systole, the eyes
that never saw,
the children who
made pillars out of
their tears,
building forts
out of fear
and pure wretchedness,
born in allleyways
and downgraded
to accidents,
eating from
the hand that
coloured their bodies
pure neglected art,
the beauty of their
red rimmed eyes
and yellowing
skin, like suns
that  grew from
their blackhole dreams,

who saw strangers on the
and when
their hands brushed
they called it -- "love",
who sobbed into
as tyrants
searched  for paradise
in the scars of
their misery,
their nightmares filled
with doctors who
would ask them
"where did they touch you"

Animals at a zoo,
a mere curiousity,
a mediocre pastime,
when they saw them
they thought of alcoholic fathers
-- a sub species of human,

they fell so far into the cracks
that they landed on earth
to experience our hell,
the versatile law
and our novelties,
the system raised a fist
and so did the fosters,
parental imposters,
and the child who deserved
the alters of Olympus
-- called it kindness,

their hearts suffered
in low ceiling rooms
and brick arched windows,
polished brass knob doors,
threaded traps of cobweb,
  A dose of sermons,
a memorial service the next,
children who dangled from ceilings,
suffocating on their self proclaimed
reptiles that grew in the skeletons of
their bodies,
suicidal for gold,
to be told
of flowers
and to be held
in the arms of a mother,
to be chased down
the streets like a flightless
while the earth drank
in their laughter,

kids that were once here
who breathed as if each
breath was thinning,

who became so small
that they disappeared.
One of my friends grew up in the foster system, its been painful seeing how much its changed her.
Jeff Gaines Mar 22
There are no words
that can describe
how music makes me feel.

It's always been there
touching something
deep inside that's real.

From watching my Mom
bopping to Motown
vacuuming our wooden floor.

To fishing through a thousand dance singles
when I was a DJ
hanging at the record store.

Always a banging stereo
in all of my cars.
Loud as hell down at the beach.

There is just this spot
deep in my soul
that music seems to reach.

I once collected
over twenty-thousand records.
But have since culled that herd.

Now I've maybe a thousand CD's.
On my 'puter, a bazillion songs.
I guess I'm a digital nerd.

From fist pumps
to  goosebumps
it brings all these compulsive things.

It makes us laugh
It makes us cry
and to our heart it clings.

If you ever
took my music away
it wouldn't be just a crime.

You may as well
put me outta my misery
as I'd simply lose my mind.

I love it all
Classical, Pop, Rock, Techno.
Even Country and Blue Grass.

But when it comes to Gangster Rap
and most newer Hip Hop
I'll have to take a pass.

Its not just about the often-poser "thugs"
that make it
spreading hate and acting all corrupt.

It just sounds to me
all lyrically the same
and so creatively bankrupt.

After Buffalo Stance
it started rolling down hill
and is just running out of gas.

All this chest beating
about guns and ho's
it simply has no class.

Such a magnificent notion
this music phenomenon
that we all love.

I'd bet you would stand and fight
to keep it in your life
if push should come to shove.

Like poetry
or any other art
it lets us bare our souls.

It makes us dance
It makes us sing
as it rocks and it rolls.

But every record
comes to an end
and so does this poem.

In my heart
and in my soul
sweet music will always have a home.
A rather silly little ditty. It's pretty self-explanatory. It may be a draft. Not sure yet. So, if you come back and find some bit changed, then it was ... if not ... then it wasn't!

And please, PLEASE don't come at me in defense of Hip-Hop. My opinions about that current state of affairs are absolute. I have toured with SNAP!, Wu Tang Clan, Meth and Red, Onyx, Bone-Thugs & Harmony and have worked with EVERY Hip Hop artist you could EVER name as a Lighting Director.

As for Street cred, I LIVED at Park and Broadway Brooklyn for almost 8 years, right across Park Ave. from The Sumner Houses projects in Bed-Stuy.

So, don't DREAM of challenging me about "what I know" about Hip Hop or having street cred. To polish all that, I was a nightclub DJ for 20 years. Chances are, I was spinning "White Lines" in a late night bottle club or roller skating to "Rappers Delight" BEFORE your parents even MET!

I DO love much of the current stuff ...

BUT ...

SO, SO much of it is complete and utter GARBAGE. The violence and misogyny that it glorifies is so far beyond belligerent, ignorant AND pathetic.

Your words will fall on Def Ears ...
What i really want
Is for someone
To open my fist
And place in my palm
One piece a day
And allow me
To put together
The puzzle that
Makes her
T 2d
I’ve weeped near the old broken oak for to long.
I’ve seen the angel faced women,
Turn their back as they head for the door.
I’ve heard the howl of a mother’s pain as a fist meets a socket.

Intuitively I know the names of those lost souls, eager for a change space.

At times the loneliness is so consuming that I become afraid even speaking for fear My words might disappear into the nothingness of being

Each day peering out the window watching the rat race,  scattered ripped up pieces of paper strewn about

Empty beer cans  creating a castle of aluminum .

I’ve seen my reflection for to long
Egg 7d
the world relentlessly confuses
Tragedy with Art.

We commercialize anxiety
and weigh the profit margin after the cost of therapy.

So that we can play again
and repeat.

So that we can feel whole.
On the backbone of another's suffering.

On the bloodied palms of a fist held too tight.

On the dry cheeks of a face ravaged by tears.

We hold onto this pain.
We publicize it.

Push it like crack in the streets.

people mistake our breaks in reality
For redemption.
Corrosive acid.
that you can hold in your hand.
Jared Eli May 1
The wind doesn't whistle so much as it lightly breathes over this bottle that is where we live
The bottle of Earth
Or at least my city.

It's breathing with the sense of misplaced importance, like it's sure it's a foreboding wind, but it doesn't have the backing
Or the heart.

I hear it, feel it lap at my bare calves gently, as though I'm swathed in the tide that's just come in, just trying to hang.

I feel the wind, hear it, and wonder how much of what I hear is the airplanes on their path back home.

How much of what I feel is the memory of a trip I took to the beach once, where the bottom of my foot came in contact with a reef in the wrong way and I had to hobble back to our sitting spot on one good foot and a fresh-made blood-fist of a foot.

How much of tonight is fueled by the pills I took an hour ago and my own anxiety and stress and unease
How much of me is fueled by needing someone in my life
Needing an older guide
Needing someone with a couple of light-up popsicles to show me the way

The way back home from this humdrum, bottle-blowing existence.
Swells Jul 3
i plunder through swollen sky,
cursed by the air surrounding,
coddled and heated at the pyre
with a stale fist to the stomach
like a sacrificial cow before a feast;
i gather at the table and dine
with serpents at the altar
before the King.

scraped from the plate,
cast into a sack,
and handed 209 pills
i become the Queen of Blue
enrobed in hospital-white flesh
commanding Father to kiss at my feet;
i grow tired of these things and
let the stagnancy seep.

my memoirs crown like
multifaceted gems emerging
from a fatherless Mother
gripped at the neck by some
heretic proclaiming about prodigy
and the people applaud at my feat;
i shake hands with the devil
and go back to sleep.

i slumber across the Atlantic
where i can hear your voice
breaking at the shores, calling
for a revelation in me,
oh!  for the love of God--!
the current worries and swallows
me whole like a crook in need
of a baptizing.
Assume, just for a moment,
That yesterday wasn't really yesterday
You were in a vegetative state: you saw the light
just to be awoken, from your worst nightmare
The sky wasn’t blue, anymore it look gray:

The man in the white house was missing, off the radar
Leaving the people with nothing more than all his hopes
Then you remember, somewhere where you read
That the poet also resigns himself to his mood.
Perhaps, that why some verses should always end with an Amen,

I remembered sitting in my little chair in preschool
Waiting for the role called, j
just to hear her called my name correctly
But, my teacher never did, waverly, wabney,
Assume, just for a moment in time, I got up
And yelled it not warily, or Dabney it Demerara ass holes:
I always got a sick feeling, when they called my bestie name
And she wasn’t there, I always assumes the worse..

I was always an emotional state of sensing another‘s emotions.
At an early age I was that child who spoke with colors: I held on so tight, to my crayons box and silly putty that I made an image of my fist:
As an adult we hold on to grudges and bitterness
I too am guilty of that: when would it end.
A 7d
We laughed and we cried,
We talked through the night,
We stayed on the same side,
We fought to make things right.

Remember when I'd fall?
You'd tell me I could rise,
I'd stand back up so tall,
I'd grown, I was more wise.

I was there when you'd need me,
I'd hold you to my chest,
You'd have me completely,
I'd make you see the best.

Somewhere along the line,
You started to drift away,
I wanted you to stay mine,
So I tried to make you stay.

You told me it wasn't me,
And so that's what I believed,
Your words came easily,
It made me feel relieved.

But everything was a lie,
Times became so tough,
And I'd ask myself why,
Why aren't I good enough?

You think you can do better,
You don't see me inside,
My eyes become wetter,
As my confidence has died.

You'll keep searching for more,
While you crush my heart with your fist,
Find what you're looking for,
But perfect doesn't exist.

There was something wrong with me,
There'll be something wrong with her,
Consumed with vanity,
Consumed with what you prefer.

I can be a perfect size,
I can match what you desire,
Capture attention from the guys,
Be the one they all admire.

I'll learn to love myself,
But in a completely different way,
Won't place others to the back of the shelf,
Appreciate them everyday.

You'll keep on judging,
Remaining forever shallow,
Their confidence you'll keep nudging,
But one day you'll sit and wallow

As all the good ones got away,
The best ones you've ever known,
See you didn't let any stay,
And now you're all alone.
The 19 year old light heavy weight leans his muscular body forward to rest his hands on the top rope. He bows his head waiting to regain his breath as his lungs fight to force air deep into his chest. Bill Wain has just boxed four rounds with Red.

Harry, the trainer, gently pulls the untied gloves from Red's hands.
"Good fight, "he says, patting Red on the back as the fighter climbs through the ropes and heads across the gym to the showers. Harry hands the sweat soak gloves to Felix who puts one glove under his arm while he loosens the laces on the other 16 ounce glove. He makes the sleeve wider. "Do you want the head gear?" the old black man asks.

Jack Delleto shakes his head and pushes his taped hand deep into the glove.

The former welterweight champion of Nevada smiles. He glances at Harry and then at Jack. "Head gears unnatural and you can't use them in a pro- fight. It only gives the fighter a false sense of security, anyway."

"Like a condem," Harry says.

"What's a condem ? Are you talking about a fucken rubber?" Felix asks, a bit perturb. "What's a rubber got to do with anything?" Felix demands, not understanding Harry's joke.

"Well, " Harry drawls. "It's suppose to protect your head. It's not natural and just gives you a false sense of security.

"Are you fucken kidding me? Is that suppose to be a joke? Harry, I just don't understand your sense of humor."

Harry smiles and Jack is laughing.

Felix tries not to and then shakes his head laughing, too. "Man, that was the worst joke. How does that feel?" Felix asks Jack when he has finish tying the glove.

Holding up the glove, Jack rotates his wrist. "Feels fine."

The old man takes the other glove from under his arm, pulls the laces out, and holds it open. Without turning his head to look at him, Felix tells Harry, "Make sure Bill doesn't cool down, tell him to shadow box." Harry walks over to Bill and Bill starts shadow boxing. Jack pushes his hand into the glove. "Make a fist." Jack does. Felix pulls the laces tight and ties them into a bow.

Felix looks intently into Jack's eyes. "How does that feel?" He does not see any fear.

"About right."

"you look tired."

"I am a little."

"Are you sick or is it a woman." Felix asks somberly.

"I'm not sick."

A big smile spreads across the face of the former welterweight champion of Nevada. The face of the sixty-eight year old blackman is lined and cracked like the old boxing gloves that jack is wearing, but his tall body is youthful and athletic in appearance. Above Felix's eyebrows Jack sees the affects of twenty years as a professional fighter. He sees the thick scar tissue and the thin white lines where the old man's skin has been stitched and restitched many times. As he gives instructions to Jack, Felix's brown eyes seem to be staring at something distant and Jack wonders if Felix has chased around the ring one time too often his dream.

"I like your style, Jack. Get off first and don't stop punching until he goes down. You've got it kid, and not every fighter does."

Jack and Felix start walking over to the ring.

Jack wonders, "What is it I've got?" He asks.

Felix puts his foot on the fourth strand of the rings rope and with his hand pulls up the top strand. "You've got HEART."

Jack steps into his corner.

In the opposite corner Bill Wain waits while a concerned Harry talks quietly with Felix at the center of the ring apron.

"Will he be alright?" Harry asks.

"Bill's tired." Felix says, then he tries to explain. "It's not the money. I almost 70 and I want to go out a winner." He pauses, and then offers, "he can hit hard with either hand."

"yeah, but at best he's a small middleweight and he only moves in one direction, straight ahead."

"Harry, I love the guy." Felix puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. "He's like Tyson at the end of his career. He'd fight you to the death, but he wasn't fighting to win anymore, either."

Harry puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. "Do you want me to tell'em to go easy." Harry looks up at Felix, waits for an answer.

"I'm tired of sweeping the dirt from behind the boxes of wax beans and tuna fish. I'm sick of waitin in the rain to collect shopping carts. A half way decent white heavyweight can make a lot of money. It's not good for a fighter to practice holding back. Bill's a winner. Jack"ll be alright."

Felix reaches into the pocket of his faded brown and grey checkered pants. He hands the pocket watch to Harry so he can time the rounds.

Felix nods to Bill Wain and the he looks over to Jack standing in the opposite corner. He winks at Jack Delleto and whispers, "The Jack of Hearts."

Bill comes out purposefully out of his corner, circling left.

Jack rushes straight ahead.
/                    nietzsche wrote
his ecce homo

­                         now?!

apparently we're all supposed
to write a book, entitled

mea culpa...                                 (?)

i just want an authenticity
of using the index,
index finger,

and being able
                        to point...
without sacrificing
the ownership
of a shadow attachment...

               and how
does the víšégrād group
    (oh i'm into linguistic
     writing such a word,
treating it as a bomb,
     and knowing the "nuance"?
   the manchester mob,
the panic,
           and what is the concept
of islam if not advocacy
        for literacy? no? really?!)

invite the bulgars...                         (?)

like a birth of a 2nd. yugoslavia...
or the shift of
   the 2nd holy empire
to the, "left" in copernican

    there are the narrators,
the observers,
the critics,
   and the: chanced eyes on the mess...

no... in the collectivist / corporate
              mea culpa is not on
the agenda...
                           "we" have already
stressed the situation past
the mea culpa:
           come: ecce homo
                      and the crucifixion /

come the bulgars...

   and why am i not expressing
an intellectual ben hur
of an index finger?

managed to punch myself
20 times in the face
and give myself a plum beneath
the eye?

          so what's wrong with
"flexing" attributing
the tongue to an index finger
so few books are actually
ecce homo orientated...
       always the mea culpa,
never, never, ever,
                         tua culpa:

                   ecce homo!



     just mention the concept
of mea culpa

                     to elißabeth fritzl

   how much of masochistic
              "moralißing" does it have
to take place, trans-temporal
  and justifying
                 the mono-spatial realm
of a "past", and, "now"
                before being crucified
is no longer deemed
the same as labouring with
                       a hammer, or a chisel?!

i say that: metaphorically
frothing at the mouth.

firt i learned to throw a punch
onto my face...
   give myself a plum just beneath
the eye socket:

   now i know the mea culpa mantra,
as i know the existence
of the index finger, being
differentiated from the fist...


          the tua culpa mantra.
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