Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.

The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

Wait a minute Black man
If I understand you right
Theres an enemy you fight
Whose skin is light, and grips you tight

So you’re stuck in the hood
Misunderstood, drugged up, junked out and up to no good
he throws you in jail, for the same **** the ****** man gets out on bail

Paying 250 dollars were his biggest fears ,
While you don’t even sweat
12 generations of slavery; two fifty years.
So I ask…………………..

Why do you …….swallow promises from a….. promise breaker?
What makes you……. think you can receive life from a…. life taker?
These words are
nothing new,
its all in the family
Death IS Uncle Sam’s Nephew
Poverty his Cousin and Exploitation his brother
I want to cut ‘em from the *** of, yes, hypocrisy his Mother.

So when I look at this country and say “your mothers a *****”
Don’t get me wrong I mean nothing more
I’ve just figured out what my history’s for

So when I say “wait a minute Black man”, once more
What I’m really saying this for
What I really mean, is that you and me
We got a common enemy
The ***** of America—Hypocrisy.

I’m trying to say that I am not numb to where you’re coming from
For I’ve been there too
You thought I was another ******* hypocrite
HaHa The jokes on you

Cause I can see the invisible hand that guides the economics of life and death
Of hearts I break
And of breath’s I take
Of dreams I make
And the money I rake

I am no fool, there is no wool over my eyes
I am no tool to my peoples own demise
250 years under the yoke
But exterminated I will not be
Forever a thorn in the side of hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 3rd time
This is what I want you to hear from me
Do not fornicate with that ***** hypocrisy
And beget children who will forever be
Just out of reach of the American dream

But most importantly, and especially to those like me
Those called the Penobscot, Mohawk, Seminole and Shawnee
Forget about your reparations,
Uncle Sam’s bank account has been emptied
The collateral was truly……trails of tears and Cherokees
And to demand from one man that which he took from another man is Hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 4th time
Hear this,
40 acres and a mule promised you are still mine.
Native American heritage boils in my blood, but you can’t feel it
If I ink it on my sleeve, you neglect to see it

But the EARTH is ours, and a globe will show it
Theres a place called Africa, of this you know it

Lets you and I take a boat ride
across the sea
Fight on one more front in the war on Hypocrisy

Liberate your people unto whats entitled them
Let’s stop losing brothers to the lust of gems
This precious piece of our earth, this is where it ends

It’s still a rock, a stone
We’ll go back home,
halt the broken hearts and bones
that are caused by the greedy man
Who forces the needy man
To dig speedy through the sand
And find the tedious ingredients that make wedding bands
For the mother of the man who forged this plan
For hypocrisy and her favorite son, Uncle Sam

We shall raise our voices and object every time she marries
We shall, without remorse, abort every fetus she carries

A poets weapons are metaphors and similes
With these we can forever be, thorns in the side of hypocrisy.

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

is a thought i had the other day
thinking, as one does, back
to when life was
just a little more junked-up.
as easy as it may seem, i was
a little bit more verbose those days,
foul-mouthing my way through my problems
and strangely,
call me a printer's press because
the grease kept coming and the pages kept coming
(and i was one squeaky wheel, you know)
and it seems to me a tad lopsided
how junked-up living overflows
into creative spaces, and
while picking through the flotsam and jetsam of
your overhyped depression and paranoia,
lightning strikes from a fed-up God,
tired of your long-winded prayers,
sizzle the brain's juices
and out comes a fresh verse to lay down
into another page of those worn out notebooks
so why does a person seem prolific
when they've just got a lot of problems?

Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,

no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,

& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
matter,
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,

with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,

Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,

but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.

Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.

******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.

"Make as many mistakes as you can as fast as possible"
-Doc

Some kids found their rooms:
Math room pizza parties for those held in place by statistics,
four mirrored walls where the strong bodied press iron into muscle,
a tiny box for the "Special" broken off, hidden from the general population.
Those who went to the art room followed the music:
Stacks of scratched mix cds labelled with magic marker,
curated directly from fresh teenage hearts
hearts learning to become sound and paint in Doc's Art II class,
They sketch, carve, snack and chat.
The only room where students are allowed
to talk all period and pencils work to produce souls
instead of information.
There, the ineffable takes shape, in papier-mache,
macaroni or glitter.

Here are the kids who know how
to make mistakes. Perched on stools,
napping on the couch in the back,
the duds, the nerds, building things, hanging out,
shaving sculptures into their scalps. Their minds escaping
in paint-smear, light and earth, generating amorphous blobs,
new species of globule bacteria squirming across a slide of canvas,
things laid under the microscope, not for interrogation,
but for companionship. Not for scrutiny,
but for curiosity.
They reach no understanding with the world through movement
or the way the colors talk
to each other, they only reanimate the confusion into something
they can be friendly with.
Visions surface from the blank stare
of a white page.
They know how to get rid of that white;
just start getting it *****.
Eventually it begins to look like something
clean.

Nate starts new genres every class
though he plays no instrument: oi-punk, ska-core, pinhead blues.
Corban and Chip engineer robots
from their dad's junked wiper blades and orphaned gadgetry.
Quiet Jennifer looks
into the peeled aperture of her camera.
Golden Nick sketches always,
scoring every conversation with his etching.
Eyes cast aloof
from what everyone else is trained to see,
they stare into the discouraged hallucinations.
Unable to convince themselves the visions aren't there,
they exorcise them through messes of paint, wavering clay,
kilns burning mud into permanent shape. Splotched
mistakes arch gracefully into unforeseen purposes, the erroneous made integral.
What is discarded or shamed in other rooms is here followed with curiosity,
rescued and incorporated into a perfectly rendered mess
of liquid. The rejected is what is, what becomes.
Here, kids let their hearts out, casually, without explanation,
like red paint from a shiny new tube.
My heart, can't everybody see it? It's up there on the wall, collaged out of glue-stick
and diced magazine scrap.
It doesn't have to be clarified in the desperate pomp
of a poem or the insipid glitz of jazz hands. Put on the run by the logical requests
of Spanish teachers, they can relax here,
and so they are real, and so they are different.

As adults, they still use what they learned there. I watch them. They are my friends;
bartenders or line cooks or nurses or clerks, their basements cluttered
with bric-a-brac, creative purchases, bought not out of necessity,
but because they explode the room into life:
A creek painting amended with a rhinestone deer cutout,
the orange booth of a defunct bowling alley,
Happy Meal mascots leftover from obsolete Saturday mornings.
Their dens are hung with 4th grade prize-winners, Governor's Show picks,
a woodcarving of an eagle so ugly only a Mom could keep it hung
on her bathroom wall for thirty years.
Exacto knives and staedtler erasers point
from Warhol coffee cups on drafting tables,
T-Squares and light boxes are dragged through a gamut of low-rent apartments.

Maybe in the cupboard, maybe out in the garage,
a box lies closed
but not empty,
filled with crinkled tubes
of hardened oil, a palette stained
with a multifarious rash of colors,
a forest of stiffened brushes growing
from a ceramic ashtray.
Every now and then they put a record on,
pull this box out, open it
and again, with a little insistence,
the colors come flowing.

walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but *******, cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever

In the ghetto, time and grime,don't hold back, the years or the tears, scream out, in the night, nobody hears or cares, but, I'm still holding on, there are  fears, out here, nobody has  met yet, I'm still holding on,walking city streets,praying that, death,won;t get to me, sooner or later,I'm still holding on,strangled, by the secret wishes,inside, hoping the fake,dreams of smoke, entering the bodies, and noses, I see,don't **** off , the real dreams, of those, not on the pipe, *** being used, to sooth, away each tired,ache or lack, people, being used, to escape, from the ghetto blues, so, I'm still holding on,watching  kids, doubledutch, on sidewalk cracks, lots seeded, with tossed mattresses, junked cars, rotting trash,stray dogs, I see dice thrown down, roller hoping to get lucky, and I'm still holding on

In the ghetto, time and grime,don't hold back, the years or the tears, scream out, in the night, nobody hears or cares, but, I'm still holding on, there are  fears, out here, nobody has  met yet, I'm still holding on,walking city streets,praying that, death,won;t get to me, sooner or later,I'm still holding on,strangled, by the secret wishes,inside, hoping the fake,dreams of smoke, entering the bodies, and noses, I see,don't **** off , the real dreams, of those, not on the pipe, *** being used, to sooth, away each tired,ache or lack, people, being used, to escape, from the ghetto blues, so, I'm still holding on,watching  kids, doubledutch, on sidewalk cracks, lots seeded, with tossed mattresses, junked cars, rotting trash,stray dogs, I see dice thrown down, roller hoping to get lucky, and I'm still holding on

Yellow leaves crunch as I trudge on the old aisle.
The rusty latch of the black gate,
Screams as I unlock it.

My hand slowly traces it way over the dusty metal plate,
Rubbing it I read,
Home sweet home.

My footsteps haunt the house,
As I walk inside.
It's complete dark,
Yet I see everything.

Rooms are empty,
But I see it filled,
Just like few years ago.

I walk to where once I heard the whistle,
I hear her say,
'Dinner is ready dear.'

I hear a few whispers and laughs at the spot,
where once was a table for ten.
Clink of vessels at the sink,
Which was now covered in spider web.

I walk to where once we used to enjoy the evening,
With potato chips and tea.
I hear the commentators speak,
'one more six.'

I hear claps and cheers,
And thumping sound on a comfy sofa,
Which was once placed,
Where I stand now.

I climb up the stairs,
Each step appearing like a milestone.
I see those frames,
Them happy and gay.

Now were only left,
The rectangle marks on the,
Blackish bluish wall.

I walk up to were was once a big feather bed,
I hear a happy scream,
As she says,
'Papa, what if I tickle you like this.'

I hear me say,
'And what if Papa does like this.'
As I carry my daughter in my arms,
And she flies like a plane.

I leave the house,
And walk to the backyard,
Where was once nice and cultivated grass,
now dead and black.

As I lock back the junked gate,
I feel the strings of my heart,
Getting tensed,
And I hear a sad tone.

-The grinding metal of my grandmothers car being junked because she could no longer drive it, or afford to feed the cat.

-Apologies and Band-Aid wrappers taking turns being tossed to the floor as my father cleaned up ****** knees that he tripped me into.

-The baby's cry that wouldn't stop no matter how many times the pastor pleaded with his congregation to relieve the sanctuary of their miserable children.

-The violent scream of both a passenger and rubber burning against pavement, followed by a demolished guardrail, motorcycle, and skull. As heard from the neighboring yard, over s'mores.

-Four gunshots. And then a single siren.

This list includes:
Things more pleasurable to hear
than the sound of the ringing
that was left in my ears
when all you could say
was "it's weird".

Thousands swirl
sending signals,
garbled-voices taking pictures,
criss-crossing above us,
jockeying for position.

In our efforts
to rule the universe,
we've even junked up space,
it's a wonder
we can still
see the sun & blue skies,
or the face of the moon
between the stars.

enunciating, conversationally
the opposite of yelling at a foreigner
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
self-assured closet nerd
flipping the bird yelling
word
to all my muthafukkas
the late night ruckus causes my focus to shift
drifting aimless I try to digress
but elementary recess memories
have me needing to confess long held secret rendezvous
the south bleacher blues
and clues to what this all means…
obscenely, I expect you to follow
and wallow a while here with me
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
late model Panel, three channels
aftermarket handle, scandal with Randel
and the move that opened the world
girls and shotgun squirrels, two lucky pearls
and the swirly, I’m sorry…
one black eye. the year of fry. crystal **** high
flying over Wah-Chang sludge ponds
drawing power from the universal force and a
pretty smile
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the herd
meeting resistance with distance running
cunningly shunning become a man
planning on dying junked up
canned heat, Sterno and Dante’s Inferno
stomach churning when lacking the black
west coast ****** flunking straight life
lost little girl, I’m sorry…
burnt up rhymer scheming miner
trying to unwind, blindly, but kindly
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the heard
flash fire, perspiring liar in dire need of a sign
crime pile out of style ******* wilding
free range beguiler husting that 20 dollar
wellness balloon
buffoonery…. T’was June, you see,  when it spoke to me
the year before two thousand and three
granting thee
needle freedom
preachy?
Peach Tea?
just like every other fish in the ******* sea………
………………………
…….
only wishing to be heard
while maintain my distance from the herd

This old and twisted thing,
arranged in awry futility
like most lives circumspectly:
 a pair of denims
washed in the Sun,
 a slow laburnum glowering.

face-ovals perfumed with
  the camphor of such departure.
 the hand waving the weight
  of the night's obsidian
    is the love i take in - dull or sharp -
  as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft
      or a waned piston

 this junked engine, wheeled off,
  looming a light-clenched house
 with its exhaust of excess. declension.
   rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk.  heavy like the sudden drop
     of Sunday on the plod of chapels,

  once more into this.

In the ghetto, time and grime,don't hold back, the years or the tears, scream out, in the night, nobody hears or cares, but, I'm still holding on, there are  fears, out here, nobody has  met yet, I'm still holding on,walking city streets,praying that, death,won;t get to me, sooner or later,I'm still holding on,strangled, by the secret wishes,inside, hoping the fake,dreams of smoke, entering the bodies, and noses, I see,don't **** off , the real dreams, of those, not on the pipe, *** being used, to sooth, away each tired,ache or lack, people, being used, to escape, from the ghetto blues, so, I'm still holding on,watching  kids, doubledutch, on sidewalk cracks, lots seeded, with tossed mattresses, junked cars, rotting trash,stray dogs, I see dice thrown down, roller hoping to get lucky, and I'm still holding on

IN the ghetto,time, and grime,don;t hold back, the years or tears, scream out, in the night,nobody hears,or cares, but,I 'm still holding on,there are fears,out  here, nobody, has met, yet, I keep on holding, on, walking city,streets, praying that, death, won't get , to me, sooner, or later, I keep holding on, strangled, by the secret,wishes, inside, hoping the fake,dreams,  of smoke, entering the bodies, I see, and each nose, don't **** off, the real dreams,  that the ones, not on the pipe, being sought, ***, being used, to sooth , the ache, lack away, people, being used, no escape, from the ghetto blues, so, I'm still, holding on,  watching children, doubledouch, on sidewalk cracks,lots seeded, with tossed mattresses, junked cars, rotting garbage, stray dogs, dice thrown down, hoping to get lucky, and I keep holing on

If one has dark skin and is light on the inside
they might be referred to as a coconut.
This is but one example
of how, we as humans,
categorize and generalize
our fellow man…
What is it when you are born white,
raised by SoCal junked-out hippies
(not the flower crowd)
who told everyone during your formative years
if we never discuss politics
or religion
we can be friends……
I was left with my maternal grandparents on some weekends
by these heathens
who happened to be devout
Protestants.
I sat very quietly,
hands folded in my lap
and listened to stories from the bible
and thought to myself
and the tender age of five
“Why doesn’t this god love me?”
“What did I do to Jesus to be forsaken?”
“I am just a child!”
anger followed………
Today, I find myself drawn to a dream
a paternal grandfather
born on a New Mexico reservation
that is completely abandoned
by any living relation,
leaving me to desire connection
to the greatest family mystery
for the Temple clan…….
No amount of reading text
or researching tribal life
can ever gift me
a relationship with an elder,
nothing I can do
will ever make me a part of that culture
and with this complexion,
I may not even be accepted
if I were to try and ask questions……..
this is me, building my own spirituality
with broken pieces
of family history –

In the ghetto time and grime don't hold back
The years or the tears.Scream out in the night nobody hears or cares
But I'm still holding on.There are fears out here nobody has met yet
I'm still holding on. Walking city streets praying that death won't
Get to me. Sooner or later strangled by the secret wishes inside
Hoping the fake dreams of smoke entering the bodies noses I see
Don't off the real dreams of those not on the pipe
*** being used to sooth away each tired ache or lack
People trying to escape from the ghetto blues
So I'm still holding on. Watching kids doubledutch on sidewalk cracks
Lots seeded with tossed mattresses junked cars rotting trash
Stray dogs seen hanging around hot dice nearby
Thrown down roller hoping to get lucky
And I keep holding on

I wish back then there was something
that alerted me of all the danger
We had became best friends
And now we are known strangers

Really it ain't no anger
Just some junked up memories
Of how I treated you right
And you played me like the enemy

Had me thinking you was into me
Feeling me up with promises
But when the time came
I wondered where the promise went

I guess it was my fault
I gave you too much dominance
Told you you had the juice
And it gave you this boost of confidence

You was insecure at first
Then out of nowhere came arrogance
Started looking down on people
And acting like you was better than

Really it seemed better when
You was a lil lame
When the girls wasn't looking
And ain't nobody know yo name

Then when I came
And walked into the picture
All the girls wanted you
Cause they seen that I was wit you

And you went for it
Had me looking stupid
Thought you was my man
And I was ready to fight to prove it

Ready to go through whatever
Just so we could be
Fighting for a relationship
That you wasn't trying to keep

So really it was just me
Holding on to nothing
I threatened to leave
Somehow you knew I was bluffing

You laughed when i started cussing
Like it was all a joke
Ignoring my face being red
And my ears filing up with smoke

i knew it was no hope
I knew i would have to cope
With that hard growing pain
Worrying about what i would lose, not realizing what I would gain

You said that it would change
But it never got better
She did everything to get you
You did nothing to not let her

I was really fed up
With all yo player type stuff
Gave you all i had
You acted like it wasn't enough

When i was ready to leave
You tried to come closer
But you had yo chance
It was already over

The canoe is
Emerging from
The horizon

My dreams,
Are too heavy
For the canoe, and

Should be junked
Into the river,
Before I get in

Soon, I will cross the river
But isn’t it a dream too?

The sincerity of a toothless street woman selling “new girlfriend licenses” can be determined by 2 rotten bananas hanging from the rear view mirror of a truck junked in a muddy field near a dead tree.