Ink on her nose
Ink on her thumb
Her face a pretty rose
She stared pretty dumb.

Blue dots on her pink
Ink on her teeth
When gave her a wink
Stopped her breath.

She was a girl shy
Never smiled her teeth
I didn’t know why
She took away my breath.

The girls are now smart
Bubbly wobbly cute
Speak swift and curt
I loved that girl mute.

Her eyes were deep ocean
Had no hint of flirt
I still have no notion
How she stole my heart.

Her rosy cheeks blue pink
She won’t be back again
Gone with the ink
She’s dead like fountain pen.

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

Wash it off!
The marks of a past as dim as a solar eclipse cast on your gaze.
Useless, it is already written in the depths of your face,
As black as ink, there lingers a truth within it, hidden behind feelings.
The endless pain is brushing with the wind through your hair,
Oh life what is the reason for you to always lead towards an inenvitable death, leaving what you once were proud of, behind ?
Since you seem not to understand it fully, I want to teach it to you in the realm of the dead, in the loitering darkness one day when it is already far too late to turn your back to the fate you are running from,
So please seek the answers now, don't ever turn away!
Even if you should continue this lonesome path wretchedly,
As long as you are living, you can still shine and illuminate anothers spirit, just like the moon does in the darkest of all nights,
Even still if your past has left your tortured, frightened soul...
As black as ink.

~ Umi

is there any such thing
as too much ink
too many pens
more paper
than the human heart can fill?

the heart does nothing
but pump the blood that is necessary
to fill my fingers
to move
to scrawl too much ink
with too many pens
on more paper
than such a treacherous ***** deserves.

but the heart will get its ink
if it has to bleed dry in order to fill
the pens that it thinks it should have
to defile more paper
than any forest should have to give.

the heart will have what it wants
forests
nibs
and veins
be ******

The sky’s nose is pressed to the window of a loner’s heart
Knowing something dances in the bottom
And it stands in front of him

Nothing in life shows what a loner really feels
More than that fountain of ink
Whispering from her pen

Still the sky wonders if there is anything really there
Or if a loner’s heart is merely full
Of emptiness dancing bare

You can see the sky’s ear pressed ever so closely  
Against the window of a loner’s heart
Listening to the pulsing beat

Knowing something wondrous dances in the bottom
It is timeless yet, still he wonders
If it only dances in the ink

Her arms are covered in ink,
doodles of barbaric things sprouting forth, like venus fly traps ready to pounce.
and words are branded on her arms like red scars.
Ink stains that scream hateful things

Not a single shred of skin is left untarnished
the ink is a cover up of her identity.
hiding her flesh with poisonous writing
the thoughts inside finally on show.

she covers her arms with long sleeve tops
to hide the hateful ink from the world
trying to keep some dignity of her own
yet still drawing childish hateful things on her arms

her face is blank, her eyes are emotionless
as she scrawls poetry and images on her arms till she draws blood.
she is just an emotionless zombie, an empty shell.
no longer existing in this world or belonging in it.

and thats how she'll always stay, forever here in body alone but never in mind or spirit. and always the unanswered question 'why do you do this to yourself?' floats around like an unrestful spirit.

When the ink flows from the tip of my pen onto paper,
it really is a
Majestic sight
My thoughts come alive via
scrawled script in
Blue Ink

You're ink.
I'm the quill:
I lounge, idle and mute
For want of your color on my parchment.

Like ink you've spilled
Into my life
And like ink you'll stay
Forever stained, an unfading tattoo.

When the blue ink of the sky
drips into the salt of the sea,
drink of it.
Drink of it like tea.

When your cup is filled with ink - pen
blanket, journal, tea...
spill of it.
Spill your words on this white sea.

When ink pencils speak with colour,
drawing walls inside you & me,
Let's speak of it.
Let our words flow set us free.

When the black blots of ink
write moving letters in your heart,
sink in it.
Sink in the waters of your thought.

When the Vast Cloud of Ink
glows from the depth of your eyes;
I’ll know you drank of it.
You drank the stars into your skies.

We are not pens, ourselves, red ink is not inside of us.
But we do have sensitive blood that is discolored, same as that utensil.
Difference is: it poisons us, gives us rashes and thoughts that we are not worthy to have. It wrecks our minds with ancient tools that were once unaccepted. Silly poppies can not
Ruin us like that. I know what can.
The things that worry us, teenagers and babies, parents and pedophiles;
Cease your worries. I pity you, teens.
"It is fun, it is fun." I know I know. But is it worth the risk?
Cease your worries parents. You don't need to stalk your own children.
They learn from their mistakes. They cry for a while and then get stronger.
Like I did, why I kept my mouth shut for so long,
I was better. Until you began to read. I couldn't go to you specifically for that reason,
Tightening your hold on me, mother. I am already a prisoner in my own mind.
I don't need another warden.
A century long breakthrough gave me something,an understanding that not all children accept
Their parents. I don't feel at home there.
It is not one. Just a house that I stay in, people I live with. They are family, by blood only.
****** ink: my savior. My hero, love, is you. You inspired me to digitalize, write with graphite.
But I am still contaminated, mind wandering,

History repeating, sounds piercing, a test is too much when I did not study.
Help me. The trials this has put me through are unfair. Give me my pen to sign a contract, but I
Poison myself instead. Only okay after after a needle enters my streams and takes it out.
A mechanical vampire, I prefer you to bit me instead of metal fangs.
And now I dream.
.
.
.
.
.

Or maybe I am not. We have lived as such long enough. But, still,
Write about it. Tell me how you feel. But be careful not to poison yourself.

I have experience with that. The pen has a hidden blade. It cuts you with every word you
Lay in front of you. May I be a word? Scratch my love into your skin?
I will not intoxicate you as it would. I will give you something else entirely.

But my dream ends. Reality steps on me and takes my breath from me, I am suffocating in this Hellhole. Give me a firehouse so I can put it out and drink away my parched lips.
They need to be soft so I can speak, but first... I need to
Sew my lips shut. If they are dry, they will rip and open. We don't want that.
Keep them shut, don't tear open and bleed; you would give ink poison to
Mockingbirds if you do. They mock me, copy me. They tell me they are jealous.

But why? They don't know they've been poisoned.
It is a cycle. Everyone will die of it in the end.

talking to you
is like writing with a red pen and
expecting black ink.

no matter how many times I tell myself
it's always going to be the same and
absolutely nothing has changed,
I run back to you and hope that
you will eventually
give me the metaphorical black ink
I've waited so long for.

I'm longing for
the black ink to spill out in the form of
"I miss you too, I'm sorry for everything I've put you through and I want you to come back to me"
(and that you'll actually mean it)
and I want that ink
to stain my lungs and my mind
I want that ink
to be laced into my skin as a tattoo

but unfortunately,
you can't give me that blank ink.
it's by no fault of your own;
you're just simply a red pen
and I guess these days
I'm colorblind.

I remember when you were four
I caught you drawing on the wall
I couldn't get mad
Instead I just laughed
And I still have
The finger print painting
that you made
In fact I had it framed
I have every art piece you made
To remind me that your always here
with me spiritually

All These tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken a way

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's
Holding you in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

We were at the hospital
I was sitting beside your bed
And you wiped the tears
Underneath my eyes
Then I heard you say
Daddy please don't cry
I like it better when you smile
So I smiled
Don't say no goodnights or goodbyes
Yeah princess your my little fighter
My inspiration, my perfection
My saviour, my hope, my strength
Your everything I am
I'll carry that with me forever

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken a way

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's
Holding you in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

I still remember
when I heard the doctor say
(There's no heart rate)
That line still haunts me
Your mother and I fell to the floor
Neither of us wanted to get back up
It felt like we cried for hours
And then I felt
something give me strength
Then I remembered what you said
Daddy please don't cry
I like it better when you smile
So I pulled myself back up
from the floor
Took your mother in my arms
Carried her back to the car
You were every step
You were every breath

All These tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken a way

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

I still remember when
I heard the priest say
May she rest with angels
watching over her
May they share there
infinite love on high
May they protect
her blessed soul
Let the Lord take her
Into his loving arms
To keep her safe from harm
I said Amen to that princess
And I've seen you in the stars
Yeah you'll never be to far
For we are always
With in each other's hearts

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken a way

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

Sometimes I sit in your empty room
Imagine you playing, drawing
Creating all those games
You used to play
With your vivid imagination
A world of your creation
It's like your still here
I can feel your essence
I can feel your presence
In this place
It's where I go to relive your memory
That you left for me

All these tear drops
That fall upon the page
Creating smudged ink stains
As this pen bleeds
Words drenched in sorrow
An empty heart slowly fades
Can't seem to find a way
To release all this pain
Can't seem to find the words to say
I miss you each and everyday
Can't find a logical reason to explain
Why you were taken a way

Can't forgive God
For what he's done
Just hope he's holding
You in his arms
Keeping you safe and warm
You got the voices of angels
Who can serenade
And sing you to sleep
And I'll keep you safe
Inside of your dreams

©2017 Written By Benji James

Dear Diary, you're completely full of ****. You are that streetwalker who passes by with a faux smile and a greeting that defines Charlatan.

"Hello! How are you?"

Well, Diary, I'm broken and full of rotting organs and a brain just screaming for serotonin and a conscious that wants to shove a knife in your chest and a heart that's too weak to do it.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks."

Charlatan Diary, you're nothing but a shallow waste of ink. Waste of ink waste of ink wasteof ink wa ste o f ink wasteofink.

Ink
Ink is permanent
You can scratch and cross something out as much as you want
It's just a cover
You still know what's written there is forever
It's like saying something and instantly wanting to shove the words back in your mouth
Rewind the moment, then start over
Can't do that, those words are stuck, forever said
Forever remembered
You'll feel the guilt seep through your veins immediately
A million sorries will come gushing out of your mouth
You'll stumble over your words trying to take back the meaning of your original thought
But, if you said it, and they heard it... Doesn't matter if "it's not how you meant it."
The perception has made it's mark
Sometimes with devastating results
Promises of yesterday...
Can forever haunt your tomorrow
Why do we make promises we're not sure can be kept?
Are we all just full of ****?
Get caught up in the moment?
When someone breaks a promise to you, it breaks your heart
Shatters trust
So why do it back?
Spite?
Afraid to say no?
Are the words of confusion coming from in between your ears, or someone's mouth?
It shouldn't be so easy to doubt yourself if you were ever 100% sure
Now life looks like a huge piece of paper with crossed out pen markings, and ink everywhere  No escaping it, no matter how deeply you've scribbled over it
I put my pen down and sigh
Glance at the endless row of pens next to it
And all the broken pencils on the floor
Broken erasers, broken thoughts....
I just needed a pencil..

I told myself I would write you out of me like ******* venom out of a vein-

With every letter upon the page it felt like I was pulling bits of you out of my bloodstream.

But then I wake up to streaked walls and I realized you're smeared everywhere-

You're a spilled ink bottle upon pages and pages of my life and you're bleeding into the rest of my book.

You're splattered across my walls and waking up to the stains within my room leaves me stained too-

I walk around seeing you in so much that I do.

My eyes are stained with the tint of your affection and I find it glimmering in every thing I see.

The splatters are still wet upon my walls, the ink hasn't dried upon my pages.

Everything I feel for you hasn't died yet.

How foolish was I to think that spilling my heart and ink about you would somehow get you to leave.

You're dripping from my eyes, from my pen and my veins.

I hoped this would get you out of me,

But every drip hits the ground and splatters out to the walls.

I haven't seen you in so long,

But I still see you stained upon my walls into what is a masterpiece of attempting to rid myself of you.

You're still in my ink, you're still in my veins.

You're now everywhere else too.

When can I escape you?

1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

If love lives forever
I want your name inked into my skin
But they say don't do it
Love never lasts forever
But she's not just my heart
She's my soul. She's my life
She's the air that I breathe
I would do anything for her
Even if it meant losing my life
So bring on the pain
Inject the ink into my skin
These are some lyrics with a meaning

Nobody's perfect, You see
Have you ever hurt so much
You wanted to take your life
Well you see time after time
I wrote how hard it was living without you
But it got me wondering
If I loved you so much
Why am I not dead
And it came to me
Your my drive, Your my hope
Every time I see that picture of you
I know I'm not alone
So sick of writing songs about death
I mean I don't want to die
but a life without you is hard to bare
But they say love hurts anyway
You just got a find the one person
Worth suffering for and your worth
Your wait in gold

If love lives forever
I want your name inked into my skin
But they say don't do it
Love never lasts forever
But she's not just my heart
She's my soul she's my life
She's the air that I breathe
I would do anything for her
Even if it meant losing my life
So bring on the pain
Inject the ink into my skin
These are some lyrics with a meaning

Girl, I haven't been talking to you
I wonder if you ever notice there's
a person missing from your life
remember the boy that stuck by you through
every hard time but all of a sudden he's gone
But truth is this was a test
To see if you cared
It seems like you failed me this time
You said you would be there
But I was hurting and I'm still all alone
But its okay, I'm alright
(Yeah) Almost turned to drugs
Took up cigarettes
Because I couldn't stand
The pain of knowing you weren't there
But I quickly gave it up
Because I wasn't thinking clearly
Death was on my mind every night
See I started writing a song
Saying it was all over
But then I thought of you
Scrunched it up
Tore it apart and threw it away
Because I ain't given up

If love lives forever
I want your name inked into my skin
But they say don't do it
Love never lasts forever
But she's not just my heart
She's my soul she's my life
She's the air that I breathe
I would do anything for her
Even if it meant losing my life
So bring on the pain
Inject the ink into my skin
These are some lyrics with a meaning

I'm still here, Your the medication to my pain
But your the pain to my pain
It's like ******* it drives you insane
I wrote these other songs about you
And in it, I kiss you
But the truth is our lips have never collided
I kissed you in my dream. It felt so right.
It changed my life
Not sure if you understand, What I'm saying
But if anybody hurts you again, I'll be there
I know it seems like I'm gone
But I've been here all along
Better watch out baby because I'm on my way back
Ready to fight, I'll be ready to save your life
Bet you never could imagine you were my saviour
And protection and you didn't even have to say anything
See I have this picture of you and whenever I'm feeling down
Feel like I'm up against the world
I just look at your smile. It lights me up
Feel Like I can see my name in city lights
Importance returns to my mind
And I feel the urge to pick myself up from the dirt and
Take on the whole universe
You see I'm gazing at stars knowing that somewhere out there
You're looking at them to
Just hope you can feel the love I'm sending you

If love lives forever
I want your name inked into my skin
But they say don't do it
Love never lasts forever
But she's not just my heart
She's my soul she's my life
She's the air that I breathe
I would do anything for her
Even if it meant losing my life
So bring on the pain
Inject the ink into my skin
These are some lyrics with a meaning

Remember I said I dreamt of you
Well it was like heaven on earth and when I kissed those cherry lips
It felt so good, It took me higher than I've ever been
It never felt more right, If thats what it's like
I'll take the pain and the suffering
You might be the girl I've never had
The girl I'll never have
And I know I can never replace you
Truth is I'll probably keep crying and feel like I'm dying
But I'm movin up, Movin on
Baby, Benny's home
And he's never felt more right (alright)
Creativity has taken over tonight
Look out he's back on a high
look towards the sky and see him flying
Your gaurdian angels back with a vengance
Nobody's gunna want to hurt you again
Because if they do he'll be there to hurt them
I get jealous when I see you with another man
But I'll hold it in
Because seeing you happy is worth it
Sometimes I wish I got a text or a facebook message
Saying you miss me
It makes me feel invincible and amazing
But its okay, I'll be alright
Because I see that picture of you
And it eases my suffering
It keeps me happy
I feel like it's our destiny to be together
But even if it's not your always gunna be the one I want
I would give it all up for you
If losing my life meant saving yours
I wouldn't question or give it a second thought
Baby I would take that bullet to my heart

If love lives forever
I want your name inked into my skin
But they say don't do it
Love never lasts forever
But she's not just my heart
She's my soul she's my life
She's the air that I breathe
I would do anything for her
Even if it meant losing my life
So bring on the pain
Inject the ink into my skin
These are some lyrics with a meaning

I've never felt more amazing than I do tonight
Just think who's missing out of your life
Think back to all the things I said to you
Then you'll know this songs for you

©2017 Written By Benji James

Ink.
You're my ink.
A book.
I'm your book.
Write on me.

I hate marijuana.
It is a class A drug for a reason.
It destroys your brain and brings anarchy to the world.

Me looks both ways to see if anyone around
ok mon, now dat da feds are gone, lets get ta business.
Me inhales me blessed ******

**** is cool. It's actually really nice.
If ya t'ink otherwise, den ya better t'ink twice.
Me gonna tell you, why Reggae is my life.
Me love Reggae so much me wish it was me wife.
Marijane is me love. Spliffs and Reefers too.
Kush makes me so hot you'd t'ink I had da flu.
Why should ya smoke herb? Me gonna tell you why.
When ya smoke heaven's grass ya feel like ya gonna fly.
Away from all ya problems. Towards a purposeful end.
Makes ya feel, so nice. ****, you will soon befriend.


Reefer
hErb
Green
Grass
Anus
­Everything Cook and Curry (Reggae term for "Everything is Fine")

*REGGAE

Souls of ink.
Magnificent masterpieces crafted by pen but they're all just ink.
They overlap and create hues so bright or dark it blots out the scene.
She is a brilliant red,
So bright that the outlines fade and all that's left is a feeling of hope and adventure.
She melts the canvas she touches in a captivating way.
If I were white ink I love to be  a carnation.
Overlapping gently, making an emotion, a memory where bland scraps once stood.
Constructing romance like flower blossoms.
A chance to show that white ink
Can be beautiful too.

she gave me her nudes
she was bare
and naked
and so out
and open
and i willingly
accepted it
because it wasnt the nudes
that showed her body
the physical aspects
that made her beautiful
it was the words
she didnt choose
and the spontaneity
that left her
either from her lips
or her fingers
or ink

she was as bare
as her nudes
and i accepted
her for her.

No ink can write
down the love i have
for you. No ink can
write down the war
raging on inside of my
mind.

No ink can write
down the times that i
thought darkness will
drive me blind.

No ink
can write down what
I feel for you in the
middle of the night
in a few simple
poetic lines* ~

It was a Saturday afternoon
The legion branch was full
The band was playing some old twangy country song
The front four tables were singing along
Up at the bar
A steady line up of Nevada players
hoping for another jackpot
to cover another few beers
And to make the afternoon last
Nothing worse, than having to milk
a weak draft for an hour
Until the men came back from horseshoes
About three o'clock
the branch livened up as Jimi McGonagle arrived
grandson of the past president
and general all about me, *******
He was strutting around
showing off his new tattoo
No different than his other
thirty or so, but it was new
and it was Jimi McGonagle
so everyone wanted to see
He was proud he now had eight peacocks
All up one leg....there's a joke here
But, even I won't go that far....
The crowd swarmed around him
But, in the back corner
The table....I mean THE TABLE...
didn't move a muscle
In fact out of the three individuals at THE TABLE
Two continued with their dart game
while the third just chuckled, let out a loud
HARUMPH
and went back to his screwdriver
with the quickly melting ice cubes
famous at all legions for helping water down the drinks
Jimi, heard the HARUMPH and looked back
The old man took a slug from the glass
and HARUMPHED louder
Jimi, perplexed, came over to see what was the matter
"Don't like my tattoos Mr. Stein?"
HARUMPH..."they're fine, if you like that kind of thing"
said the old man, knocking back his glass again
"Gives me eight peacocks on my leg now" said Jimi
Again, no response from me on the possible joke here
"cost me almost $700 bucks to get this one done"
"HARUMPH" said the old man....
"What is wrong with you Mr. Stein?"
"Don't like it?"
"Like I said...."
"I know, I know"....said Jimi
"Got any ink?" asked Jimi
"Yep" answered the old man, as a fresh glass arrived
He took a slug...
"So?"...said Jimi, "Is it any better than my peacock?..
"Maybe..maybe not"...said the old man
"It just depends"
The crowd had moved away and was dropping back to the bar area
"Can I see it?" asked Jimi..."What is it?"
"'tain't much to speak of...but I'll show you"....
"Just quit strutting around and sit....and I'll have another screwdriver"...
Jimi sat, and the old man looked him in the eye
"Don't have much colour, like your'n do...don't have any at all"...
"But, a tat's a tat, and you want to see it"...."You sure?"
Jimi nodded, ordered the drink for the old man
"HARUMPH"...said Mr. Stein
He unbuttoned his shirt cuff on the left side
and rolled it up, with his big, beefy, work worn hands
"There she be" he said
"Where", said Jimi
"There'n, on my wrist....just there"
"All I see is a number, an old, worn number"
"That'd be her" said Mr. Stein...."It's all I got, and it's all I need"
"What is it?" asked Jimi
"It's who I am...who I was reduced to"
"It's my curse, and my strength"...
"I was 17 when I got this in Hammelburg, Germany"....
"It was 1943 and we were rounded up"
"and sent to the camps...we were some of the last jews"
"they missed us in the first go round"
"gave me this...don't need another one"
"It's me...this number....it's me"
"Yours are nice...colourful....but are they you?"
"Mine is me"...
"You can see...I have ink....only one....don't want anymore"
"Can I sit a while?" asked Jimi
"Sure, son"...."you can tell me 'bout them silly peacocks"
"Bartender....two screwdrivers"
...and so developed a new and deep friendship....

I've got these ink stained hands

untouchable, unwashable

even by the sands of time

ink stained by my words

Words I say, Words I write, Words I hold

words written on the page

concealed within my heart

The words I still hold

ink rubbed off from my

hands,my heart, my soul



Seen by many, Understood by none

fallen on the deaf , the blind, the dumb

fallen on the ground, slipping through the streets

in between the cracks

left to walk back and forth

left inside its crying cradle

Yearning to be with more



    Words that I hold

no matter how heavy ,

no matter how long

I'm Atlas,holding on as long

as I can-

Until I let go-

and I watch them spill out from my hands

to those loose leaf pages

margins too small

filled with words with the beating sweat of my palms

Sweat smeared pages so sweet

It's a living, breathing, part of me

So Spoiled

Sitting there so comfortably

disreagrading the silly lines that try to keep them neat



No more lines left on the leaf

no more words spilling out from me

left in this body

Sealed and Shut



I can't do it

I give up



-CQR

Travelers of unknown time
Walked several steps with rhyme
Build the bridges with droplets of ink
Traces of which remained lastingly in their hearts.

Perhaps the morning rays flows from her thoughts
Mingles with the fragrance of fresh page slots
She sighed on seeing the setting rays of fall
Verses knitted in twilight spilled from her heart.

She gathered words that slipped from her palms
With stream of petals she weaves garland
When the ink leaves its imprint
Feathers drizzles on someone's heart!

Ink that drizzled from her pen beautified themselves
Passion never dies as they enlighten the bookshelves!

© 2016 Geetha Jayakumar. All rights reserved.