I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

The first time someone called me a poet
it was in the cramped back hallway of a party in early July
heat rising between our ****** spaces
sweat collecting at the base of my brow to keep anxiety at bay
I listen as someone who I could barely call an acquaintance describe me to a boy I just met:
“she is an amazing writer, trust me, she’s so cool”
As if me using metaphors for antidepressants
and words as bandages for wounds
was reason to make me worthy to get to know beyond my first name
to pin my feet onto a pedestal I didn’t ask to stand on to begin with
I press autopilot in my muscles,
mechanically flip my hair,
split my lips into a half-*** smile,
****** my hand,
and let my laugh ring with the music.
Little does everyone know I am the broken jukebox
with a disappearing voice.

I hide behind love and at 19, I wrote “What High School History Taught Me”
It was for you
you, the NYU junior with a mouth that clung onto vowels
and whose fingertips could read the braille embedded in my skin
You loved chasing storms,
I was almost named after a hurricane,
and this was how we were born after Hurricane Sandy-
it was never a question how we found comfort in destruction
But I still remember telling you
that I wanted to love you forever even if you didn’t stay to find out
And ever since I spit that
men come to me looking for their taste of mystery
for their chance to be immortalized
They don’t know I only speak in train station
and everybody is always a few minutes too late
No one has gotten the chance to get too close
because it’s never romantic to **** the girl who makes love to her own sadness every night

I’ve stopped seeing the fire in my poetry like most strangers do
because to them
my pain is pretty
my heartache is dressed in a bow so
they can all sleep better at night knowing
some 20 year old girl in California understands them
better than she understands herself.

I have been singing in a language I never fully understood
because I am the girl who attaches my reflection to a man
whose memory I still keep prisoner in my mind
and this is how I hide from myself
this is my disappearing act

This isn’t poetry anymore
and it hasn’t been for a long time
This is the sound of survival
This is my heart leaking gunpowder and discharging bullets
Right here
on this stage
is where I understand what it feels like to choke on the gas chamber of lost dreams
Right here
is a dusky New York City apartment
with a boy dressed in the mask of a man hunting me as prey
This stage is where I come home to after being at war with myself
This stage is my peace
my prayer for forgiveness once a week
Right here
is why friends from school don’t call me that much anymore
This stage
is why me and Joe broke up
This place
is why I don’t sit with my family at the dinner table no more
because why
Why share grace with those who can’t understand
how these lights I stand under make the full moon I need
to break my neck and howl at some nights

This is where I pluck the guitar strings of my throat to sing like a bluebird and slow dance with every ghost
This stage is the only place I can forklift
all the misunderstood out of my chest and force you to watch
and you
will still call it art
you
will still call it poetry

But this isn’t poetry anymore
it hasn’t been for a long time
This
is the sound of survival
This
is the sound of me using the inhale of night
just to make it to the exhale of morning.
Right here.
On this stage.
This
is where
and why
I
fight.

I'm feeling kinda hollow,
It's a little hard to swallow.
Still Im in the lead,
So everybody follows.

Hate it all you want though,
There's no time to wallow.  
tell me what you need,
You just found that ****,
Waldo.

I don't even buy blow.
I just ****** snort it,
Gatta cop it from the *****,
That always seem to hoard it.
know they can't afford it.
I Wonder how they scored it.
Then I took four hits,
Got drunk and stole a forklift.
I don't give a horse ****.
I just want some more ****.

Got weird for a
few days,
Brain fried till my
eyes glazed
Smoked a little
more haze,
Screamed **** the pigs ,
Got tazed
strapped on my rollerblades,
And streaked out,
the VMA's

I don't give a ****,
Like a ******* Atheist
don't believe in luck,
Call me the ******* catalyst.

The cloud’s sweat mists
Foggy moon breaking the night
Stars are like evening sprinkles
And in the sweltering heat
The factory repeats
Its strange and haunting beats

The dusty machines spit hot air
Metal grinds metal, the forklifts beeps
The sound barely startles me
Out of my space daydreams
My oddly color ear buds
Making me dull of hearing

A guy speaks at me seeking humanity
Lonely, widower he needs some connection
Fourteen year and tumors will see
His dog finally has to go to sleep

He says he needs another puppy
Offers up skewed observations
About our American nation
I am disturbed but I can see
His heart is in the right place
As he places his thoughts before me

Loves his music but I can’t help but worry
That when I leave he will cease to be
Becoming merely a memory
Echoing ghostly
Cause he is so lonely

May I have your attention please?
The owner of the blue suitcase.
Your baggage is way to heavy for our airline to carry.
We recommend a forklift.

My thanks to the store clerk working the midnight shift
God bless the dishwashers at local restaurants laboring for minuscule pay
To the forklift operators moving freight for hours on end ,
to cleaning crews preparing offices for another day
For the plumber protecting health in the wee hours of
the morn
For sanitation workers hard at work well before dawn

the world according, to a star-studded journalist -
writing the magazine Saturday column, a she, mind you,
all learned about seeing the world: well, only New York -
she's hip! she's funny! she's downright a prop'ah scumbag -
and i say: the iron curtain should have turned into an iron skirt...
but then Pope Jean-Claude von ****, the second, opened up
the brothel... i too would have liked a ****...
but hell, it was always going  to be a bony **** at best...
raise a family? REJECT! they think their post-colonialism is an
affair of scented parchments of hope, what they did in Africa,
they're suddenly doing in Europe... shush-bags of wisdom,
let's get the house in order: i'm a perverted snail, i **** toads for
practice, i ***** out salty ***** on the rotunda circuit of cries:
justice! justice! well, if ever i spotted a deaf ear, it'd be now.
so there she is lazing about with a column on Saturday,
and she drops the New-Irish words: and M & S, buying swimwear,
hoping for a Burkini... the lighting and the flooring gave the place
an unhappy, postwar, eastern European (a new continent, mind you)
vibe. i half-expected a forklift truck to drive past me,
delivering potatoes to some far corner's "thursday potato display -
sprouted ones half price." out of the blue a leprechaun jumps out,
a real ventriloquist by trade, and does a rendition of that famous
song: we all eat potatoes here, nothing but *** *** potatoes!
tra lala la. this fetish in western society, potatoes: the famous mash
and chips... cabbage... and the famous coleslaw...
eastern Europe: land of landfill sites and mountains
of potato... which magically turn into lakes of *****...
and cabbage... i got to know more about the world by being
half the tourist i was supposed to be... and half of what integrating /
assimilating into a host culture allowed: St. George can
hang a ****** on the washing line, and Lizzy can shave her head...
     i'm a patriot of language,
simple as, a patriot of language,
not a patriot of the culture that incubated the language...
first of all check-out North Korean propaganda films,
second of all ask why you received the Marshall Plan
funds, inc. Sweden, which was neutral during the war...
then bewilder yourself as to why you're selling us
a farmer's stereotype, but as the grand observation
of the bellybutton suggests: they're the ones stuffing
crisps into buns and eating it with cheese and ham
at every lunch-break... farmer here, farmer there,
******* potato fetishist anywhere...
and you wonder why i retain a patriotism to the language
rather than to the people that speak it...
they didn't make it easy, and they're certainly not
making it any easier... Leprechaun Irish -
potaytoe - potaytoe - potaytoe -
so the expectation is... i'm a slave, you're the master,
i get to visit the opposite of Auschwitz in the cotton
colony? well, at least the existential answer is simple
in Auschwitz - our german brood will do the job more
effectively... we don't need you, off to God you go...
in a cotton colony? our people are superior,
we need slaves to do the work that our people are not fit
to do... and this is diabolical logic, i don't deny it,
but i'd rather be told to die than be told to live and work
for someone's amusement and benefit...
simple... p'ahtaytoe!
                                    it seems that whenever they
came to Poland they only came to Auschwitz, now,
all of a sudden, i'm the collaborating ****,
the stain on Polish soil, as already noted:
Egypt has its pyramids, Poland has German chimneys...
******* choo choo and Thomas the tank engine rolled into town...
how can you ever attempt a full discrete and competent
assimilation / integration when you have to end up
a solitary form of ethnic cleansing, where bilingualism
is treated as a mental illness, and you have to, in effect,
spit at your parents to embrace an English wife,
with an English household, with 42.3% chance of divorce?
what's the ******* point of that? at least in my
culture monogamy had a sense, not here, among
the brutal brats: who rather than having learned to care
for children, after petting an animal, just leave them
like stray wild dogs, not free to roam in forests and
fields, but in angst ridden kennels...
                                       well, Japan is selling me euthanasia,
cos reaching old age was going to be such an achievement,
that everyone started begging for the living standards
akin to Sudan: dead at 40, dead at 40 and nimble.

Minimum wage men
With
$200 dollar shoes
And minimum wage women
Expecting $300 bags
From them.
I remember telling my last girlfriend
"WELL...****!... YOU SAID WE WEREN'T GOING TO BUY EACH OTHER ANYTHING FOR CHRISTMAS! WHY'D YOU BUY ME THIS!!"
she cried
And on the
26th
I bought her a crystal
Necklace on twine
From a Mexican swapmeet
And ice cream
Sandwiches.
I mouth off so much at work
All day
Sometimes
I think I'm
Trying
To get canned.
The higher ups seem
Entertained by it.
I've seen the guys
That sweat
Panic
And dream of sales
Get fired.
While I stand in the bathroom
Writing poems.
I do feel bad about
Not putting effort
Into
IT.
But
I figure...
There are more
Humane traps
Out there.

They taught you to eat corn,
They fed you hormones
And you grew faster
Than you were ever meant to.
Your bones, your muscles, your sinews
Strained under your strange girth,
You collapsed to the ground
Amidst a pile of your own filth.

The others wailed around you,
Mile after mile of confused beasts,
Suffering,
Completely disoriented,
Completely terrified.

You all will feed the world,
The billions waiting
For your mashed and grinded flesh.

And what is your reward?
When finally your bones
Snapped underneath your immense bulk,
The men came
Prodding you with a forklift,
They laughed as you rolled
In the utmost agony,
Bleating for mercy of compassion.

It was not their fault,
They were only doing
What the system demanded
Of them.

They carried you off
And spilled your life blood
Openly onto a dark factory floor,
Hoisted you up,
Stripped you naked
Of your skin,
Tearing at your carcass
And sent you off
To the supermarkets
Where you were welcomed
As a shrink-wrapped addition
To the shelves.

i’m 19 years old
and i’ve never written a love poem that didn’t taste like loneliness or regret
i was born with a sad mouth
the kind that holds nothing but tempesteous storms of gray
the kind that curses god, doesn’t believe in fate, and kisses lips more crooked than my own
you see
it took me 21 days to squeeze the ink for this poem out of my pen for you
because i’ve never written a love poem for someone
and because i can’t put you into words
but i’m going to try

1. you are the run on sentence that leaves me nothing but breathless
when you speak, i see colors i never even knew existed
i would lift my head to you if you said my name even with a broken neck
i couldn’t sleep the first week we met
because i knew the empty space in my bed was meant to be filled with the curve of your back
and that your smile was the only sunrise i’d be able to wake up to
i spend all my spare time collecting the different ways you’ve called me beautiful to wear as a golden chain around my neck, close to the pulse in my throat, and thump in my heart
as a reminder of how you’ve made me feel alive again

2. when we first kissed
i couldn’t even find the right words to string together to describe how i discovered home on your lips
i love you speechless and i am terrified for just that reason
and i don’t know if i will ever be able to forklift the reasons why out of my chest
but here’s a start
you want to know why i’m scared? i’m scared because for me
love was always a lot like throwing yourself off the edge of a building
and i had a nasty habit of falling for ghosts who couldn’t catch me
but your hands,
your hands weren’t callused, they were soft
they gave me amensia of all the times i shattered against the pavement
the first time i held them they gave me so much reckless abandon that i knew
if i took my heart and catapulted it to atlanta, new york, london, or cuba
you’d be able to catch it blindly
so please just outstretch your arms and do it

3. i know i said earlier that i didn’t believe in fate
but that was before i started writing this
and because you exist
i believe in fate now
because someone, somewhere
made you carefully, painfully, slowly, and deliberately just for me
because there is no other explanation
for the way my bones ticked like the angry hands of a clock,
counting down the seconds until you found me
i believe in fate now because
the moment we met
the possibility of you and i even breathing the same air
and the number of hellos and goodbyes we will exchange
must have been thought about for centuries
when we were nothing but dust

4. if i could take a minute
somehow place all the galaxies into the palms of my hand and rename every star, every constellation after each moment we’ve had and the little things no one notices about you
like how when you blush, you say “oh gawsh” and it reminds me of a bad western movie and my childhood innocence all wrapped up in one
or how you hate being interrupted
how you have a scar on your abdomen from that surgery you had when you were little
or how you wear bruises and bloodied knuckles from all the times you’ve hated yourself
i would do it
i would make this universe into a story only the two of us could understand
a story that says,
i love you…
for as long as you want me to (k.w)

Every morning good Damocles wakes up
And after breakfast from a drive-through bag
Salutes the time-clock with a merry ding
From a little card that records his time

He drives his forklift or his cubby-desk
And sorts each pallet or computer code
Into their places in the secular scheme
The minor chain of being more-or-less

Until a meeting when, and with great sorrow,
A Suit tells all, “we’re shutting down tomorrow.
Oh, the company still exists (and what could be finer?),
But we’re sending all your jobs away to China.”

.ich! schreibenmann! über oder mann: nein güt! ich! schreibenmann! alles gelb... ja?! entschuldigen (mir) verstecken (hocken).

contra millenial contra baby-boomers
no....
people didn't say much,
all they ever said was:
"we" have no problem with
you drinking yourself
until you reinvent
the yo-yo...
   i so too thought:
   this... "labyrinth reconstruct"?
this is not coming from
a rotten mind,
this is coming from a rotten
head,
the shackles of Brazil...
             good to know!
know what?
the fact that i will drink myself
to death,
iwill never have to be made
compensate for,
i will have a hybrid
choir of ****** overdose
addicts being entombed
in a vinyl collection listening
section / choir...
               ich, diable, ich père....
rob the poor man
of his metaphor,
to make dues of his...
missing quiff, ***** style 1970s
style!
      my *******
miane **** dog qua basset hound
cat..
2H of sleep...
no... i want, to, butcher it;
chose chicken and curry
instead...
but for the ear crsip:
i wish i could:
        
YOU BLATANT DUMB
IDIOT...
that's how we pet
animals in Slavic countries...
children?
you don't want to know,
i already know how they're
"petted"
in post-germanic countries
of England, or France...

only in a wealthy nation...
will you sooner see
a homeless man,
than a homeless dog!

I WANT, TO, SLEEP!
and i don't like being given this
excess of attention!
no!
circa!
       round round
the ******* go!
go! *******!

   i never dated in my life,
o.k., once, speed...
  i didn't like the whole
formality of acting a
pretense of...
whatever never for a fragility of:
no. that wasn't too soon.

     my... "culture"?
it isn't even on your, ******* map...
me white, your brown,
you hiati something
royal or something?
you no go, to the modern variant
of the Hermitage... savvy?
me white too...
but me no go
where your tanned
is already a tanned / non-nigerian
no-go... savvy?
              
i hope to die by toast...
you die:
by hope for forklift
in the ******* ****
of kilimanjaro doing
the black betty sing-along
through & through...
and...
what wouldn't i give...
for a kissing scene with
rooney mara...
esp. her most...
whatever that was
in a girl with a dragon tattoo...

gein: meet bukowski...
bukowski...
meet me...
    necrophilia meet
necrophilia...
i want to be strapped
in such an Arizona
stronghold with only...
a gueswork of tongue
to be given the leash!

i eat off the table that
becomes
the hushed crumble
of... that meme...
                n.p.c....

  which... obviously related
to the mahjong solitaire
and the "whole"
NP-complete-ness...
  
  i know of NP-C...
not that i am smart,
  but in that i have enough
ingenuity to avoid...
what cannot be a furthering
of argument..
    worth sustaining...

too much of unknown
to people geometry has
riddled them
beyond the compensate
of being related to...
what argument is there
to have,
when the people you're
trying to over-shadow,
are un-relateable,
in that...
to have to claim
defeat by having
no simple symbology,
having to perpetually
retort with geometry
that cannot implode
counter-intuitively
for a "sacred" scrutiny?

die kröne überreste die kröne,
als die volk überreste nichts mehr
"ein" der mensch'n;

ja? savoy.

I am a beast
                         A child of darkness
I exist in multiple realities
    
        It cannot be helped

The first thing he smelt was charred ash. A dour, stale smell that drifted in the air, staining the walls and ceiling of the room like a bad birthmark. If you'd have asked him 3 weeks ago prior to today never would he have considered smoking. That was before the bad thing had happened, and now he was puffing away 20 a day like a run-down steam engine.

Stacks of crumpled cigarette packets and empty beer bottles cluttered the floor, along with discarded business cards that seemed to taunt his name, William Shaw, with a bitter humour whenever he looked at them. He had it all - money, a career, an established identity, and yet never had he felt so lost, so meaningless. It seemed the period before when the black event occurred, when the tone and texture of life had suddenly dimmed like being turned down by a dial, was merely a gold and fragile vail, strung up in front of realities true, decrepit, face. A face that had clawed it's way through the happiness, the blistering rays of the summer sunshine, the mounting financial wealth and job promotions, like a pathetic wall of paper plastered over a back street entry.

The first thing he saw when he awoke this morning was the tan coloured ceiling of his flat. Through the sleep induced blurry vision of eyes that have not fully woke, this looked strangely like a vast desert, the minute crack that lay in the middle stretching before his tired eyes into a huge smiling ravine. It reminded him of the grand canyon, something as a child he'd always wanted to visit. He had spent a lot of his school holidays, and acrylic paint and canvases, drawing pictures of it, inspired by its many twists and curves, imagining it as an entrance to another mystical world below where dinosaurs and other creatures hid from the world above.

To a child creativity is essentially their way of interpreting life, and coming to terms with it, and for William Shaw the thing that got those cogs whirring was nature itself. He'd write stories, draw and paint pictures, and whilst his skill at all these was clumsy, his imagination was striking adept, confusing and wowing his parents who had been expecting a crude stick man drawing but instead were presented with a clunky, Van Gogh-style picturesque scene. Being an artist isn't all about the skill, anyone can perfect brush strokes, but looking at the ordinary and somehow visualising the extraordinary.

He never ended up going to the canyon, nor anywhere else for that matter - his mother was unemployed, utilising her time by taking piano lessons and gardening, and his father was a forklift driver at a logistics company. Barring the one-time trip to a seaside holiday camp, where the apartments had smelt of salt and the bedding was scratchy, Will had never been on holiday as a child.

But that was okay, he told himself, they struggled but never neglected me. Now, lying here as the amber hues of dawn startled trickling through the middle of the curtains, those days all seemed like a distant dream. Breaking down financially, they were exhausted and living in worry, yet he went on all the school trips, always had milk money and a cooked dinner waiting for him when he got home.

I have more than I could ever want, and had then, so why do I feel like this?

He knew why, it was because of the bad thing. It had lodged itself inside him, like a festering tumour. No amount of running or distracting himself would make it any better; it would be like running a race against a car or a train.

Or a speeding bullet -

[Hush! Don't want to think about that]

And it was in that split moment he felt an image rising to the surface, callous and cold - a champagne glass exploding into a shower of shards, and oh the screams all he could hear was their screams rising like a tidal wave, ready to submerge, to drown -

BANG BANG!!

He rose with a jolt and glanced over to the digital clock which blinked 8:49 in the far corner. He was running late again and needed to get a move on if he was to arrive at work on time. He hadn't been late ever, but over this week getting up had been a struggle. Sleep just seemed more of a priority right now.

He grabbed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing as the acrid taste filled his mouth. The first was always the worst; causing slight nausea as the nicotine rushed to your head. However the feeling of airlessness afterwards was amazing, temporarily stunning all the nerves in your brain, giving a confused floating feeling only drugs can better. His best mate John, who'd subsequently introduced him to smoking, often said the best cigarette of the day is the first as the 12 hour sleep hiatus allowed the brain to detoxify itself, thus catalysing the nicotine rush. The fact John also thought the Queen was an alien and that Donald Trump should be president made Will take his advice with a pinch of salt - but, in regards to smoking, he was almost spot on.

Much like himself, John was quite a skinny guy with a shock of scruffy black hair receding even though he was in his late twenties, and his black outlook on life often contradicted his bubbly personality. Will had known him for years since high school, and knew full well his stupid and often sarcastic jokes hid the darker side to him; John had served time in prison for a theft he didn't commit and, although he wouldn't admit it, had lapsed into a drug addiction upon his release. The slight gaunt dips in his cheeks said it all.

Looking at him coping, just, and carrying on filled Will with both admiration and guilt. His best friend was spiralling into a whirlpool right under his nose, and the worse part of all - he couldn't do anything about it. Again the feeling of helplessness, of meaninglessness, was there gnawing away like a bloated sewer rat.

He took another drag and glanced again to the clock. Now it read 8:57, almost grinning at him from the other side of the room.

Better get a shifty on, and with that he stubbed the cigarette out and stumbled toward the bathroom, catching his toe and cursing as he went.

This is the tale
of wild hair McGee
affectionatly known
to some as Scotty

Zipping around
the airport with glee
in his big yellow forklift
writing poetry

Many have wondered
how his name came to be
it was hung on his back
by his boss Jeffery

Dumping the bins
in his faithful steed
a machine that is known
as ol' smokey

If you want to judge
the course of the day
just take off his helmet
his hair would then say

A little to the left
no patience left
a little to the right
stayed up late last night

If standing up Straight
you might have to wait
all to the back
your the bottom of the stack

Don't take it personal
it;s not meant to be
all in a days work
for wild hair McGee

The poplar tree blooms no more,
The magpie sings no new songs,
Yet I cling onto the restless years,
When you, my dear, were still here.

Remember the wind that took your hat,
And a gentleman I was retrieving it back?
Our eyes destined for the first time,
& now I long so for that beautiful eyes.

Merry it was our days in your kitchen!
Pots and pans we sang & dance!
Our feet tangled not on the carpet of red,
Our hands twine like a morning glory on a fence.

Such days are but a memory,
As I live to sit on the chair alone,
Remember not the day of  judgement,
For my heart aches and sores for you.

My dear, how long should I wait,
Wait for another meeting of our fate,
The piano has no fingers to await,
For the only fingers to await was you.

Winter comes soundlessly still,
As your hands appeared in mine.
I smiled and forklift my cane,
& now the chair is left alone.

*"Olivia, is that you?"

The guys from the demolishing
Team accidently broke a door
In the basement.

Things happen, but this door was
From the original building; built
In 1920. Covering it in bubble wrap

And writing HANDLE WITH CARE
All over it didn't help. The
Lithuanians were in a hurry;  

No match for a speeding BobCat.
I carried the corpse out to the
Container, and thought to myself:

I'm gonna be the last man to ever
Knock on this *******...
I set it down (the oak thing was a

Good 95 years old), and wrote
On it in my finest lettering.
Chamber.

Took off my glove and stood there,
Gently rapping, calling out to
The guys by the forklift:

HEY! Name the bird, boys!
No response. Sometimes I feel like
I might not belong in construction.

you can’t take the wire out of the lamb.

when I look you in the eye
I feel my brain
is cared for
under the seat
of a snowed-on
forklift.

to get my son’s attention
I tap with a spoon
on the glass circle
of a running
dryer’s
door.

my son is of course
hungry     but in the meat
of a difficult
book.

the night is never young.
to read the book
is to believe
one can see
blood     with blood.

at times my father
in the middle of my dream
sits on a riding mower
as if it’s a boat
he dragged
without help
over the parts of this land
feared
by glacier.

part of my body is sad.

there are nights where your absence chokes out my breath
and the only way i can finally rest
     is to heavy-handedly pull at the tides of my brew
          the way you'd paw at the hips of my skirt
          silently signaling you'd finally had too much to drink

your lack of grace illuminated
in whiskey-breath
and neon jukebox glow

so off we'd go
     leading the liqour-lust parade
     trailing downpours of drink chips in our wake
and you'd take up my hand
in your forklift phalanges

such a prideful little man-cub
with a puffed out chest and a leather vest
     only softening your edges in the sanctity of my lumpy bed
     when you've got the chance to rest your noisy head atop my naked breast

oh you rusted demi-god
though i do miss the struggle
and the snuggles
and the ***
          i'll be just fine with my growler of stout
          and your leftover whiskey in the freezer
forgetting what i'd learn
during our staggered steps home

Slithering  through life
Wearing a botched face lift
Head  held down
Face shielded by hands

You aspired to be a model
Now you drive your forklift
The uppers get you though
You like it but not the fumes

A wife beater shows tattoos
Colourful  meaningful
Filled with the shadings in life
Scars on the backs of your hands

Thick fingers wrapped around a shot
Make it a double, no, two, to wind down
You walk to the mirror and look
Tears fall lightly, you want something more

What tells us we can't, is 'us'
Resolve to make your mark
Step out of the dark take your stance
Push that fear aside and don't look back

This is neither a poem, a story nor a piece meant to share. At least I am sure it is not, so I write it here.
I have the strongest vision of possibility in my mind and I am bursting to share what may or may not be.
Him. I see him. Whether we are deep in conversation or far from it; whether I am outside in the cold or inside in the warmth.
I see him, always. I think of him, always. I have led myself into a state of dreaming and placed him firmly in the story.
I envision the future. What could be but will likely never be. The strangest thing is that it doesn't even hurt.
I am wondering what this is. Most people would call it being in love, yet I don't believe I have fallen at all.
Let alone fallen in love. This is what it is; we are both bouncing off of each other without worry. It feels good. The simplest of descriptions: good.
Are we playing with fire? Perhaps. May that fire erupt and scar us? I certainly hope now. I won't let it and - if that is what is destined,
I will stand in the firing line to protect you. I will let you walk free.

This year my life will change and I sincerely look forward to you becoming a bigger part of it.
The mere idea of going out to dinner with you has me on the cusp of complete and utter delight.
I wish to fly farther than I ever have before, despite the fear that has held me back all of these years. It seems worth it.
Not for you alone, but while that may seem a terrible reason to leave here - accept you are, hopefully, a part of the excitement.
I cannot wait to feel the ground beneath my feet thousands of miles from home. I cannot wait to meet new friends, new acquaintances and new possibilities.
While dinner may be as friends, I fully understand that. A friendship with you is worth the anticipation of 'What if?'
Some may tell me I am foolish, thought I have never disclosed any of this to anyone. If anybody were to ask I would remain silent or at least fight off the silly little remarks that can be expected of the general population.

This is not to say they are wrong to say what they do: to joke, to tease, to taunt the way they do.
I think I am fine with that. After all, what does it even matter? Are they going to play a large part in my future? It's unlikely.
I feel a little blue to think that way however that is what it is. They are my present but I feel I may leave them soon. They may abandon me first.
Besides, they are important enough to me to include them in my thoughts. They have helped my get to this point. I have great thanks for that.
I am not yet who I feel I ought to be but I have begun the journey and I am ever so excited to continue. I can't believe my luck sometimes.
Had it not been for these people, those select few, I would have likely never opened up to you. I would likely have remained fairly anonymous and continued to long for the close connection that I believe we have created. It is a creation I adore.

This is a collection of my thoughts and I felt a little tense about digging deeper. I mentioned I have thought of the future.
Did I mention I played you in my dream once? Purposefully. I let you take me to your favourite place, the one memory that you treasure.
It excites me to think that I may visit there this year, with you as my guide. I would like that very much. If only to realise that dreams are just that - dreams.
Perhaps I will indulge with you that exact dream one day. Though it would need to be after we journey there. I wouldn't wish to place thoughts in your head.
I fear it would alter any possibility of those things happening. You started it. With that remark about throwing me over the rails - remember?
I told you it would be a struggle. I told you you'd need a forklift truck.

This is going well. My mind is unravelling and in doing so I am smiling. I feel like I should be worried, concerned, apprehensive.
Yet I am calm. I am content. I am, for whatever reason, completely looking forward to the year ahead. I have a destination, I have friends, I have desires.
I told you I would write a list of lists that need made. I have yet to do this but another thing is taking priority. Just a few more days, perhaps a week.
The lines are getting fewer and yet I could happily lay here for a good hours. I think I may have to pinch myself over the coming weeks, just so I can believe this is real. I sincerely hope it all goes to plan.

This is bizarre to say the least. Me, of all people, having thoughts like this. It's bizarre for anybody so young to dream so big, isn't it?
I think of all the silly little things I could do there, the places I could do. The people I may meet, WILL meet. There is so much to plan and to think, it's not that far.
Look at me. Full of hopes, dreams, aspirations, thoughts, plans. They're coming before the fear. They're finally coming before the fear. The fear is there but it is hidden.
It is laying low. I am in control and it feels refreshingly cool.

This year my life will change. I'm just saying that again to try and let it sink in. My life will change. For the better, not for the worse this time.
I am going to improve my life, my body, my mind and in turn my future. No longer will I be living in the past. Honestly? I am incredibly excited. The word terrified isn't even coming in to the equation at this point.

This is where my time comes to an end. This didn't pan out the way I thought it would in my head but that's fine. In this moment I feel I can do anything.
I can feel, and I know I will succeed. Here's to 2013.

My fortitude is formed with the force of Brutus' crooked dagger in my back,
These fictional factualities ferment my mentality and thats a fact,
However I refuse to forfeit,
For I am fighting external forces with this existential forklift,
Uplifting my energy, channeling my inner G ,
When I step I centipede then with this the pen I bleed,
Think it's all a process of auto-biology,
I'm always overthinking- in need of an auto-lobotomy,
I'm the hero and the villian in my autobiography,
So its a automatic mutiny for this auto-autonomy,
It's self righteous how felt this self fight us,
It's shelf life is kelp like but felt like years ,
They say that legends never die,
Oh this lonely hell of mine,
The look of death ever present on my absent mind,
Long-winded, but these spurts of happiness are short-lived,
**** bingeing , cups overflowing with beer,
My thoughts Tinted, heavy drinking till I'm light-headed,
I don't eat or get sleep ,
Steady thinking, "where's my life headed??"
Need to stop running my mouth,
Too busy tryin to exercise these demons,
I keep pushing my luck, and im exhausted from this heaving,
Heavy breathing , and sold separately are these hellish hiccups,
My nightmare begind every mornin when I sit up...

She tells me to take things more seriously
or else no one will take me seriously.
I say, seriously?
An intervention?
She says no, no, nothing like that,
sitting in front of a banner bearing the words
INTERVENTION!!! with three
gaudy exclamations points, just like that.

god, how haven't you learned yet
to fix all your problems?
you forklift your issues, and in addition, you put on a front!
yes, all right, all right, but we’ve all got our goblins.
Not to mention your addictions - furthermore, your predelictions towards -
yes, all RIGHT, i know you’re right, but frankly, you’re a *****.
the banner flutters
to the floor.

take or take
6pm

having just
gotten
glasses

I left
father’s
body mirror
to mother
and comb

and set off
for the aptly
named
Hill

armed with
a science book
and shielded
by my own
oblivion

and there
every bit
white
as weary
I sat
as I thought
would sit
the black man
I so wanted
to be
with British
accent

and there
a sanely placed
forklift
seemed okay

abandoned
oh
that I saw

a too strong woman
hop down

her wrongness
a nothing
though from
I ran

Within
The moon hits the tree
in such a way
that it's easy to forget
the height;
the ultimate suspension:
eighty feet up
in a harmonic slumber
resting only
on the closest thing
I've found to God:
a single organism
on which two
(or maybe three
now?)
men can rest
and gaze upwards
at the shockingly
finite dance
of the leaves
and the stars--
all the while,
listening to the chorus
of the frogs, owls, coyotes
of the woods around

Without**
After spending a night
without the comforts
of modern man,
in a little green dot
on man's map,
boxed in on all sides,
I emerged
from the forest
to find a man
in a forklift
with a saw--
and at first it seemed
as if he might just
be trimming the branches
but then
the tree fell,
and like man
and his little green boxes,
product of a continually
diminishing temper,
a yard
(or perhaps
a map?)
was left barren

Foot
        long
                 toenails
one hundred year old whales


Can't
    find the vein
       a junkies old refrain

Lost
in the music
   of the street

The hiss
    of rubber on the road
       a sustained
           lullaby

The reeds the reeds
  blow those reeds

Plant seeds plant seeds
   plant those seeds

   Water them well
           from

An ancient well
  with spiked punch

And German sausages
         so big that to get them up
                 you need a forklift

You heard by now
        there's  no depending on me
           when it comes down to the crunch

but.... ****... end of the joke so

Keep on keeping on
   stretching out those legs

If not to
    just walk
      around the block

You danced on the parquet floor,
In my head after dinner,
In reality you just sat,
And talked until the slowing of the spinner

You were close enough for me to feel,
Your aura bouncing between our skin,
But not close enough to feel,
The feelings contained therein

The stars, have their shine,
Overshadowed by the streetlights,
The lorries and forklift trucks,
Have stopped their engines in the twilight,

The reverse signal blares into the morning,
It's going the reverse of time and this is our forewarning,
And I think about how last night,
Didn’t end how I imagined when I read the invite,

Because sure I had a good time,
But it all ended so abruptly when the bell chimed

And I’ve tied, up my shoes,
And I’m walking to the bus stop
Another day of work,
And my life is still a junk shop

And I sit here writing words,
In between calls about trees,
As the answer to my questions,
Floats somewhere outside in the breeze

When falling into a Hero Trap
always bring your First Officer.
Nuke some backwards Aliens
and you can be sure they will
get back at you with a vengeance.
Forest moons
are made for Death Games.
Bloodshed and deprivation
belong in front of the cameras.
Technology is for tyranny
and ***** princesses look best
in blood red bodices
when they interview perimeter guards.
You Will Marvel
at the spectacle
of a ******, a badass, a chubster
and a gunface
storming the set
with flint napped spears
and a hijacked  hover-camera.
Sit in spinning Jenny,
and pass me the crisps.
You touched the cone,
and Enhanced women know,
York is hot.
Somebody get the forklift,
the Biggun is down,
and the fraggin' BBC wouldn't know
a solid gold classic
if it crashlanded in their laps.
Some say he put on all the weight
after it was cancelled.
At least we got some Hot Fuzz,
and the only good Zombie comedy...
Ever.
Artefacts were made to be forgotten.
But I wont fall into that trap!

Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album
You feel me, son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas
Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle
Shouts out to Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean
Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk
Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners
In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages
Tossing 'em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
So when he says "Catch up, *****" it looks like an accident
Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest
My ***** white and black like she's been mimicking a panda
It's the dark skinned *****, kissing ******* in Canada
Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela
Put her in the chamber all against her Wilt Chamberlain
I never had a Reason, ***** I was just Ableton
Not a ******* Logic contradicting *******
Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
***** scented cheetah printed tee
In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season
Previous items in the present
With the normal *** past like I cheated on my team
It's me (Tried to get that *****, but, Golf ****)
To have some type of knowledge that is one perception
But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus
I'm Zeus to a Kronos, cartilage cartridge is boneless
Smiles of cowards in lead showers
Dead spouses in red blouses
Children who fled houses on Mustang horses and went jousting
I'm on my Robin Hood ****, robbin' in the hood
Whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet, I'm stealing your rings
Coke diamonds and your Vet, soldiers lace the ******' boot
And salute like the troop when you shoot you gon' ****
It's **** Hodgy, *****, stay the ******* my stoop
And out my Kool aid, Juice
Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin
Jasper got the Henny, my ***** we get it in
Wolf Gang party at the hotel
I call a **, you call a **, and all the hoes tell
You know Left Brain need a freak
I need a ***** to go down like a Nitty beat
Yup, uh, and her *** fat
Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at
***** I'm tryin' to smoke, ***** get higher
Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin' 'bout a lighter
Still bang salute me or just shoot me
Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting
Yeah my ***** Ace will pull the black jack
The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
Livin' like the Mafia, *****, don't get to slacking up
And if these haters actin' up, throw 'em in the aqueduct
Free my ***** Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much
But two bad ******* in front of me *******
What the **** is caution?
Often I leave you flossin' and cause exes next to coffins
Lost in translation, the dreams you chase
Got you diving for the plates like you stealin' home base
That's great, I'm home alone dreamin' of two on ones
With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on
And Travis is in the closet organizing and hangin' the *****
Three lettermans that Ace has been making him
No strays while we catchin' matinees, huh?
I'm gettin' blazed thinking 'bout those days
I had the top off the GT3 like toupees
One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays
My grand scheme of things is to be attached
To the game like ******* to their wedding rings
And you don't even need to look cause we gleam obscene
In the light, ride slow to my yellow diamond shining
Like the Batman logo over Gotham, rock LA to Harlem
If you say "get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em
One man squadron, ***** I'm a problem
From Briggs I got bars and plans to
**** these Polish ******* into pop stars
Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still
And if I said it then it is or it's gonna be real
OF 'til I OD and I probably will, uh
It's still Mr. Smoke-a-Lotta-***, get your baby mommy popped
With my other ****** bop, do I love her? Prolly not
Know your **** is not as hot as anything I ******' drop
***** I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay ****
I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot
Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock
Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts
Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop
Op Dom neck **** in your wish list
Mad sick ****, mad **** for your *******
On some slick ****, your mistress on my hit list
And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this *****
Odd in your *******' area
Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya
Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up
And **** your team, ** ***** wassup
Wolf Gang so you know we not givin' no *****
You know me dog, I'm a chill in the cut so I can
Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up
Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
Rent a super car for a day
Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze
Bro, easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day
But just enough for a week, my ***** what can I say
I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight
I'mma give you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes
My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day
Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes
On the song, cut and you could sample the feel
Headphone bleed, make this **** sound real
Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries
Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars
Now, how many ******' crystal ***** can I buy and own
Humble old me had to flex for the fogs
Down in Muscle Beach pumpin' iron and bone
Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
Yeah, bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
*******, this rapping is stupid and it's hard
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go
Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper
Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster
Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor
*** head, half baked, lookin' like Chappelle
Rollin' up a blunt with that fire from hell
Still ignorant, still hit a *****
Wolf Gang, *****, so I still don't give a ****
Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap
**** rips as I feel on that little ***** cat
Hah, ***** came through with a 9 bar real quick
Just for the *******, little bit of money in my pocket
**** it, Wolf Gang
Yeah, **** that, look, the contrast is a pair of lips
Swallowin' sarapin, settin' fires to sheriffs whips
(Whoosp, whoosp) ******' All-American terrorist
Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a ******' carrot stick
And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin'
And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel
So that sterile **** flow remind these ****** where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Feral, ******' ill apparel, wearin' pack of parasites
Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di, back in here to **** the party up
Raidin' fridges, tippin' over vases with a tommy gun
Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
And 60 day chips from ******' awesome anonymous
Call him bloated 'til he show 'em that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, Four Loko, and a cobra clutch
Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ** to pose as drum
And let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole was numb
The culprit of the potent punch
Scoldin' hot as dunkin' ******* in a Folgers cup, or Nevada
Drivin' drunk inside a stolen truck, shittin' like his colon bust
Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices
I'm roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as the porridge is
Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end
Post mortem porkin' this rap **** and record it
To escort it to the morgue again, lord of lips
Bored of this, forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list
Stormin' the gate, ensurin' the bass, scorchin' ladies
******* sore in torso and face
Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache
Indian pack of ****** who don't give a **** if we nasty as flatulence
As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky
So see me you can't like Crunchy Black catchin' a taxi
Back like lateral passin'
With that *******' gladiator manner of rappin'
As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is ****, please
OF, **** that's all I got
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
From that father figure Clancy to that skatey ***** Naks
Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the ******' block
Storefront, knee tat
Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
And grip tape, and my shoes
Um, I was 15 when I first drew that donut
5 years later, for our label yea we own it
I started an empire, I ain't even old enough
To drink a ******' beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop
This is for the ****** in the suburbs
And the white kids with ***** friends who say the n-word
And the ones that got called weird, ***, *****, nerd
Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg
They say we ain't actin' right
Always try to turn our ******' color into black and white
But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em
Radical's my anthem, turn my ******' amps up
So instead of critiquing and *******, being mad as ****
Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as ****
*******
OFM, bangin' on your FM
Gnaw, 2011, yeah, Golf ****

Alas.  Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIII)


Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain?  Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies.  What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?

07Mar19c

The weight of the last cinderblock
took its toll,
that one final heave,
hoist and offload
handballing the lot
from broken pallets
to flatbed's top
no forklift or barrow in sight
under weather made heavy
by breezeless skies.
Body's done,
hand's numb,
mind's dumb,
arms quiver through,
back aches from over missuse.
Fingers so stiff,
with a pen I cant write.
My thumbs are grumpy
through which I type.
Feeling old hitting my wall
which I have yet to build
gives me something to do tomorrow
if I make it till tonight.

The Grammys Celebrate Workers

“A forklift carrying barricades held up a crowd of commuters…”

-Los Angeles Times

With frosted breath, hands gloved against the cold
A working man forklifts the barricades
Into the streets, that he may block himself
From musical celebrations of work

Inside the temporary Palace of Culture
Musicians are being told what to wear
What they are for, and what they are against
Their speeches scrolled on discreet telescreens

The workers barred from work shiver and wait
For artists great, who never pay the freight

No wonder
ants have flown

a ***-full of this pitiful metropolis
has seen them blow
their savings on a thermal

made them dinner
for a ministry
of manic snapping mandibles
who,wheeling on the gables
of the capital amenities

cannot believe their luck..

reeling high in my eleven
is a one-stop- tuck- shop
no-*****- given

as I'm peeling
off the sitter
on a forklift truck

poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable.
it is like a web you must fight your way through, even though it sticks to your flesh. it is like a light you must follow, even if it's blinding.
poetry is not only stars in the sky, but the snow brushed upon treetops and stuck underneath the wind shield wipers.
you have to read it with all your senses, you need to hear the way a voice breaks, you have to see the way they look into the sun and don't bother to squint.
you need to taste the blood on their hands.
poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable.
you should imagine lips sewn over bleeding gums and skin like saran wrap and fingernails like construction paper. don't think of a steering wheel, think of the cold rotting fingers wrapped around it. think of their last thoughts. think of the goodbyes that they never got the opportunity to forklift out of their porcelain lips.

poetry is not supposed to make you feel comfortable because it is not comforting, it is honest as blood red paint on a canvas, as a summer storm; as a kiss goodbye.

don't come here looking for something or expecting the sun to shine through the shades and let you know it'll be okay because this is too honest and raw for me to tell you you'll be okay.

sometimes,
you won't be.
sometimes,
nothing ever will be again.


there are times in the desert when it doesn't rain all year and time's in the amazon when it never stops. you have to be ready to bash your head through the window to break your way out.
or nothing
will ever,
ever,
be okay again.

The dream is large and
Hard to hug.
The work-a-days are long
And seem to get longer.

Heading home from work spent
On one of these days,
I see these words—
“Remember who you are”.

Remember who you are.

I, we, are:
Poets
Engineers
Architects
Scientists
Mathematicians
Enterta­iners,

Working the daily as:

Baristas
Bartenders
Forklift operators
Custodians
Truck drivers
Grocery store clerks—all noble
Honest posts, every one.

Daily I meander this mid-size burg
In a cranky van as a courier,
Acting as grease to lubricate
Said burg’s school district cogs.

I wonder…
I wonder how many work at these
Worthy and square occupations and
Either do not recognize or
Ignore the fire burning deepest
In their heart’s furnace.

I jaunt about remembering,
Always observing,
Always knowing the fire will
Spit out the next poem.

Remember who you are.
Remember it is a choice.

I am from the apartments, from sharing a room and living cramped
I am from the loud arguments, the bitter taste in my mouth
I am from the cactus, its’ prickly thorns attached
the dark rose, its’ petals slowly wilting
I am from eating dinner together and a loud volume
From John and Sonia and Gloria
I am from the stress and expectations
From not letting it get to you and ignoring it
I am from self taught Christianity, and talks with God at night
I’m from Portugal, Venezuela, and Columbia
Cheese Bread and Empanadas
From the forklift accident, the recovery, and the epileptic Grandma
I am from the strength of the women in my family
I am from the stacks of paperwork
I am from a course of self-discovery and awareness
I am from the first generations journey to succes