cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply

The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors,  I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!

Cursing like they diamond but
they don't even cut glass..
   Holding wraps of cash, but the top and
bottom be 50's but the rest is the monopoly
that they can't even pay...


They are burning rubber on the expense,
  but they rented, they dent...  
          Paying back on the record company.
You sold 50 thousand but you owe
                                                   a hundred grand.

They ain't going to shoot out you knee caps,
         there just going to gang-**** your voice..
Thinking you original, swallow that pride,
you one of there cash cows,  
           they milking you, can you say Moo!!!
******* around making the milk sour.

They'll just pressure bolt you
lobotomized, on the industry you either overdose,
             or working at KFC..  

Think you had grills now sold off to pay
the rent, the only thing you can afford is
a tin foil grill and you only cooking,
                                                 is burgers...

"Hi sir can I take your order,

The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses

a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.

Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who

eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s

dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with

a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam

tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.

The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like

a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.

Humans are stardust.
Nothing more
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.

And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.

I think the reason some of us like the smell of gasoline,
Or the smell of a charred grill,
Or just things burning,
Is because that's what they say space smells like.
And think those few of us
Who enjoy the smell of gasoline,
Charred grills,
And burning things,
Are those of us who somewhat remember
Being nothing more, and nothing less, than a star.

And I think the only people who can remember being stardust
Are the newest and oldest of souls.
Because they're the ones closest to both
The beginning
And the end.

And, while I know it hurts to remember
Things you cannot fathom,
I think there's something beautiful--
Strangely beautiful.
Obscurely beautiful,
In having lived so many lives
Yet still remembering when you were the very first you.

Humans are stardust.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.

And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.

when me an Gnat split
we kept our eyes open,
cause we could close them,
behind blindness,
and I could take her soul
for nothing,
and I could keep it forever,
so now what we do,
is set fire to those
in the same situation,
we put their hearts
on our grills,
and tell them to wait
until they have regained
the fire,
so then,
society wasn't ready
for the realest ****** alive,
becuase by then
society
had told them
that ******,
emos,
true-*** emos,
them *******
could just drop
everything
to keep you on the low-low,
and they were the realest
I ever knew.

A head
A giant boney mass
Many mouths and eyes
           thoroughly babbling,
           whatever,
           etc.
Snapping and blinking
Mouths Melded together on this ultra cranium
Yapping on and on
On and on and on
Yellowed teeth and bedazzled grills
Botnet mods and crop tools

The most dastardly of all -
An infinite production of fuzzy,
Buzzing noise blobs.
And Attempts to add me
To its mass connection-collection head
Leave me offended.

"What's on your mind?"

Go away.
You ******* freakazoid.

I waited for a while. For something to happen, an explosion, a bomb, something that would get me out of there. Why did I drive him here? The though span through my mind every second that I had to wait. We were at the propane store in bethel, and my dad was looking for a fire place. The temptation of my blue Subru in the parking lot, I had the keys. No phone, no board game, no s reaming family to entertain me. Just my dad, bob, and I. I had to do something, there were grills, propane powered lights, and thousands of gas tanks.  There a burgers in the car, and grills all around, its taking this long. The keys jingled in my pocket, Get me out! How did this happen? We went to walmart. Past the target. Get some coffee. Soda's in the car! I could run!
I waited for while.

Ever since their music was packaged and hit the scene,
It has supplied the drug needs of the neighborhood teen.
They try all kinds of piffs during their time to listen,
From Common to the DJ Drama's pay attention.
Gangsta Grills, Dedication, even the radio station
Dropped out from Registration post-poning their graduation
To the new age of crack, being played back to back
On the Sirius XM or that playlist in your lap.
Ipod's and MP3's are the new portable blunts,
Pop in the food & liquor my Lupe to get full and drunk.
So puff, puff, pass until your circle is fully high,
Off of cyphers, freestyles, and the music from the wise.
No matter your preference whether it is ***** or clean,
We can be seen as a walking, talking music fiend.

Fight or flight
That was my plight
Distracted driver
Temporarily took my power
Praying for sleep
Counting the sheep
It’s like treading water in the deep
Can I keep pushing through?
Not sure quite what to do

Visions of chrome grills
Drenched with chills
Flashback night
Nightmare day
Will this ever go away?

EMDR
Got back to driving the car
Taking buspar
Have I come that far?

One foot in front of the other
A daily mantra loaned by my brother
It’s important to only focus on today
It’s all we have, wise people say

Life is an ongoing journey
So very grateful for His mercy
I continue to battle and refuse to cower
After all, I’ve learned I’m no fragile flower

In this life, I have seen the valley of broken dreams filled with the souls of taqueria entrepreneurs. I have seen gleaming grills, Hispanic frills, greasy thrills. I have seen spirit thrive in the eyes of men armed with bank loans and family recipes. I have eaten their food, delicious beyond necessity. I have experienced the magic of taquerias and restaurants.

And I have seen that magic die.

I've observed the life unfold, unfurl with a magic to behold. I have seen that magic served in a half-empty restaurant that Frontera has outsold. I have had the magic gone, replaced by payday lenders and takeout from Taiwan. I have seen empty storefronts and the straggling last days of taqueria entrepreneurs. And I grieve every time at the lost loans and lost hopes left behind. But tonight, there will be no grieving. Instead,

Let us eat magic in their memory, enjoy the grease that will surely send us to infirmaries. Let us celebrate the time they had, the tortas, tamales, and leftovers taken home in a bag. Let us celebrate the doomed Mexican restaurants.

~~
This is where the earth
There were piles of refuse time
Over millions of years
Wants to stand up

Walk the walk where the stand
Hundreds of thousands of
Light-years away
My friend, the North Star
Of his many friends
Lost in the pit of time

Mother's hair grew gray
All sides of the wall
Of the house has broken
Rust is over the grills of window
Said goodbye to dreams

White childhood,
Blue adolescence,
The red color of youth,
Instead of
Bruises under the eyes
Sending love to the jail
My friend is now hanging
within four frames of the wall

This is where the earth
Everything turns to be
A graveyard
Gray ash color valley
On that
History's foot print
will be exist

Nobody did not come back
The sun may never
rise again
Love is beneath
the silent dark of trash
All the truths will be turned
into devour
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

he had little to give, but gave it still
from his warm and generous heart
beating with a love pure and good
for his sister's children
so he seized the moment to stamp a value on my mind
gave me his prized bronze bottle opener
a fringe benefit from some fat kitchen where once he worked
with hot spices, sizzling grills and artistic salads
and now i have lost it, a thing of more than sentimental value
these gestures can never be repeated
they are the products of inspired moments
when somehow you know there can never be another chance
to leave some evidence that you too were here

To tell the story of the nice-guy
is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.  

There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy.  There is no effort
to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms
on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.

Tomorrow, in Houston,

a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.  

There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed
and the children he prescribed himself.  

Three daughters,
from fifteen to twenty-two.  

Tiramisu for dessert.  

Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs
and innocence buried behind the woodshed.

Pretend now, that you are forgiven.  

Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets
float like chemtrails.

You love you as much as the world always did.  

You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy,
you have only lived in the glow of their light.  Hearts remain full.  

The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop
and bluejeans still mask imperfections.  Sunsets are memorable,

and so are first dates and last kisses.  

Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.  

Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds,
satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.

Forget your father’s words
or a stranger's hand.  

Forget improbability, impossibility,
impotence, importance,
impatience
and improper goodbyes.  

Forget the tears cried alone
into ***** filled sheets at midnight.  

Forget the effect but remember the cause,
camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.  

Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways
that turned words flaccid.  

Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends
and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.  

Nice-guys vanish like good ideas,
lost in the shuffle,
looking for pen and paper,

just like house cats die
on the forth of July,

and all that’s left are ashes
on a mantel
alongside fraudulent grins.

like a sword resplendent in cosmic splendour
you struck my horizon desolate
dazzling arc of your luminous reach devouring
several clouds of my ache
dealing a blow on icy lock on existence’s grills
conquered your blade in might
the relentless ravaging rave of demons within

in sun of March by my bend, like a gurgling
stream you flowed
wooing my weary existence in longing thirst
with a swallow of dare
into twirls of your currents I yielded my leap
but soon began to creep
within, healing waters of meaning deep

arose from the spring of your ceaseless warmth
a bouquet of sunbeam dreams
blossomed scented beds of roses red a hundred
sunshine shadow or rain
to dye in cheer my heart your rainbow thoughts
and ever shall remain  entwined with
every breath of mine haunting fragrance of yours

she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard

black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries

and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th

and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood

and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's

closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets

permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye

she lived alone..  

~ P
(7/8/2013)

Used to be half a dozen gray geese
in our town's central pond.
Used to strut out on the road
to attack trucks. Grills, tires. Pecking.
If you honked a car horn at them,
then you were speaking their language.
They'd hiss and cuss you out.
Folks in town got so fed up
with those geese that we did exactly that:
fed up on them.

So, stranger,  
welcome to our local tavern.
Let me buy you a drink.
Just don’t cuss anybody.

The storm clouds have been hovering all day and now the darkness has closed in. The dark portentous clouds that have been looming ominously overhead have finally rolled in with the force of a category 4 hurricane. My body no longer feels like it belongs to me. Even little things are such an effort. I feel ravaged by the torrential rain and devastating winds of the hurricane.

The burly winds have destroyed lawn furniture and sent backyard grills reeling from decks and porches – they have scattered tumbleweeds across the plains…the ability to keep your eyes open in the midst of the flying dirt and dust has diminished. I am blowing in the wind…tossed like the tumbleweeds. I am constantly fighting the winds of depression, fear, sadness, hopelessness and tonight my overwhelming feelings are a force to be reckoned with!

Sleep fails to bring relief…the darkness invades my sleep, my dreams….I fight sleep – fear it, even. And when I do sleep, I talk and moan, thrash around and whimper frequently. I wake up multiple times a night from a nightmare only to find a broken compass and an inability to navigate myself from the past back to the present.

So much of it is irrational – and the small, logical voice inside of me tells me that – but the logical part of me cannot overpower, or balance, the other irrational, illogical voices of the terrified children trapped inside my mind and my body. I know I'm not in control. All the drive and spirit and determination that made me ME has been drained from me and most of the time I just feel like a rag doll….just do with me what you will…I'll just wait here.

And I have these horrible thoughts…what if I took a few extra sleeping pills, anxiety med…maybe chase them down with the ***** in the freezer…..

It's not about suicide….although I'll admit I have fleeting thoughts that death would be easier on everyone around me who suffer with me, despite my trying to keep it all inside of me. But it isn't about suicide – it's about making it stop! And I know that sounds sick…

I have always been strong, a fighter! Always! And certainly I've been through worse than this…… But I hate this! I hate the panicky feeling when I wake up from a nightmare and I'm in a state of half-consciousness. I hate the overwhelming feelings of rage that make me lash out at those undeserving and sometimes unsuspecting souls. I hate the external scars I've inflicted upon myself. I hate that I have these overwhelming urges to hurt myself and I sometimes act on those urges and then suffer the feelings of guilt and shame that come afterward. I hate that I've given them my joy and that means they win! I hate feeling and acting like a child! I hate the memories, and the crying and all of the feelings, feelings, feelings!!!!!!! I hate it! All of it!

I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm in such a state of darkness tonight and I need something to renew my courage, to get back my determination and drive. Now I feel like my body and mind have been taken over by a poltergeist! It’s all fear & darkness now.

There is thunder, and wind and lightening and hail raging in my head and I'm caught in this storm with no protection, no umbrella, no coat or boots.

It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)

and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.

No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)

The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end

Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim

Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like  her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.

Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.

The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.

The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.

And Cassandra just disappeared.

No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."

On the grills the rust
Stands in stark contrast
To your serene eyes

They see it all
Ocean black eyeball
Still hold surprise

Brimming passion
What love in that ocean
Your pleading eyes

It makes me pause
There’s no greater cause
For a passerby

Your gestures bold
Said words untold
Your droopy ear

Ever so keen
To lovingly listen
Holds a stranger dear

You looked at me
With a loving plea
Oh passerby

Greet me awhile
Lend me a smile
For that I die

at the end of your ten day meditation retreat
you got in your car drove thirty peaceful feet and ran over a bird .
splayed its holy guts on the pavement like god
finger-painting
*******
across that deep breath
you were holding the way your mother held her first born .

you , thank goodness , were torn from the bible the day before they burned it for the verse about dancing to tambourines .
once you saw the blood of christ on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews .
now every sunday morning you hear glaciers melting and you cry easy
as a one night stand never ever is
when you see the feathers in your rear-view mirror scattering like prayers
searching for a safe place to land .

hold me to my word when i tell you i will leave today ,
catch a bus ticket west just to stand in the center of your highway
blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered .
i’ve see too many prayers caught in the grills of 18 wheelers and folks like us
have shoulder blades that rust in the rain ,
but they’re still g sharp whenever our spinal chords are tuned to the key of redemption .
so go ahead world pick us
to make things better .

we’ve been building a bridge through the center of this song since Mother Theresa replaced the walls of her church with the weeping cries of calcutta’s orphaned ghettos .
you wanna know what the right wing never got ?
we never questioned the existence of god .
what we questioned is his bulldozer turning palestine into a gas chamber .
what we questioned is the manger in macy’s
and the sweatshops our children call the north pole .
what we question are the sixty swollen lashes on the back of a girl found guilty
of the crime of allowing herself to be brutally ***** .
what we question is the idea of a heaven having gates .
silly .

have you never stood on the end of pier watching the moon live up to her name ?
have you never looked in the eyes of a thief and seen his children’s hungry bellies ?
some days my heart beats so fast
my ribcage sounds like a ******* railroad track
and my breath is a train i just can’t catch .

so when my friends go filling their lungs with yes .
when they’re peeling off their armor and falling like snowflakes on your holy tongue .
god collects the feathers .
we are thick skin covering nothing , but wish bones .
break in .
you’ll find notebooks full of jaw lines we wrote to religion’s clenched fist .
yeah , we bruise easy .
but the sound of our bouncing back is a grand canyon full of choir claps .
and our five pointed stars have always been open to the answer
whatever it is .

i know david argued with the chisle .
i know he said make me softer
when those tourists come looking for a hero
i want the rain to puddle in my pores .
build me holy like that .
build me a kite flown out a bedroom window at midnight
the day freedom set its curfew to 9:11 .

my heaven is a snow globe .
the blizzard will always be worth the touch of your hand ,
shaking me awake like a boy taking deep breaths
all the way down to the dents in his shins
like he’s building a telephone from a string and two tin cans .
he knows god’s number by heart .
he knows it isn’t listed in any book .
look me in the bull’s eye ,
in the laws I broke and the promises i didn’t
in the batteries I found when the lights went out
and the prayers i found when the brakes did too .
i got this moment and no idea when it will end .
but every second of this life is scripture
and to know that
trust me,  we don’t need to be born
again .

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We see the youngens, they little bait,
but once we hooked them,they'll be
piranha's in our tank, stripping the
dignity from out of your
                        voice in 20 seconds flat.  

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We strung up your boys, gasping for air.
But once we got our hooks on you
                               were gutting you easy.
But not before we get what we need from
                                                     your pleads.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Look little fish you in a tank of sharks,
we grin our grills gravestones of  what you
                   see last before your dispatched.  
But don't you worry there are plenty to keep
you company down there, you ain't the first
                             and you ain't going to be the last.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

We got nicknamed the fisherman, we sail into
your town catching what ever we want.
        We don't scrap the sea floor hoping
for a catch. We fish for the real deal.
  Disillusioned of the fish bowl they swimming in.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

Making it even easier to catch, to turn them from
                neighbourhood trash to one of our sharks.
showing other that once we got you hooked,
the only way you leaving is dead floating at the
bottom of the tank.

                We coming to your postcode.

We got your crew like you were an
easy catch, cos once we got our
hooks in your postcode we ain't
                                              letting go, fact.

You search for the answer
Of your survival
All you find is old dust
On the books
Across the fields
Through a pile of sand
Hunched behind the wheat
A girl
And her grills
You talk to her in muffles
Standing on her truffles
And she scowels
An owl watches
Truth hidden behind his eyes
He wants to tell you
But you won't listen
He's just a bird
A caress over your brow
Sends you into sleep
Where you search for answers
But only find images
Friends; Cameras; Buttons; Relaxation
Planets; Mantarays; Bottles; and Scabs
What do they mean?
Questions fill your meat
As your feet lift into the air
And you become a hero.

Conversations linger in the air like water vapour,
As well looked-after manicured fingers sip multicoloured
cocktails out of silly straws,
and grip tightly on hourglass shaped glasses
lipped with sugar and lip-gloss.
Its 5:30 and the incongruous smells of barbecue
from balcony grills, and squid and
grilled haloumi and garlic from the Almond Bar behind me and
sweet gelatos and small cream cakes from the narrow shop called Messina
seem to brush every sense. The whole suburb speaks.
The walls whisper behind
me and the grey concrete slabs speak a language that I can't  interpret. Apathetic
hipsters gaze blankly at the street from the stairs of their apartment block.
What a pleasurable patchwork pastiche that pulsates through my senses.

yo the homie Juan C
pass the mic to me
so i wreck this beat
like SPC protege of k rino
hos call me mandingo poppin' ***** tapes demo
never rode a limo
only smokes primo n got pitches in otcos
8 bars make ya see the star im far from soft
f them boys in the nawf
woth south side ****** til we die
we ride with the hardest regardless
if they try to break our clique
we still gone spit ****
like a cobra ya know its over
once the venom in em then couple.of minutes later
finish em
mortal combat **** all the rats
despise chit chat call my youngest ** ***** cat
pack a black gat
we push loot in the golden regal
every thang we do is illegal
lethal
as gibson they don't want none
boys crackin' rhymes til the crack of dawn
then wake up next day just
to bust another one
my OGs rollin' with Don Key n Pokey
hardest in the pit
and if you disagree we make haters **** our ****
sloppy **** no ****
them ******* can lick the pigment off a ***** stick
but i play it safe n cool
cuz hos try to burn you
got it played smooth groove
to the sound bound to get down
if ya down bow down listen to the gun shots sounds
now ya leakin' where ya be speakin'
now ya body tweekin' n geekin'
soon to crossover
like epmd mic check ya know me my crew be
fascinating minds with our hocus pocus never lose focus
my raw raps got them nervous
got Juan C next to me
and got the tech services
and no playin now from the htown
still holding top with no crown
dont need a status we the baddest
turn the lane three wheel leanin' with bird chirpin'
still smokin' up the scene
with clip fully loaded magazine
glock cocked we aint gone stop
sip the prometh to the day i drop
dont stop
the music cadillac funky so ya know im gonna abuse it
drip up drapped out know what im talking bout
deep in the south we put guns in ya mouth
no flappin' we stay strappin'
like willis ya know whats happenin'
and we aint gone stop the rappin'
mad at us cuz we bring the real
o so real make every nation feel
what them southern slangers do
dangerous as the Bronx Zoo
what ya wanna do
with stay with more than sun tzu when death comes to you
them boys n blue
cant save u
on the mic i gets wicked after a meal ticket sadistic
as charlie manson
got a twenty two mansion
followed a long benz with the big blue lens
zero percent window
so i can smoke my indow
what they dont know wont show
follow the peckin' order my game smarter
jaun n yosef isthe real hip hop martyrs
and we ready to battle
sogo ahead and shake ya rattle
cuz we'll be quick to slaughter


yea man let me come through
versace with the blue
jeans coming clean sip lean
with an ounze of promethazine fiends
be on the look out
cuz ya know im about
to clown harder than Corey Holcomb
boys gettin' dumb dumb
got hos thats chewin bubble gum
shakim' *** too fast
make a ***** urge for a ***** lick
yea im rollin' with the *******
up clique we sick
as a muthafucka
enticin' all types of diseases
cuz the lyrical content pleases
many foes and hoes
i wear baggy clothes with jabos
dont ya know
im rap don vito stack chips like frito
lay i parlay
on sittin on the dock of the bay
jammin k
or that *****
htown is how we do?
ride ***** with the bulls
euro grills caprice with pipes made of steel
o so real still
got every nation on they feet
they cant feel
this uh coming down on ya blvd
ya can see me on tv or 60 inch screens dvd
**** blue rays i rock ray ban shays
like Mj ya can catch me on a fade
doing what i do in the paint
with a Styrofoam cup full of drank
grams of dank
smoke so much we cant think
eyes cant blink im on the brink
of an overdose
ya suppose to rock the flows like me
im like biggie
spittin the classic mr magic
girls call my **** game fantastic
stretch ***** holes like elastic
leave her visions plastered
like she drunk as ****
im pushin luck six flat riding a black truck
40 oz in the gut gangsta strut
im the best ***** whatttt?
im ina rage one luv to homies
in the cage
when i hit the stage
ya know the crowds gone get wild
im flagrant like a fouls problem child
use my cash bills to fans thrills
no spills on *******
ya know the deal
hos be reachin' still teachin'
n im all about mass appeal

383 small block, double-**** heads,
fuel injection, supercharger
a midnight cruise
flaming hot licks on black lacquer paint
street lights blowing past
That’s chrome, baby.

That’s chrome.

Road signs, blue eyes, blonde hair,
cherry red lips framed in a billet mirror
long legs hang under
a plaid mini-skirt straddling
a 4-speed.

That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.

Exhaust fumes, tire smoke,
high octane fuel, perfume
waters both mouth and eyes
Detroit steel never smelled this good
Red fingernails dig denim at 5500 rpm.

That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.

Chrome bumpers, chrome grills,
chrome smiles, chrome thrills.
That’s chrome, baby.
That’s chrome.


© 2010 C.T. Bailey

black chile o' mine...

the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs

the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide

who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie

and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni

a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side

black chile o' mine...

on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye

blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress

quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture

twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights

classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"

and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee

why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines

black chile o' mine...

flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook

tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter

while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential

and fulfill
the dream of slaves

gather dust...

you betta get your act right!

back chile o' mine...

~ P
(7/19/2013)

It's August already?
The air, you can tell
by the air.
It's hazy and lazy
and the wind
has a bite
like a pup,
becoming a wolf.
It's August already.
It's late October, and the
winter's over now
it's already July.
The fireworks, that's how you can tell.
The fireworks and the grills
and the girls,
girls in bikinis.
In January they''re just as naked,
wearing a coat that can
be slipped off in one, silky motion.
And now that it's April,
and the animals are shedding their
winter coats, all the girls
look confused.

Pushin my baby on the swing each one way,
        Bullets passing the wind not punching
me and my baby. But the fools be running
like they could outrun fate.

They can't escape the crosshairs of
  ill-prepared revenge.  
    Cadavers hit the floor blood outlines
that turn white after they felled.

I kept pushing my youth, hoping
she'd grow to an age where she
           could push her own.

But every day I playing Russian
   roulette with her swinging,
    me pushing her further so that
she's higher than the gunshots


          as they always hitting lower.

Today I was pushing her, she in her nikes,
     swinging her higher than death could
catch her tight grip...

But my neighbor she hanging low, catching
two unfollowed friend requests  flying through
the air, one in the thigh, one between the thoughts,

I kept pushing as her shadow swallowed by her
folding on the floor, her baby swinging slower
but still alive.

         Blue took her to her daddy, hope they
find out who they are as she had more than
           one by another man...


I m still here pushing my baby on a silent playground.
      No one comes here, that's good for me.
   pushing her low as there isn't a problem
of drive-bye byes... No more *******, no one to ****.
                  There is just me and my baby pushing..


Come on baby its time to go home,
                 the road is white, and we aren't
going to our usual place...


R.I.P to those who never didn't do nothing.
          


Another drive-by, grills smiling as flashes
greeting shaded window frames,
                                          hanging low.

Upon arrival, it was instant
survival because of the
knick knack, tip tapped
circus rings that are on fire
being bare handled.
Welder's hands is what Uncle
John has. He always grills
the burgers. Medium is usually
the better of the other
two anyways. Old ways are
are gone with trees of England .

I walk outside and all I see
Are the surrounding houses
I can't see miles out
My home is a hilly place
Surrounded by mountains
Leaves turn to red and orange
Setting the trees on fire
For a couple of weeks
Before they all fall down
Leaving bare branches and gray skies
Such hope when there was 60 degree weather
In the middle of December
Then January hit and so did the snow
Gone in a couple of days
Then there are more nice days
That turn to rain
And when you start seeing green it's time
Mosquitos come running
To munch on you all day
Better get some bug spray
Spring brings the bees
Flying everywhere you go
Wasps all over and in your car
Days get longer, hotter
Swimming pools used frequently
Nights are warm too
Everything is great
Then the real heat hits
Sweat dripping down nearly every face
Soaking through t-shirts
Sandals everywhere
Shorts galore
Girls in barely anything
Men going shirtless on occasion
Mowing the yard or going for a run
Air conditioning and ice tea
Grills going on the weekends
Then it starts to cool down
Leaves change once more
Setting the trees on fire again
Home state seasons

Celebrating something you briefly learned and you expect a few dozen people in the plaza, calm and content celebrating the May revolution that happened over 200 years ago.

You step off the subway, walk up the stairs to the sidewalk and it's foggy from firecrackers and grills filled with chorizo. Banderas waving with Eva and Peron's faces. Drums pounded as the people sing VIVA LA PATRIA.

You're alone, but somehow not afraid because even though this holiday isn't yours, you recognize the nationalism they sing of. A nationalism only a porteno could possibly know and love and understand and feel and celebrate. But for that day, you overcame your extranjero and smiled at the kids waving their flags, your friend using two hands to eat choripan, the hunt for locro, and the mosh pit that was trying to get the closest view of the concerts and firecrackers.

When you return to the states they'll remember it as Memorial Day, but you have learned how to celebrate 25 de mayo.

bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
    with me.

live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
  these things pulse with strength
      in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
   reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
      no sight or hindsight.

i'll run to where the sunlight is
   and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
   trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
   trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
        scarred, sundered.

clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
    and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
     bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
   give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
     with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
    and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
   as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.

living alone
    yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
  the well-placed gnome of stone outside
      stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
  through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
   as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
   is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
      right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
    money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
     it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.

tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
   and crawl towards the ajar door of
  my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
    crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
   all books dissipated, some naked
  in relished pages, others abeyant.

the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
    — all is broken.