the first step to letting go is learning to exist. i admittedly, still have not completely let go. no one ever said you had to demonstrate your knowledge, although i'm working at it. when you were there, roadmaps became love letters, the songs you wrote were preludes, flight schedules became the dreams i never spoke about, no one i was close to knew you. as far as they all know, you were a figment of my imagination, and the act of knowing you itself became a test in what i could hold onto by the skins of my soft teeth even once you'd disappeared, once your friends all buried you, and you stopped writing love songs. special occasions no longer sound like your voice. the test was, could i exist without you?

i have written this a thousand times in my head. erased and arranged memories so as not to spoil us. tried to press you into the backs of my eyes like the flowers in the pages of her notebook. and a few weeks back, i stood at the very top of a rope swing, and when i jumped, i stared straight into the churning water all the way down, because all i wanted was to look at you. but this is not a story of getting the things we want so easily. this is not a story of holding your hand, or sleeping in and having late breakfast. this is the paradox of something so strong, that could be so fragile. something that is so raw the universe could only erode it. that love could exist, and disappear so quickly, and i still want to know why no one ever taught you to swim when you were young.

i am on the train. i see a picture of you. "rest in peace" it said. at first i didn't understand. i had talked to you just yesterday. then i do. the sickening sound of your voicemail on repeat. the way you used to call every night, and tonight at seven there is just a silent cell phone sitting in my lap. i think about your baby pictures. the mother and sister you sometimes talk about. the guitars collecting light layers of dust in your empty new apartment. i wonder how they got your kayak back to shore, when you didn't come up for air, and the swing became still over the foaming water. that kayak was as empty as i am. without you, that is very.

they make plans for your funeral, everything is beautiful. everything is in order for you. i get off the train at the wrong stop and run all the way to ami's house, trying to breathe. i am painfully aware of what drowning feels like. i am as transient as us; my existence is a freak accident, circumstantial evidence with a shaky conclusion, two people who can never explain the nature of their affiliation. kierkegaard believed in taking an ethically existing approach, over a cognitive subject. that all single entities can be reduced to singular universal rules. he believed that even when we didn't do it purposefully, cognitive thought forced us into patterns of universal rules. existence is a song we play on repeat, a feeling on loop in our stomachs because a couple of words sucker punched you in the head and you still don't know why. why, is the answer and the downfall. i think what kierkegaard meant is, some things are simply unexplainable, and some things explain themselves, and our very beings switch between these two rules, baffling us, because we are creatures of ethical existence and cognitive thought; we base our actions on human-established concepts of right and wrong, refer to ourselves as "I", live in the present, and yet we also have the capacity to shape ourselves in the future tense. our ability to understand lies in whether we choose to resist or flow with universal patterns as we become part of them in our ethical existence. learning to exist is nothing more than playing chess with a higher power and allowing it to take your king when you're backed into a corner, even if the queen has to play the rest of the game alone. The game has been flipped. Learn to play even when your world turns inside out. you know the queen is your ace, your you, and she has amazing potential. you were not just some figment of my imagination that convinced me to sleep at night. i am so sure of that now.

here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty

everything i stand for is alien here
everything i despise is rife
death is glorified at every corner
and trampled upon is life

you're not supposed to speak
but you're required to believe
kindness is called weak
and you're not allowed to grieve

war is peace, they say
ignorance is strength
now i find myself cast away
where lies are being fed at length

i gaze, unblinking, into the abyss
it gazes back, calling my name
i've always felt there's something amiss
with this wicked, cruel game

the game i chose not to play
the game that has no rules
the game you can't expect to win
the game so loved by fools

I really have a soft spot for winter weather
It’s sweater time
It’s scarf time
It’s cuddle time…or a-little-more-than-cuddling time
And it’s sweaters and scarves indoors time because people seem determined to hide the aftermath of mouths that have overstayed their welcome
In the corners of shoulders and collarbones
Tracing tracheas to chests and lingering just out of reach of lips
And because I’ve been taught to hide these marks, I do
But if I could, I would accessorize with necklaces of purple and blue
Passionate hues that grow from teeth and tongues
Can you paint with all the colors of the
Winding veins that spindle into spirals around blood and bones and vitals
Can you decorate the blank canvas of my neck
With Rorschach tests that I’ll spend the next few days
Analyzing and decoding
Finding new shapes just for fun
And then we’ll start again with stripes and spots and splotches
Remembering that the fireworks we call cliché are interchangeable with capillaries
Bursting under layers of skin
To later be concealed under layers of cloth
And people will blush when the consistency in their color is questioned
And they’ll tug their collars higher
But I’ll always have a love for the fact that these are bruises that come from beauty
That these bodies end up damaged in the most gentle of ways
And please don’t put a negative spin on damage
Because I know of people that will spend all kinds of money for outfits that look like they’ve been through hell and back
Because distress is a style and the aesthetic is stunning
And even though people joke as they will
I’m secretly proud to wear a badge of black and blue
On the corner of my collar claiming
You Were Here
And I’ll pin one to your neckline
Signed and dated
I Was Here
And the blood that we’ve drawn to the insides of each other’s skin
Only mirrors the blush that appears on my face when I smile and think
I really am lucky to have you
And it’s sweater weather outside so these bruises will stay confined
Under the snowy scarves we’re told to keep
But I’ll admire this art as it fades through the week
Tracing over physical proof of nights that fall into the past
And scrutinizing the speed at which they do
Adoring the marks that no one else seems to
Because aftermaths confirm realities
And I could never disdain the colors that tell the world who we are to each other
And how we stay warm in the winter

A Porcelain Doll
Upon a Shelf
In A secluded room.

Lifeless eyes,
and cold, glass hands
Holding a silver spoon.

A flash of light
In a dark corner
Where those eyes are locked.

An empty figure
Against a wall
A candle that he dropped.

Now let me tell you,
Tell you my friend
About this little doll.

It killed a man.
A Man, I say!
And never moved at all.

i have yet to set roots in anyone
my mind and my body always wandering
through the streets of foreign towns
the only constant has been a vacant strip mall and interesting strangers
the men i meet on these streets have come into my life like a storm
their attention pouring down on me, drowning me
nothing has ever compared though, to the feeling i get from you

when i walked into his apartment i felt as though i'd been here before
there was a man long ago, they could have been brothers
two worlds colliding together right in front of my eyes
i wasn't sure if i should hold on tight or run away

the fire faded and i was left standing cold alone on another corner
my heart was beating so fast i thought it would jump out of my chest
how i could i let this happen again and where would i go from here
there was nothing left to do but continue to walk away

i walked down that street, got into my car and drove away
finding a place to stay for the night because nothing feels like home anymore
quickly adjusting my clothes and my attitude i picked myself up
looking back now, i should have known better
i should have seen the signs, but i was blinded by his intoxicating conversation
once again.

there was only one thing left to do
waltz straight into that tall venue with friends at my side
hand the girl with the pink and black hair my ticket
and forget my troubles
remember that your roots are not planted there
they are in your heart
and your heart belongs to the man on stage.

that's the moment i realized that i was home.

How do I start this?
How do I express this to you?
Well, here's the thing.
I like you. It's simple at that.
Sometimes I'll joke around,
tie your shoelaces together, say mean things,
but deep down I really do love you.
And I want you to go and give your heart to her,
not to me.
Why?
Because she will be so much better for you.
She's sophisticated,
I am quite casual.
She's smart and cute,
I'm average and insane.
She's pretty and skinny,
I am fat and ugly.
She's the one that you stare at,
I'm just that thing, that accessory, an amusement for you to use.
Though some part of me wants her to break your heart and hand it back to you,
I don't think she will, not with the way she looks at you,
and the glimmer in you eyes as you look at her,
like shimmering like sun reflections on water.
Some other part urges me to lie to myself,
they won't be together long, they'll break up,
you can finally be noticed for once,
you'll be the heroine, be the shoulder he needs.
But that's the selfish part of me.
I realize, at least he'll be happy right?
It doesn't matter if I'm content
with sitting here in the corner,
alone and observant of the love that surrounds me,
while I stay here in my sullen pitiful sphere.
It doesn't matter.
It's the way your heart beats and the way your smile
inches across your face
instantly making it all the more beautiful,
that's what matters. You'll be happy,
with someone you deserve,
someone you need in your life,
a piece of perfection,
not a berserk,
ugly,
fangirly,
lovey-dovey
nerd/geek like me.
You two turtle doves are perfect for each other,
perfect looks,
perfect grades,
perfect everything.
A barbie doll to your ken.

So please,
walk to her now,
hand her your heart,
that full and crimson thing
that beats so fast next to her, and so slow next to me,
give that to her
while I'm not looking.
Give me some mercy.

Last of all,
good luck.
I hope she will care for your heart,
the way you might care for hers,
with adoration,
kisses,
caresses,
words whispered in whimsicality,
little pearls of treasures only found with two turtle doves.
Not that I would know. And I do hope I will know someday
what it feels like to be one of those turtle doves.

You tease
As a maze 
A shooting star glimpsed 
From the corner of your 
Eye 

You tease
As a fountain filled with
Pennies and dreams
Fulfill my secret
Wish

You tease
As a clear sky that
Soon turns to a sudden
Rain, soothes my
Being 

You tease
As a mirage 
That promises grandeur
In the parched sands of
My desert

Oh you tease

I'm tired of messing up,
I want things the way they originally were.
I wish things would start looking up,
nowadays anything can occur.
I see I've changed my personality
changed into something I'm not,
Only to find that the new me,
has more problems than I'd formerly thought.
I want to change things back,
I want the life I had before.
There is so much that I lack,
Don't know how much more I can endure.
The shy introvert has been hiding,
In a corner she is bound;
While the friendly talker has been thriving,
offending loved ones around.
It's time to put the end,
pay attention to what is said.
Time to make amends,
and put the shy girl ahead.

and in the final hour of destiny's call
she turned and ran like a scared child
I watched her golden hair
bounce and fall about her face
her eyes, her beauty intact
she looked back before turning a corner of pure light
that blazed me blind
only the negative image remained
for a few sweet moments
then burned away
into eyes that were raining
behind the deafening silence of the Sun

Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved.

Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning.

She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do.

Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna.


I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her.

Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game.

Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops.

Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.

boom boom boom and
It's glowing technicolor grid lines
and points of pulsating rainbowdots
tracing silhouettes of wriggling bodies
intertwined with the cursive signature of
rhythm boom boom boom

and then it's cold air and
briskly-shivering-bliss-bodies
huddled in giggling masses
amassing intentions of warmth

I blink and step over a threshold
into a cute-house-cute-house but —

it looks oddly outlined,
too angular, out of place...
but it may just be that
my thoughts are curved
and blurry after a night of
bouncing around to
electronically generated sound particles
pulsating from amplifiers that engulf my body
in a bubbling-sonic-ball-pit jumping up and down
in sync to nearly-bone-shattering-bass leaving
every fiber of my being little jelly fish
going with the flow

It seems strange to be back amidst the throes
of right angles and forced aesthetics
engineered with only efficiency and
capital in mind.

A cute-boy-cute-boy with
long, dark, wavy hair offers me a
blue-pill-blue-pill 'time to chill', he says

He looks a bit like me and his hair is
highlighted with electricity
and he's me he's me I see

Baby blue pop ****
powder blue chalk.
Spit it out
halfway chewed
let it roll into my pocket
safe for later suffrin'-suckage

Now I've gone, over
and I'm out now and
there's a blackout in my
mind now black

My eyes slowly slide open
to a succubus staring into my soul
******* its contents from my pupils...
and it holds me there, smiling
until I am nothing but a
dried cantaloupe skin
sitting in the safety of my room...

I blink and I am up and moving,
leaving the room into a hallway of endless doors
leading to other endless hallways of other endless doors and
a shadowy figure, quite familiar, swiftly steps into one as I step out.
Gone. Was it really there? I step through another doorway and
in the corner of my eye I see the shadow return to the hall.
I step back and it steps forward and I step forward and it steps back.

I step-step through the threshold and
I'm back in the city.

There's six or seven others with me
and they all look quite familiar, they
all look quite a bit like me.

and we're all going
we're all going somewhere
but I can't seem to figure out what to bring

and I'm emptying my pockets but
my pockets are universes
endlessly expanding and
before I know it,
my life sits pretty in a pile before me

I leave it all and I leave...
I'm gone, over and out now
I'm on the street getting into my car
to go go go and I'm driving and
I have no idea where I'm going
or what the hell I'm doing.

I'm lost now and I wonder,
how am I going to be found?

Stop, park. There's a bus!
They've always got somewhere to go...
I climb aboard and it's completely-empty-dead-of-night.

The driver hands me a beautifully bound book of poetry and
it reads quite a bit like mine does.

Turns out we're on a trolley and
we're ascending the sides of buildings
and we're going up, up
and up into
bright stars
suspended in a
deep blue sky
fading to green...

WAIT!!!
We need to stop!
I need to get off!
I need to be somewhere else!

The trolley descends and we stop at the dead street.
Right angle buildings line the sides of the parallel lines.

I get out and the driver gets out with me and
all of a sudden we're dancing in the road!

LOOK!
The stars!
They are pulsating
in connected constellations
sparkling and

LOOK!!
LISTEN!!
You can hear them glowing
in sync with the breath of the universe!

We bask in their glory and
I recognize the driver
as a childhood friend.

SID!? Siddhartha?!

I blink and
on another corner
someway somehow
some ways away
there are six to seven people
looking quite a bit like I do and
they're standing and waiting for me.
They're all waiting for me, but
I've forgotten everything...
at the cute house.

One splits and now I'm three!
and it's me and me and Katiie
and we're going back to the
cute house cute house
but there's all these walls we gotta
crawl under and squeeze between
and walls we have to climb over and
hoops we gotta jump through!

and it's crawl under smooosh!
face-squeeze-jump-walk and I JUMP! -
to the top of a building and walk walk
and leap! down-and-walk-walk-jump
bounce-bounce up-the-wall reaching
fingertips-cling-pull up-and-over and
on-the-roof, walk-walk, jump-fall and
land-crawl under another wall and
squeeeeeeeze!

"At least all their blinds are shut," says Katiie, chuckling.

I realize I'm naked and wake up.

Everything is chance. We name the random to create the idea of order and predictability. It's a stab in the abyss.

What is choice? Plinko. Go, pick the arbitrary with stars in your eyes. What you want is only an arm's-length away. Scratch the ticket. Feel the neon in the night wheel like time is in your corner. Let it hurt you. Learn.

the tree limb
crawls up and out
tangent into
the stuttering cool air

I sleep so. *******. much. It's pathetic, really. I've many theories as to why: I'm lazy; I'm not being challenged enough; society is, well, society; I'm a misanthrope; I'm a dreamer.. But, in the end, these all miss the mark.

The impetus behind my sleepmoresleep is, it seems, a direct result of that sentimental urge to bring order to a cosmic court whose very fabric is made of change and chance.

buds waiting
limbs feeling, again
slumber shook off
but this tilt too will end
and bring the wilt back

Start again. Turn the page. We love our metaphors. Why? Because they remind us of the flux. Things won't stay still. Ever. Dictionaries breathe too you know. New glyphs itch to get in.

Let them.

rosette of jag leaf rawr
bright yellow flower
head of seed and
a mane of downy tuft
reaching through
neglected suburb
concrete sidewalks

half empty coffee cups litter the desk
tools of various origin find their place
my bed lacks a duvet and matching skirt
a fish tank glows in the darkness
Each corner presents a new darkness
collared shirts line the floor
lined in such a way to form loose paths
you can still see the floor
but only through crumble ideas
and lost thoughts
The carpet wears thin where I pace
the blinds hardly dim the sun
the carpet lacks partitioning

Peace in a world of chaos.

I. (The Upcoming Trio).

There are three.
Of course there is only one right now,
but still, there are three
and they are lurking nearby
like a daddy long legs in the corner of a bathroom;
the more they daintily move around,
the more the need to do something about it.
One is foreign, far away,
young and surrounded by superglue sticky air,
questions having already been posed.
Two will lure you in with lipstick
and teems of sienna hair
but is taken with a drink.
Three, my strangers, is a bit of an unknown,
beautiful with powder blue eyes,
somehow missed on the first of the week.
Older! Would never have guessed.
I ask myself if one out of this group
will join the list of failures-to-be
with their own letters
or flowers
or stories
serving up rich reminders
of amateurish errors.

II. (The Summer’s End).

Before we all enter fall
some actions must occur.
A chat with five of those stepping up
into the world of small rooms,
nights out
and a lack of coins.
A reunion with linguists
for a talk and some tea
after over a year
since food in the market.
There’s also him
before he goes off to learn to teach,
P who had results last time round,
her with guy issues,
a fan of shoes
and the one above the rest
incapable of any words.
Good times ahead
with friends I hold dear
that ought to take place
before we all enter fall.

III. (The Procrastinator).

A ******, a waste
and a bag of mice on the floor.
Newspapers
under every little helps.
Really must be done
now,
now,
but no,
later,
tomorrow,
weekend,
why?
You haven’t gone back yet
to the days of park crossing.
Sort it out mate,
clear some space.
No more than an hour, tops.
How do you expect
to get anything done
if you don’t get up from the chair
and begin to move?

My stand is portable, affordable and neat
Sits on the southwest corner of 42nd Street
Can't beat my delicious, nutritious, expandable frank
My dogs are divine! Now, take that to the bank!

One twenty-five for a dog loaded or bare
Mini-meals readied with caution and care
Merciful and kind, my dogs nourish the broke
Fuels children and seniors and cold 'n drunk folk

I've served sages and I've served nuts
My clients range from brilliant to putz
Usually I keep the screwballs away
But now and again I have a ******, no-good day

Like the time two thugs took off with my cart
They rammed it right into the Super Mart
Weenies went flying and relish SPLAT!
Stunned I saw my dogs were eaten by cats

Two weeks down, my new stand revamped and nice
Maybe those thugs wanted red beans and rice
But dogs are my passion and my life’s big scheme
So buy a hot dog and support someone's dream.

I used to dream in you,
swim in the sweetness dripping from your lips,
drown in its foaming effervescence.
Your heart was an open ocean in which I could drift,
cradled and fearless.
seeking adventure;
a voyager hungry for new discoveries.
Your open soul was as expansive as universes
holding all the stars and suns and milky ways and moons.. and constellations.

Your words fell as gentle as falling snow
and melted deep into the crevices
and recesses of my mind,
a light that found every corner of darkness
and illuminated it,
stretching it beyond any capacity it had ever known.

I used to dream of you
of your giving spirit,
before it became as barren as the desert floor..
offering only mirages..
teasing like merciless vultures
feeding on the carrion of my desperate heart.

You stole my dreams of you,
a highwayman riding his horse of delusion;
wearing the garb of Lancelot
and the image of Dorian Gray.
You rode in from the sunset
haloed by a crimson dust,
bearing your concealed sword..

.. a sword that pierced the dreams of you,
pierced the golden sun to its core;
its light dimming and fading until it was no more.
and the air was filled with a gray, hot wind;
an inferno bearing through,
and carrying the putrid scent of confusion.

I used to dream.

and the word
                 rolled of my tongue
raced past my lips
          to pratt fall to the floor,
buster keaton style
      only to lie in a curlicue
puddle on
the ***** sky blue lino....

people applaud my performance
in a politely
dissaffected way,
before
returning to they desultory
gossip with regard  to
the state of the art draped
upon the walls....
strange blueprint of
                  mug ulgy beasts.
they say, in excellent      
                 babylonian accents
dropping
tibits of manna cake
and spilling ambrosia nectar
all the while....

**** me
i am  going to have to
get the clouds steam cleaned again... hope
monsoonal cleaners are'nt
busy this week..

and the word squiggled away to hide in the corner

Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies

I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age

Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets

Mom – I’m sorry
Mom and Dad
and Grands and everybody else
but I got to run off
And so by the time you read this
I’ll be gone
because you know
you don’t let me marry him
I really love him
and he really loves me too
But you, everyone of you
you don’t like his color,
the way he is
I know him and I got to be together
forever
And you all just sneer:
Oh, she’s just a teenager!
And you’ll all never accept it
forever
Neither will his group
accept me, forever
So don’t look for us;
we’ll literally fly off to
a corner in this universe
where no one will find us
ever
and we’ll live happily forever
Just the two of us

Just a few words to you all:
*We are all the same, you know
no matter our color and metal and make
no matter the configuration
no matter the model and serial number
and which Factory we came from
We robots are all the same…
You got to learn this and to love
all robots the same

You enticed me with a voice like sugar, slowly coating every corner of my mind. Seduced i was by the movements of your body like waves on the ocean. You bound me with hair like snakes of fire crawling their way through my soul. You Keep me happy with the joy that I feel whenever you laugh or are having fun. You stole my heart and were the gentlest Person in the history of the world with it. You Drew me in with your locks of red and bosoms aplenty. While we were in Agressive relations the entire world seemed to dissapear other than me and you for 10 minutes to 5 hours plus. You consumed me mind, body and soul and i tried to consume you mind, body and soul. Then when we were all done i felt like it was my fault but i realize it was you just spreading your wings to go consume another never killing only draining. Always remaining with a chunk of my heart and I with yours. We will forever be a part of each other and i will always love you. Besides the stars say it and so shall it be.

Short rap story






Lil loonie was a loser school abuser at home told he's was no more than manure
Always down on frowned on
Hound on!
People he's a supposed love are
Far being bigons
Stuck between two
Mother with issues
Dead brother picture hanngin in the window.
Constant reticule only peace
Was dream of revenue
Own a avenue be a block owner like the corner toker smokers shadows crews
Jammin to the bad words they lingo ,
The way lean tho , havin honnies chasin at they feet too
Seems so blissful
I want it!
Soo lil Lonnie became a grown up,
Started selling grass up in the school bus,
Ayo man. Lonnie gone nuts !
Starting fights skippin class grabbing *** up in the hallway ,
Stealing cash,
And ****** in the hallway,
Jumpin other kids in the stall way
He's gone gray,
He finally dropped out , linked up with the corners, made a connection now he's transporting product ,
Constantly eyes shut , to the fact that he blind but makin quap to support his mom and dads ****,
So they didn't question his surprised bust ,
Did 20 rough , came home to a dead conscious mutt , and******* addicted **** ,
Moms up in hospital, dad has lost his mind , nuts. A remarried krutch Brain is crust , powdered dust loonie.
Lil Lonnie lost a huge portion of life to a past hobby, trying to good now, takin flowers to the lobby. Only to find he's heading to mortuary section , mom didn't make it past the first chemo injection.

the morning had no coffee. just had 98 degrees by 10 am
and a barn on the lean in the distance.
where time never cuts the grass and nothing happens.
dirt roads pray for death or slow traffic. and clouds like smoke
from a bellicose pipe… on the lips of a medicine man
who became a woman when a cloud called him “ medicine man “
while the peyote was barking without dogs, was unleashed
to prairie in the marsh where the bogs agog
with summer candy in its peat moss.
no dowsing rod to spare a child the ridicule of finding god’s pond
with a stick obeying a cop.
the morning had no mirrors. just broken glass and aspartame
and very minor miracles. no part of a red sea. only dust mites
and last night’s *****. the trucks won’t stop complaining
about the radio. because you have no radio.
and when you sing on those long trips to the corner store…
your truck is like “ what the ****? “
and “ this guy must hate trucks….” and all sundry regalia of suffering
from a hole in the muffler and a tone-deaf pilgrim
on half a tank of sunshine and vermouth.

with a dent
in a twist.

I was pretty young
When I took my first sip
I was well aware of the danger
But that didn't matter much
It's hard to fear death
When you secretly
Pray for it

So I drank a fifth
Of some street corner bottle
I was so ******* cliche
With the paper bag and everything
I guess some would say
It was a cry for help
But I didn't want help
I didn't want
Anything

I didn't want to be a functional
Part of society
I didn't want to help the wealthy
Stay wealthy
And the poor
Stay poor
I didn't want to hinder
The growth of the human experience
I didn't want the media
To consume my soul

I didn't want any of it
Any part of it at all.

They say alcohol is addictive
But I don't think
It really is all that addictive
I think people are
Hooked on the possibility
That something could finally
Erase their past
From their memories
Addicted to the way
The cells might line up
And die off
Side by side until
The pain was obliterated

So, obviously
I drank.
I drank a lot back then
Because for just a minute
Or an hour
Or a night
I could forget everything
That ached in my chest
I could muffle the demons
For just a night…

That's what I was addicted to -
The idea of a fresh start.
I'd drink anything with the side effect
Of erasing the past.

It's not the alcohol.
They're addicted to the promise
Of a new life.
One brain cell at a time.

You made flowers grow under my bed
And in my  head
Where monsters used to hide.
You made tulips grow on my tongue,
Planted sunflowers in my lungs,
And violets in the bags under my eyes.
There are roses between my toes
And irises, growing in rows,
All down my spine.
You've made flowers grow, my dear,
In every corner of my mind.

Party's Over!

The party's over.
The drink flowed.
Soothed nightly as comforter.
As protector.
Met supply with demand.
To instill peace by distillation.
Exuberant excitement as the bubbles exploded.

Caused a blast of violence.
Adam's daughter.
Eve's son.
Hid from Satan on the run.
Alcohol created explosive wit.
Taken literally.

Vengeful attack on the silent ones.
Concealed in silent corners cowering.
In fear of what was known.
Defence impossible.

Screaming on the floor in a corner of his own.
Wailing in a solo chorus.
He needs another one.
Needs another drink.

She's hiding in the living room in a non-existence of her own.
Daughter of the strong woman corrupted by love.
Perhaps love.
Love was for her Satan.
As the drunkard took control again.



By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

If the angel of the girl I once was didn't
fly so far away from where I am, I would
stick Forever Stamps on a million notes,
hold them together with a broken pinky
swear and send them to her like a bundle
of weary promises. I would instruct her
to clutch them against her fluttering chest
for a moment or two, then scatter them like
breadcrumbs leading home.

I would send her the night you showed up
drunk and giggled your way into my bedroom,
where you collapsed on the chair in the corner
that was covered in the silhouettes of song-birds.

I would send her how it felt when you hugged me
onto you lap, my thighs squishing on the top
of yours. Our laughter melded with the Joni Mitchell
lullaby humming on the small side table.

I would send her how we looked, your nose brushing
mine and the silly smiles that made kissing impossible.
We couldn't have looked pretty, with your wide waist and
my blemished skin but I'm sure we looked lovely--in-love.

I would send her the taste of your tongue after you
whispered in my ear with hot, sweet breath, "I'm happy,
more than I have ever been before." I believed those
tickles of your thoughts, because I was too.

But most importantly, I would make sure to send her
a final note that included the creak of my bed as you
sat up and the sound of your soft footsteps padding
towards the for as you left my lying there.

The familiar door swings open at my touch,
Greeting me with the aromas I’ve come to love.
Surveying the room I find the old man in his corner,
Muttering under his breath about something in the paper.
His face creases to form an unpleasant look, one that's been there before.
The gruff hand reaches out to the liquid gold on his right, and he brings it to his thirst quenching Lips.
The lines fade, but only slightly.
I recede further into the cafe until an intruding fragrance invades my lungs,
Suffocating, I back up as the waitress blows by me,
And I see the trail of fumes chasing after her.
She shuttles over to the table with a young couple,
If they couldn't make it anymore obvious.
Their hands are laced together in a peculiar pattern,
And their eyes only see each others - typical.
Nervous laughter and smiles pass between them as a bottle would be passed about,
Red rushes to the cheeks when a compliment slips out on "accident."
I tear my eyes away, I can't handle young love today,
So I make my way to my table,
My old, coffee stained, uneven legged table in the corner.
From here I can see the business man sitting at the closest table to the door.
I know he's a business man not from his sharp suit and brief case,
but from the way he keeps checking his watch.
Checking it like he has someplace to be, someone to met, like the time can't possibly be right.
And before I can make another assumption of the man,
The store spits him out.
Leaving behind an empty chair, a paper unopened and steam fleeing from a cup.

I have basked in another beauty,
a sharp jasmine needle
that has pricked the corner
of the so-called snazzy ones.
A bright torch
in a dark blue drowned room,
crumbs on a blood napkin
and the one-tone words
drop out our ears
like heptagonal coins out of pockets
or tears,
tears onto pages
in a teenager’s diary.

And then we advance
into October air
where leaves tick and tack
as typewriter keys do
across soggy ground.
Ride, walk
and now a story begins.