
with a demonic flow
puff that hydro
but my mind ain't slow though
so stroll
with me down the valley of death rows
ya meet skulls to bones
watch yo steps
fool cuz I'm prone
to ripping up ****
shoot up even ya casket
if ya dead *****
since my money itch
I gotta get the scratch
cook up another coke batch
Naw scratch that
I'd rather a raider hat with a baseball ball to gats
make ya heartbeat flat
check the paper stacks
we got more racks
than a Swiss banks
smoke the baddest danks
freak the baddest skanks
but they never get a thanks
from me
***** cuz I gotta
ruthless mentality
make fatalities
to emcees that try to battle me
ain't no little in me
I'm b I double g I to e
hypnotize y'all with bars
thAt even glisten stars
and look at the scars
across the late night
shining bright
is my organization
**** tight
taking flight
over the industry
they beneath me
like they sneaky
huh I never trusted quotes out of a magazine
but still dump on fools out my ak47 magazine
with yo head guilltione
for tryna intervene my cream
got trusted killaz on my team
from eses from Diego to the bay
black nation Jamaican to Haitan
we ain't fakin
when we rob
we come hungry as wolve packs
counting paperstacks
and eradicate wacks
givin death the ultimate thirst
cuz it's dry
***** I thought u knew when bomb
Betta believe we the first uh


yeAh verse two
just as vicious
so ******* and ya crew
bust on fools
with hallow tips
now I see my favorite color drip
red dot means ya dead
ask Craig
I got flava in ya ear
life in fear with yo family in tears
cuz they know the thugs is here
to set execution
to muthaphukkaz
that thought
they could evade persecution
reducing
the population
one by one
listen to the sounds
of my guns
it goes rat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat
now ya body fat
but back
to this fiend hustle
money I'm talking
so **** the struggle
since I was bornghetto
I'll die ghetto
and when they bury me
don't throw rose peddles
just hold up the pistols
and fire shots in the air
like ya don't care true playa he'll yeah
I'm brutal as ****
to those pushing luck
don't get struck
by my fiery tongue
once I speak
brains get hung
*** kicks more than Chung
Li with speed of Bruce Lee
Y'all can't  see me
Naw but you'll sure as hell feel me
like spirits running in the late night
blurring yo sight
I sense the fear in yo heart *****
sweats tears getting bigger
am I there
or is it just a shadow glare?
I'm evil as they come
so bow down
when ya see the Don
black Al Capone
with a mansion of my own
soon to transform
all pen ****** home
built for the war zone
so I ain't scared to die
shoot me but ya better make sure I die
cuz if not I'll be planning yo burial plot
watch for my live shots from my glock
it don't stop even when I'm gone
still reigning as champions
fire blazin sky grazzin
hell raising
in the streets
coming after crooked *** police
what's worse ?
when we drive up in a black hearse
betta believe morgues makin money why ?
cuz we bomb firrsttt

Time and Distance was always the recipe for disaster.
These two little words can move mountains of hate. Merely shove them aside.
They can do the same to love. Brush it off like a father will when his kids plead for him to at least look at the menu on the ice cream truck.

Love does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Love is a tender flower that needs to be nurtured and be kept in a well lit, well watered garden.

Hate does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Hate is a brutal **** that will grow in any garden. It will strangle love of the nutrients that so rightfully belong to it; the tender flower.

Time is a killer, a stone cold killer. It some how manages to find love and destroy it. Time is the Antichrist.
One thinks they can conquer it, when indeed, they cannot.

Distance is an enzyme. Much like the ones found in the human stomach. As everyone knows enzymes are reaction specific. They can only help in one chemical reaction, one minute, tiny reaction.
One thinks they can subdue distance, make it their friend, when indeed, they cannot.

What do you do when someone has your whole soul wrapped around their finger?
Love is such a sweet yet scary word.
In the blink of an eye they could be gone, and there you'll be, right back where you started,
The only difference being your heart is ruptured, and your eyes are constantly damp from your thoughts about the past.
Love can be oh so sweet,
it can bring you to the highest places.
But it can also be oh so brutal,
creating your own little personal hell.
Yet when you find that sweet, fearless love, you forget about all of that and jump right in, ready to try again.
Wrapped around their finger.

All hail the return of the romantics
New age sages that fight consumerism
Poets that ride the roads like Kerouac
Going home then farther back
To old poets who fathered that
Rich traditions of humanity
With deep thoughts and sweet abstractions
Before dull poets and their dumb factions
Demanded we stick to form
Then demanded formlessness
Casually pursued simplicity
For the lack of eloquence
Thought they had to write to lesser men
Not figuring that we are them
And by writing truth we
Keep them growing
By showing the full strength and beauty
Of this brutal language
We all evolve
Till we are romantics one and all

Do you see this?
This, this is mine.
This is the only thing that belongs to me.
This is all that I have,
this is what I cling to
this is what gets me through the day.
This is all I feel
It's hot and cold
it's life and it's Deaths favorite flirt
It's sharp and brutal
it's brittle, unfeeling
It's gorgeous and I want to *****
It flows and drips over and under me,
it covers me in lovely liquid warmth
It makes me cold and peaceful.
I love it
I hate it
It's all me
I'm in complete control but it cant stop
it won't stop... I don't want it to.
I want all of me to come out
I want you to see all of me
Love all of me
because
I'm slowly fading
It's getting dark fast and I'm smiling.
I look around with blurred vision,
I'm lying in a field of beautiful rose petals
they're warm and covered in fresh dew
they're budding from my wrists and blooming all around me
spreading slowly and steadily,
a few petals coming off and fluttering a bit farther than the rest
It's beautiful, I think,
To see all of me, spread over the clean white floors,
so perfectly and so wonderful.
My Roses blooming,
Everywhere.

End times upon us, great, crushing, inevitable
Black dawn sunrise in the west
Evil walks fearless on hallowed ground
Holly wreaths wrung out tied nooses
Hollow gallows for hollow men
They're all ******* anyway
Holy of holies in radioactive decay
Brilliant and brutal
Atmosphere is the enemy
Headlights hostile pedestrians hostile
Mirage from heaven hostile!
Abhorrent destruction assured
All sides hostile!
Nerve endings fire fire fire
Senseless mindless
Waking reality constant violence
Have mercy on me

now i wake up at
five a.m. insuring i've
sufficient time to paint
my face on kind enough

my hands
smell like coffee
i taste blood
from blisters breaking
down and around
my smallest joints

(in control
stay in control
i have to stay
in control)

smile until my face
aches in a kind of
competitive way
because my pain will
bring no gain if i can't
seem nicer than the next girl

(i keep saying that i'm
dead inside but the irony
of the joke is that i'm actually
too alive to want these thoughts)

and i'm sure if i told anyone
that anxiety keeps me wide awake
and depression keeps me asleep
they just might not believe it

(i don't think it sounds
reasonable to say i've
got a physical and chronic
pain in my head from the
pressure of my darkest
most brutal thoughts)

when i was thirteen
i told myself never
ever to use my mental
illness as an excuse

so i plunged forward
through depression deserts
anxiety avalanches
forests of fear
tired old towns
migraine mountains
warped wastelands and
suicide swamps

and just last week
i realized my downfall
in not letting my pain
tell me when to slow down

when what i would not
allow to be my excuse
became my
disability.

Bosnia, March, 1994, from an NPR interview with a 15-year-old Muslim girl.  Serbian forces were shelling the area we occupied. We tried to persuade her it would be safer to lie on the ground, as we were doing. She was indifferent and seemed to ignore us. She stood and talked freely amidst the  noise. She told us she liked country music and that school was getting boring and in the same casual tone asked us, ‘How long are people going to watch us die?’



She said she liked country music

Exploding sky, color of death
Exploding bodies
Men, children, women
Terror pounding ears like the heart beats
of a four legged veal marsala waiting to die
Putrid flesh, burning houses, torched spirits
15-year-old girl
Steel eyes melting under the heat of genocide
Imploding mind, split into a thousand screams
Only war
By whatever means
Deafening anguish
Running, deafening heart in throat, running
She said she liked country music
24, 41, 32
15 years old
This one here
82, 12, 7 years old

Said she liked...
Tie her wrists
Neighbor, aunt, niece
Liked count---try music
Tighter
Grandmother, sister
Spread her legs
And that school was getting boring
Spread her legs
Daughter, mother, wife
And that school was getting...
Tears running down the blood
           running down the legs
           running down the
Savage streets filled with broken Coke bottles
Wider, shove it, shove it
Coke bottles
shove it
Spread them wider
Shove it
Shove it ….  in
15-year-old girl
13, 7
Faster, faster
Knife in hand on throat in blood
All the way,   IN
Who cares
Fear disguised as hatred
Turning ***** into bullets
Piercing flesh

Piercing humanity
Just a female, just a body, just a toy
Was getting boring
No life, no more, no more
Then she turned to us and said how long...
Exploding wombs, death
Eyeballs peeling off in horror
How long...
She said...
Blood, legs, open, ******, open
She said...
Point of knife, ****** in
****** in center
Center of humanity
How long will...
******, who cares?
Piece of meat
Feed our revenge
Feed our war machines
Feed our weakness for power
Shove it in

The NY Times today stated that the UN council on human rights abuse has agreed that systematic **** is possibly being used by Serb forces as a tool for genocide against the Bosnian Muslims and that as such, may be viewed as a violation of international law.  A warning will be issued to the...
A warning will be issued to the...
A warning...

She said how long...
After two years

Brutal rapes
After two years
20,000 30,000
Systematic rapes possibly being used
50,000
Before, who cares
International law
Only now they decide to act  
Genocide, So what
How long will...
That systematic ****...
***** like lead bullets
Is possibly being...
Harder
****** the ******* thing all the way in
Then she said...
Wider
And then she...
Wider, Wider *****
And then she...
Get another, she’s dead, get another
And then...
Get another ******* *****
And then she said...
******* *****
She said
******* *****

She turned to us and said......
  
How  long are people going to watch us die?

You may record me in your over-edited, excerpts.
What men claim as their story.
Salty, bitter history, versus jaystory.
Throw my revolution in the sand.
But still, like the dust on your mantle,
I am lifted.
Even deceased I can stand.

Does my challenge anger you?
Are you overwhelmed with a match?
My words can open cans of worms
Your little politician promising can't patch
Up, or be swept under that with a broom
I will haunt you with my revolutions
Like I'm zeus in his own living room.

Like the endless universe to our moon.
To the fall of capitalism soon
To the 24 frames a second on networks of cartoons
Or those stuck in the trip of two caps of a shroom
Stay in tune
Like your high school's marching band
However I have to
I'll find ways to stand

I know someone would rather see me broken, crippled, legless, without feet.
A head hung low and eyes even lower so
Shoulders challenging one one another to how much closer to the ground one can go.

Does my attitude offend you?
Don't take my strength too too hard
I'll laugh like I've got El Dorado
Underneath my back yard.

You may shoot me with your thoughts
Your words, throwing heat from steamed pots
But me with your eyes, thinking it may do a lot
You may **** me with your hateful energy, maybe you can
But whatever state the world leaves me in
I will continue to stand.

Does my appeal make you angry?
It frequently comes as a surprise
I dance as if 50 carat diamonds lie between my two thighs

My history might have shame, lost in brutal command
But that's then, this is now, so regardless I stand
I'm an endless waterfall, unmeasurable in feet
The fact I can't hear myself is also funny to me.
Since water is a sound that my ears cannot reach.
But at least by my wonder to some I can teach.
That there is nothing you cannot withstand.
So with my my revolutionaries
Together. We stand.
I stand. To dawn and then back.
I stand. Regardless of your wrath.
I stand. I am the dream, and in hopes, the hope of the change.
I stand and I'll stand.
Till a new story's engraved.
I stand.
To when history is just a story.
Not belonging to a man.

vi.**.xii

This is, where the dragons went
Not waiting, not dead
This is, where the dragons went
Dormant they lay instead
Packed tight in a place
With scaling filled space
And nevermore
They have been seen

This is, where the dragons rest
Not reality, not dream
This is, where the dragons rest
In occult shimmer gleam
As magic did fade
They left nothing but sage
And by degrees
They were forget

This is, where the dragons wake
Not brutal, not calm
This is, where the dragons wake
Summoned to our realm
Recalled to a spot
They slowly forgot
And conquering
They wander back

It was the first time in a long time.

I had resigned myself to being locked in my fortress, alone, but safe.

Then you came.

You were a friend at first, and then you were more, and I opened my shackled doors.

Things were good. They were hard sometimes, but they were good.

You wandered my castle for a time, acquainting yourself with the parts of me you could reach. Sometimes you hurt me when you were hurting, but I didn't blame you. Because I loved you.

After more time had passed, I allowed you into my throne room.

Told you what had been lurking in my depths, the fears I felt and how the mortar of my structure was crumbling. I let you into my very core. I thought you could help.

You seemed to grow slowly hostile after I told you. My halls weren't filled with the usual warmth. Then I brought you to the throne room when my stone began crumbling and my throne began splintering, you agonized on how the splintered wood affected you, instead of giving me the support beams I needed to stay together. The wood of my legs split, and I was hurting, and I needed you most. I still bore your weight when you hurt, but my breaking, jagged wood was... Too much for you. Though before I began crumbling, you had told me you would endure anything, for you loved me.

But then you left.

My throne was broken, the stone of my castle shuddering without support; I was falling. I supported you in your loneliness, cradled you by my hearth when life was too much. But when I began crumbling, you decided my halls were not for you any longer. You would not help maintain that which sheltered you through brutal storms, that which always promised you a safe place to stay. You left.

And it hurt at first.

But then I was angry. My fire flared, knowing you told others that my crumbing bricks weren't really breaking, that I was an insult to those that truly needed help, even when you knew that the bombardments of my crisis shattered my walls, broke my throne. You would have people look at my cracked stone and jagged wood and think it a ploy for pity, even as I struggled to keep myself standing in the vicious storm that raged on.

I allow close friends to wander my halls after you left, and they help rebuild. Place mortar between the cracks of my walls, clean the cobwebs away from my corners.

I will not allow them to enter my throne room. Not yet. It will take time. I will rebuild my broken throne, my hands will bleed from the splinters, but I will prove you wrong.

I will be the King I was meant to be, I will show you how wrong you were about me.

I want you to know what treasure you left behind. What you took for granted.

My walls are fortified, my dear friends maintain it for me, and I hold them by the warmth of my hearth. I will support them as I did you, for they are grateful and help keep me standing.

Not like you.

The crimes of my heart are swift and brutal.

Tell me again
you find masochism attractive,
and I’ll show you
true devotion

Whistle if you dare...
compliment if you must...
And Die the most brutal way imaginable..
at the hands of cowards..
afraid of their own imperfections
Will they still
Till you..
no longer for just the glare of a woman
but for the stunting of your pride...
the capture of your soul
The control...
beat your mind until your teeth bleed gold..
your fist scream ******
and your heart is broken
given you the mentality of a Dope boy
Not a Black Boy..
Fight for what he believes
Now you fight just to breathe
because Air ain't free
and neither is your smile..
because they've beating you senseless
worthless....
unrecognizable as the Kings and Queens
you once were...
what a horrible death...
through the deception
that you will always be less...

It's about time people open their eyes. 
Look around to the tradegy of the epedimic 
of victims walking around among us.
How many more people do we have to lose to suicide before we take more action to stop this.
Not because you have a sister, mother or daughter.
Because she's a person. A human being with worth.
Stop sweeping these things under a rug.
There's no rug big enough to cover the 
damage that is caused by abuse. 
1 in 3 women are survivors of ****** assault.
How are we not outraged by this number?!
We hear of some of the brave ones who
dare to speak the evil that they have endured.
But why do we still so rarely hear of the perpetrators & them taking the responsibility for their actions.
It's like we have this deadly virus sweeping the world and people think they can just keep ignoring it. 
I'm tired of hearing victims being told not to speak the details of the harm done to them because it's just too hard for others to hear. 
Maybe you need to hear the brutal truth and
sit with your discomfort. 
There's way too many of us walking around 
carrying these burdens alone. 
Times up on living in denial.
Because what men fear the most about going 
to prison is what women fear most 
walking down the street alone.
Time needs to stop running out for the victims of ****** assault that have the choice taken away from them. 
Time needs to run out for those that think they can just keep getting away with this.
Yes, we are survivors. 
But when is it going to stop being so **** hard for us to keep surviving.

I sit and wonder on this moldy deck
who will be next
to fight fire with fire
who will stand up to this brutal infection thats spreading like wild fire
fake *******
fake talkers
fake enough to feed more *******
to your open ears
con artists slick haired demons
and like a used car salesman
they speak into your ear
make sure you here and believe them
then you dipout with a broken promise
and even more hatred in your heart
and now im about to burn all the ******* down
open gas tank in one hand
stream following my trail
with a lit match and a middle fingure up
saying **** your slick tounge
and your jumping eyes
lies
lies
lies
feel my fire
feel true desire
this is what happens when you meet a *******
that doesnt take **** or get ****** with
now the kerosene burns as i lean against this beat down bench
i tell the match to go fetch as it lands on the gas
all i can say is you better haul ***