"dozens" poems
Procrastination?
What is that I've never heard of such a thing.
But maybe because I'm to busy procrastinating to hear it,
I am mike,
I am not a poet, a leader, a storyteller, or an academic,
I am a dreamer, a gamer, a man of many things,
I would rather let life pass me by and sit in my game,
Than to deal with the drama of reality.
It is not that I don't like reality,
It is that reality is too busy,
With school and work
Facebook and friends
Learning and imagining
Are they even one in the same
I love my games because it allows my mind to run wild
From building empires in Minecraft to taming creatures in Pokemon
Games are a way I can re envision my world
They allow kids to show their creative side something education removed long ago.
So I stand before you asking,
What is procrastination,
I'd rather play my game and imagine.
My life seems to pass by but in my one life span I have lived dozens of others.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
Of all the fun Ive ever had
Almost all I've never told you
From beach days to movie nights
And pizza stops and wrestling fights
Almost all I've never told you
Car rides speeding at midnight
Walking on the frozen lake downtown
Scared that I'll fall through and drown
Waking up in his bed
To giving road head
All the fun I've had I've never told you
You never knew, never found out about
All the lies I hand fed you
Dozens and dozens of times I did what I liked
Instead of listening to you
And of all of those times of adventure and fun
I regret absolutely none
Except the fact I had to pretend I wasn't actually doing a single one
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Decisions
Eanie meanie minie mo
one can not decide like so
your past is gone, let it go
eanie meanie minie mo
We think they were childish games to play
yet it tells our future each and every day
Its a 50-50 shot
you could go ether way
But there is no turning back
One step in the wrong direction and you are done for
Because the key was thrown into the ocean that could only open the locked door behind you
Like hot lava
A playground game
If you stumble off the side and landed in that hot firey pit of lava you were done for
That ocean where the key was thrown into has turned into a nasty green
The waves and seaweed churning under the dark stormy sky
This is not a message in a bottle but more of a lost man at sea
Every stepping stone could result in a broken heart
A bruise
A forgotten friend
One wrong decision could cause a prodigy to die
Like ******
His Mother almost got an abortion
Her family told her over and over to just go through with the pregnancy
She probably tossed that decision back and forth in her mind
But her family won the match
If she had decided to go against her family I wonder where society would be today
Would there be dozens of Einsteins?
A million Madonnas?
Would there be a cure for all the cancers?
For the common cold?
Every judgement is a puzzle piece
Every step you take back or turn in the unexpected direction is another step towards your fate
Everything matters
If you had gotten one more gallon of milk you wouldn't have run out so you wouldn't have gone to the store and meet your best friend there so you wouldn't be going to that Zumba class
Then you wouldn't have met five of you new best friends and your husband
All of that for a jug of milk
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
11.7k
They say the pen is mightier than the sword
If this is true then God was the sword and you were a pen
And I was the pencil who laid you a foundation of erased mistakes only for you to trace upon them as if they didn't exist.
And I was cast in the bottom of some cluttered bag
while you were gently capped and placed in a box lined with blue silk,
And you knew I would always be there to test the waters before you spilled the pages with your brash delicacy.
But you needed me and I craved you for completion.
Together we created sweeping illustrations and lengthy novels with dozens of sequels.
We depicted a tale of modern love in our ball-pointed journey.
But my graphite stayed intact while your ink started to run out.
I could see as our pages unfolded that your colors no longer spread as boldly.
You became more and more invisible as I desperately etched harder and harder into every page hoping to give you clearer guidelines
but you no longer had it in you.
And soon enough we couldn't make anything beautiful.
You had run out.
And I'm still hopelessly drawing maps desperate that you can regain what you once had and use the indentations on previously blank pages to find your way back to me.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE.
So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple.
What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games...
Thus, there are many types of violence...
The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence.
People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence.
Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence.
The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence.
The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence.
US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence.
From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence.
A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison.
A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence.
The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent.
Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence.
Wage slavery is violence.
Gentrification is violence.
The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence.
The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence.
Deportations are violence.
Homophobia is violence.
The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence.
The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence.
So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance?
Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead.
Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Did you see the dolphin with hands?
They grew from fins
and now he flips cakes,
serving them up for dozens of fans.
Did you see the dolphin with hands?
His keepers were shocked
when they saw the fingers,
long and gray with nails on the ends.
Did you see the dolphin with hands?
He can juggle, he can fight,
there is no one that he can’t smite.
Oh, and he makes houses out of sand.
Did you see the dolphin with hands?
Scientists are baffled,
doctors confused, because dolphins
shouldn’t be able to play in hair metal bands.
Did you see the dolphin with hands?
His name is Finn, despite the lack of them,
and he is a mutant fish
who can flip pans.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
I don't think in linear paths
I think in images, not words.
I think through what I see
what I hear
what I feel
For instance, that night,
I found my sisters body
I saw her lifeless body hanging there
I saw my mother fall to the ground, a strangled mix between a scream and a gasp escaping her lips
I saw the red eyes of my father
I had never seen them before and I've seen them too many times since
I saw the strongest people I've ever known fall to their knees in the rubble of my family
I saw my family fragment, break and stumble under the weight of our grief
But I also saw my family stand up, rise, fight and pull the ripping seams together with our knuckles turning white
I heard my father's panic
I heard my mother's cries
I heard my own disconnected voice as my body and brain worked separately
I heard the voice of the 911 operator in my ear
I heard the sirens
the ones that now echo in my ears
I hear an unknown voice say "I'm sorry, we couldn't revive her. She's gone," as my mother crumpled into my father.
I felt my blood racing through my veins
I felt my heart pounding in my chest
I felt my muscles moving and tearing and ripping as I ran, fueled by adrenaline
I felt the loss
I felt the icy numbness blanketing my family
I saw a life end that night and dozens of others permanently altered
Her life ended that night and ours changed and came crashing to a halt but we got back up
I got back up
I only hope that wherever she is, she's finally happy
Happier than she was here
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC
I:
In which
I
amid the
whirring lights
and emerald
felt
drift
through a
raucous
flashing casino
searching
for a
table
with an open
chair
so I can
finally start
to play
the game
II:
In which all of us
are together again at last
for a family gathering—
Thanksgiving supper, perhaps—
and, as we greet each other,
I happen to glance skyward,
unthinking,
and notice that clouds
of a turbid
cumulonimbus gray
are beginning to coalesce overhead.
I look up again and notice
that they have spun
into dozens of funnel shapes,
each of them
starting to reach down for us
like the ashen fingers of Death.
We huddle down in the cellar,
praying the storm will pass.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:00 AM UTC
I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine
In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves
But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
black girl
burnt fingertips on blunts and radio knobs
singing along to the words
pretending to fall in love
black girl
stuck with scratches
ashes
burnt skin
a taste for
female friends that benefit
black girl
can't hide her DNA
as easily as her true colors
black girl best friend
back girl white for a black girl
black girl lives on the north side
has a side girl on the south
black girl plays blues
bumps Kings of Leon
and Future
wondering which of the two
will be her future
black girl
never cusses in front of her sister
even though all she says is
'fuck it'
black girl white car
black girl no license
black girl speeds
black girl art school
black girl need scholarship
black girl raps
and forgets the words
black girl gossip girl
black girl breaks cigarettes
black girl never laughs at me when I think she will
black girl psh
black girl so much better
than who she thinks she is
black girl can't take a compliment
won't take credit
black girl so beautiful
black girl never pays for drugs
but gets high every night
black girl sometimes makes me jealous
sometimes I want to make
black girl jealous
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
my mouth was still stained
red from the
pomegranate seeds i ate from the palm of you hand
when i checked your instagram feed.
i had been lost in your underworld for
three
whole
days
before the weight of your sorrow found its
way into my stomach
and to the marrow of my bones.
like some fish wiggling along the sides of a
tank i ate your emotional refuse
and felt myself
becoming heavier and heavier
while you lifted to the clouds
and found this beauty among them.
i still sat in the bottom of the pond
bloated and
envying the sky above me.
you are still swimming in my blood
like a nasty parasite
and i feel like ripping out my stomach
to pour the weight of you out
but you seem so happy that
i want to pretend that your sadness
never existed and
that i am a stranger merely browsing through
photos.
but the fact remains that i
am still here.
on my bed writing angrily
about you like i have written about
dozens before you
and for some reason
something
hasn't
changed.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
The world watched as Hope entangled itself around the minds of the willing.
They watched as Justice took its first breath as the seed that sprung from Freedom's *****
An illegitimate child of chaos,born a burden to a crutched nation.
The world looked away as dozens of corpses piled up into skyscrapers.
Skyscrapers,for eagles to perch and nest their wealth over spilt blood.
Forgiveness was wrapped around the mouths of the unsatisfied.
Muted screams of those whose hearts were set ablaze with vengeance.
Hushed down by Nelson Mandela's words of healing over wounds of discrimination.
Now up and about,a nation on its feet,embarking on this journey of union and peace.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
Grand mamma always told me
Hold your head up proud
And never accept to blend in with the crowd-
Kinna strange the way
I'm parting rivers right now
And how if sitting silent
I'm truly speaking out loud
Long ago and swiftly
Juggling dozens of eggs
Though trying not to split 'em
I tripped up on some pegs
The yoke leaked out
Mixed with the blood
From my head
I didn't whimper yet I knew
My beauty was dead-
But that's how it grows
All you Elaine's and Ed's
Through brazen heat
And tempest sleet
Chewing on led
While inspires cry
And empires fry
That sandstone shifts
And driftwood drifts
Alone I merrily roam
With my for sure's and if's
Never dissuading
The hemispheres
Of my bliss
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.
And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!
'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'
'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'
For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
3.4k
noun.
hot-rod red, boiling—veins snake, denim—skin throbs.
my eyelids are pounding.
dozens of sparrows, pushing at pale canvas.
thunder gasps at the
caverns
of my lungs.
lightning
at the fuse.
noun.
an Edgar warning;
thumping at wooden chest,
racing.
it just echos.
i am not your dictionary.
i am not your dictionary.
reverberate.
reverberate.
reverberate.
hollowly, it
hymns.
muffled by fire-truck cloth
and sun-starved cotton.
noun.
blue trees dance to the
rhythm,
singing up at skylight eyes.
reverberate.
breathe.
reverberate.
repeat.
noun.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
They say that love fits like a glove.
But love doesn't fit like a glove.
We fit into dozens of gloves throughout our lives.
We use a new pair every winter,
We cherish them when the cold hits
But when the trees turn back to green
The scarves fall to the floor
We forget about sweaters and warm blankets…
The gloves disappear somewhere in a closet where we can never find one or the other again.
It doesn’t bother us.
We buy a new pair.
Miss the warmth of the previous one,
Maybe miss the familiarity of a pair that fit perfectly for a while but then…
Then we forget.
And it goes on and on.
So love doesn’t fit like a glove.
Love doesn’t fit.
Love torns.
But it is so worth it
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
It’s moments like this
Some obscure song playing on our google home
My brother, gazing off into the distance no doubt under the spell of some great philosophical inquiry,
Neglecting the spoon and it’s contents
Drip drip dripping
My mother in the corner, seemingly preoccupied, slender fingers probing what appears to be
Yet another bag
Of those chocolate covered toffee almonds
My father, ever the victor in competitive eating, up and roaming about
By the window one moment, at the couch the next
Gone like the wind, oh here he comes
Meanwhile I, face a great trial which I must overcome in order to greet my destiny
-stairs
At the top of which await
Dozens upon dozens of procrastinated
Assignments just calling to me
Stirring up within me a desire,
A ferocious flaming ambition,
To not move an inch
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 1:57 PM UTC
i have paid the fines
of dozens of overdue library
books i never finished reading.
i love reading.
i love curling up
in a big leather armchair
while the sun reaches out
to me through the window
as time slows
and my coffee grows cold.
but tolstoy and fitzgerald
sit on my shelves
or in my purse
carried everywhere
and collecting dust.
i can see the silhouette
of who i would like to be.
the curve of her hips
the stillness of her limbs.
she grows her own herbs
and tries out new recipes
while her husband is at work.
she doesn’t mind driving
for hours alone
and enjoys singing
along to the radio
going five under the speed limit.
she is not in a hurry.
she is proud
and sure
and poised.
she reads books and returns
them on time.
she gave up on dreaming
and hoping
and longing
and finally began
living.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
At first the air seems too dry;
Then you see the mist --
A small town on the horizon;
You decide to ride on,
And give Father's headstone a last kiss.
You find yourself wondering why
Anyone would stay here.
Some of those who passed before
Left their mark on rotten doors
Memories strangely dear.
Love's a gamble in a ghostly town;
It could move you, swift or slow.
You unholster your heart,
Wonder when the shooting will start,
But you already know.
Dozens to go and only one down,
Riding through a town of slaughter,
You're both alive and dead,
Mute bullets whistle by your head:
Are you a killer or a daughter?
He was here once, before you knew
About the emptiness outside.
Still you followed him.
His face was harsh and grim.
And he told you to leave or hide.
Love that's cold, deadly and true
Is the easiest and hardest kind.
You can **** him or just love him;
You'll never know much else of him,
But he’ll never leave your mind.
Dawn bursts over the sharpest peak
And the town streets fill with gold;
It’s the only kind this place will ever see.
You know that soon, you and he
Will shoot each other or fold.
Yet, love in a ghost town always dies,
Killed before it can start.
Spanish ladies even now wear mourning veils
And the lovesick couples' faces pale
When you shoot each other through the heart.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
Half a hundred orphans
Orphaned by choice
By shame
"God's will"
"In his name"
"Abominations, every one"
"Abomination"
That's my son
Someone's daughter -
Late one night
Looking for a bite, no fight
Gunned down
In the name of god
For the love of God
No fight
Dead. On a club dance floor
One dead, two dead
Dozens more
Alive -
Orphans parents live
They give
They grieve
They cry
Changing minds
Changing clothes
Changing lives
Goodbye for real, not by choice this time
One man -
One gun
One night
No one could put up a fight.
Goodbye - Mom and Dad say
We didn't mean goodbye that way
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 2:36 AM UTC
One night I woke up suddenly,
Because I had a scary dream.
It was a real nightmare,
A horror full of human scream.
Dozens of terrifying creatures,
Frightened people, a real mess.
A danger on every corner,
And everything seemed hopeless.
At one point one creature saw me,
I was scared and all alone.
I started to run as fast as I could,
And tried to escape from the danger zone.
The creature was very big,
Dark colored, with scary eyes.
A fear was getting bigger and bigger,
I was covered with sweat as cold as ice.
I didn’t look behind me,
I just wanted to run away,
But creature was faster then me,
I had to find some other way.
I turned into a dark, little street,
And tried to find some place to hide.
I didn’t know how far the creature was,
I hoped it would go to some other side.
I hid in some old wooden house,
Saw the stairs and climbed up,
But the creature angrily broke the door,
And a loud sound woke me up.
Next thing which I remember,
I was lying in bad in my flat,
But this dream seemed so real,
I woke up all covered with sweat.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC