Kailangan ko lang ilabas kasi nakita ko tong picture sa Facebook. Inaamin ko madalas sumasayad sa isip ko to. Sino ba naman ang hindi maiisip to kung marealize mo kung gaano ka kahelpless at powerless na baguhin ang paligid mo. Sino ba naman ang hindi makakaisip na baka may mas magandang lugar para sa ating lahat na kung saan masaya tayo. Yung feeling of guilt kung bakit ako nasa loob ng kotse, naka-aircon tapos may batang kakatok sa bintana mo at siya ay walang makain, tapos pag inabutan mo magsasabi padin ng "Thank you po.", sabay bibili ng sundae sa Mcdonald's. Tangina lang diba, kasi bata lang din sila at gusto nila maenjoy ang buhay. Tapos, magmaneho ka lang sa Quezon ave, may kakatok sa bintana mo humihingi pagkain or limos. Tingin ka sa Quiapo may mga matatandang nanlilimos, tapos, masayang masaya pagka binigyan mo ng pagkain, nakakaputangina. Nung nag Davao kami, yung mga nagbebenta ng perlas dun alam **** isang kahig isang tuka ang buhay nila, isang tingin mo lang alam **** sobrang hirap ng buhay. Nakakagago pala talaga ang pakiramdam ng pribelehiyo no? Kasi andun ka lang para mag lamyerda at gumastos ng madaming pera. Yung feeling na nagiinstagram ako ng walang kakwenta-kwentang bagay tapos may namamatay sa gutom sa ibang lugar, may naaabusong ofw sa middle east, yung mga nasa Mindanao napapagitnaan ng gulo. Yung nakikita **** sales lady sa SM na alam **** todo kayod para kumita ng pera sa Maynila pero tangina hindi nabibigyan ng tamang benepisyo at kontraktwal padin. Ang swerte ko. Ang sarap ng buhay ko. Sa sobrang sarap, napakaunfair na at nakakagago na dahil di ko din masabing ayaw ko ang buhay ko, pero ayaw ko din ang mga nakikita ko. Ang labo no? At bilang isang ordinaryong tao, wala kang magagawa para matulungan sila na maglalast sakanya. Hanggang abot ka lang ng barya kasi di mo pwede isacrifice sarili **** kapakanan para sa iba. Dahil ganun na ang mundo ngayon, sarili ko muna bago iba. Pero masisisi mo ba yung pagiisip na ganun kasi may kanya kanya tayong mga problema na dulot ng pagiging myembro ng society? Duwag tayong lahat. Duwag na tumulong sa abot ng makakaya natin kasi takot tayo na baka tayo naman ang mapunta sa ganung kalagayan kapag binigay natin ang lahat. Tulad ko, pasuicide suicide pa pero duwag akong gawin, hanggang sagi lang sa isip ko, tangina ko eh no? Dahil yung nakakatulong lang talaga yung may tunay na tapang. Katulad ni Mother Teresa ang daming tinulungan at inalagaan, pero ironic dahil nawala ang paniniwala nya sa Diyos dahil sa nakita nya nasobrang hirap na dinadanas ng mga taong inaalagaan nya. Putangina ng Mundo. Bakit ba tayo nandito? Pagtapos nito balik na ko sa normal. Tangina nyo.

Make-ups
Break-ups
Dates
Make up
Limos
Hair
Hair Spray
Tuxedo
Dancing
Crowns
Gowns
Kings
Queens
Prince
Princesses
­Fun
PARTAAAYYYY!!!!!!!

Magrasang damit ng batang madungis
tyang gutom at katawa'y malangis
palaboy-laboy sa eskinita
pagala-gala sa kalsada
uupo sa sulok may katabing lata
limos na inaabot ang lata
sa mga tao nagmamakaawa
para makakuha kahit kaka-unting barya

Paglipas ng hapon at pagsapit ng gabi
walang paligo at katawa'y makati
ang naipon nyang pera
kulang kulang sampu ang halaga
di na matiis ang gutom nagkalkal ng basura
sa tagal walang makita
nainip,
nakatulog,
nahiga,
ang naipong barya
idadagdag nalang bukas sa lata

a ****** of crows gathers
over Hamburg, carrion carrying on
with business as usual.
feeding on the festered flesh
of a gentrified populace.

in private jets coughing carbon
they fly from the west on turbine wings,
engines screaming as they dive towards a nation
secured by razor-wound walls
and barb-wire borders.

they pitched a battle in Germany,
convinced that austerity
would ******* the resistance
and give justification to premeditated violence.
but the tables have turned on the thieves again.

we are the end result of your failed policies,
globalization has destroyed our homes.
if your cabal rallies like a kettle of vultures,
you will do so behind closed doors,
cowering in your fortress' halls.

you shall not pass. watch as the power shifts
like the melting gears of torched BMWs.
we will tear the vestiges of your authority down.
we will black out your surveillance cameras,
smash your windows, and block your limos. no pasaran.

flee, while you can still run. this city belongs
to the wild ones, a black bloc, thousands strong,
dancing amidst the tear gas, tossing molotovs.
marching to liberty's sturdy drum,
equal in our solidarity song.

A quiet life
A country life
Where the grass sways in the breeze
And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights
A far cry from the city
Gone are the endless vibrant lights
Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts
In this place of air almost too clean to breathe
They stroll
A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign
Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first"
Fast feet and hot dog carts
Italian ices on every corner
Fifty-six blocks to a destination
A world of choices
A billion footprints at a time
Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose
Everyone is invisible and naked at once
The green haired freak and the business man
The limos and the gypsy cabs
The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities
The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers
A hundred miles for supplies
Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun
Soot filled pores and too much traffic
Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities
Crickets and junebugs
The world closes at eight
Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell
The slow pace of growing grass
The warmth of a winterless Summer
Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts

Deception wearing the mask
of a kind face sowing dreams,
roamed for too long these towns,
around the globe,
that erupted with mortal force,
deciding at last enough is enough.

moneybags having stone faced elegance,
in place of heads, travel in their stretch limos
in the company of swindler princes,
wizards in money juggling

at the foyers of seven star hotels,
where the false suns dawn
at sunset blackening out truth,
they stepped to the tunes
holding hands of power,
the beauty without a heart
goes around with the plastic mask
that transforms according to the stage.

they who charm you with
glib talk and usurp power,
at favorable climes
jump upon unsuspecting
hotel maids, like
resurrected ghosts of vampires.

Every street is dark
with heaped carcasses
of hopes, birds died
at their flight, in ways mysterious,
falling in thousands,
in front of the stunned faces,
of lovers, husbands, wives,
families are looking distress
on the face, every passing day.

The octopus sitting at his
secret castle in water pulls string,
continues winning spree,
as no one raise their voice.

Not any more;
the waves of people,
seething with anger would lash,
against the citadels of evil empires.
The rebel forces have their cause,
this war, the eruption of masses,
will gather momentum, they won't lose.

There will be no service and no luncheon
when you “now” becomes a “Then”
Just a dignified cremation
awaits at your Journey’s end.
There will be no spoken eulogy
By a priest who knew you not.
No crying yapping relatives-
For none had you begot.
There are those of us
who’ll shed a tear,
to think the old Girl’s passed.
but there’ s no need to wear a suit
Or get the Limos gassed.
You’ll have passed on in your sleep
Having felt the needles pinch.
A far more humane fate I think
than dying by the inch.
Brownie was a good dog
And often gave me her paw.
She always got excited
when she saw me at the door.
A better pet you couldn’t get,
Nor meet a gentler soul.
I’ll shed a quiet private tear
when I put away her bowl.

The kids want nooks and Kindle Fire,
The teenagers want Limos on hire,
College grads are busy on Tablets and I pads,
Laptops for moms and DSLR's for Dads!
This Christmas things are going awry,
Fettucine has replaced Mashed potato and gravy,
Hence Ol' Santa's gone really techno savvy,
He's exchanged his deer for a brand new Ferrari!!

we can paint this whole city gold like a giant oil spill,
blinding and much much heavy on your tongue
and enlist a gleaming marching band whose buttons are falling off,
the tuba player is a gum chewer, there are mint chunks caught inside, barely playable
all she can do is honk
we’ll get limos with cracked windows and yellow fire trucks,
with flat left tires
acrobats in risqué costumes that little boys will point and giggle at
with sick clown faces, sick clown faces white, 7 or 10 layers of powder
and people from the slums of Uganda/Somalia/Niger or something, poor areas won’t be hard to find,
foreign tenants who live in dirtied-down shacks and
we will release from plastic cages, doves that have lost their pure color
that have been injected with toxic who-knows-what to be captured
hookers with big hair from the streets of large cities, they will blow kisses at the children and
wink at grown men
pigeons will **** on the windshields,
and the air will be so thick with pollution and filth that no one will be able to see
the deflating balloons of Mickey Mouse.

it will be The Biggest Parade the-world-has-ever-seen.

I wonder what this world is coming to
When we have to overcomplicate everything
All I hear on the TV of late
Is ‘bare craic’ as my northern Irish friend would say –
“I can’t understand this  credit crunch,” she said
Poignantly, (neither could I) “I think I’ll take
A dander down to the shops.” And so she did
We were out of milk
And living off salami
I picked up the paper
And I realise nothing is without a price
Or a fate
They are the two certainties
So is death
And the price is not so hard to see either.
The American bigwigs sit round a table
Complaining what is to be done about the financial crisis?
Each eating a $16 dollar muffin with their $8.48 coffee
Wondering where oh where can money be saved?
And they’ll get back in their private limos
Drive past their second addresses
Back down to Bel-air
Lock themselves in their villas
Count their bonuses
And sleep happy
After doing jack ****.
While Greece is going down the crapper.
I can see the solution
Can you?
Or is it just me?
Or can you see it to?

There are pretty girls getting limo rides with rich men smiling by their sides
while I am singing with flowers between my teeth like romantic swords within a sheath.

I see their pretty eyes fill with city lights.
So very bright... so very bright...
But the gutters are hidden just out of sight and the rats are crawling through the night.

I am riding my bike between the trees while, in my mind, I'm on my knees with sadness at the girls in limos never knowing what will come when the sun goes down and the rats come out to feast...

I am the boy waiting on the beach watching the girls in the city but when the lights leave their eyes and they turn around,  I won't be there anymore.

Limos off the road,

stripes of gloss paint in the dust –


write how it has been.

left to right,
all looks the same to me.
as far as the eye can see,
a cadre of thieves
waiting for their chance.
when our vigilance slips
they'll kick the chair beneath our feet
and leave us hanging
from the bows of a willow tree.

if ever there was a time
to smash windows, burn limos,
and punch Nazis, the moment is here.
you fancy yourself progressive
yet here you sit on your hands, regressing,
playing the hand you've been dealt.
did you forget the deck is stacked?
the House always wins.

it's time to flip the table over.

toss their rule-book in the gutter.
a clenched fist is not just an image
you stick on a protest sign
to appear edgy. the movement
for gender equality is not an opportunity
for you to get laid. fighting the State
is not a weekend getaway.
carve the reality into your thick skull:
people are dying.

don't you see? they want us divided.
we're easier prey that way.
if they demonize the anarchists
and socialists then they can make
the liberals feel safe. "don't be violent,"
they say. "comply. obey. and we'll mete out
just enough concessions to keep
your guilty conscience assuaged."

if we fail to hold their feet to the fire
they'll throw us in the ovens.
the fascists will drag us out
behind the chemical sheds,
pull a burlap sack over our heads,
and won't stop the firing squad
'till we're long dead.

will you sit idle and watch
them drag us away? or will you
get aggressive, stand up to the State
and say, "not today."
don't be a passive participant
in your own arrest. the human mind
is omnipotent, an emancipatory instrument.
we have to begin
imagining a world without gods and masters,
envisioning what it means to be truly free.
resist the corpulence of false democracy
and make the prefigurative dream
our new reality.

Through my eyes everything seemed perfect
everything is luxurious
through my eyes i saw
the Waldorf Astoria
continental breakfasts,cruises,jets,limos
All i saw are  expensive watches,sun glasses
the best of everything
but what i couldn't see was
the famines in Africa
the wars in Syria and Afghanistan
the everyday killings,kidnappings,heists
I was surrounded by luxuries
blocking out all the evil
I was surrounded by an army of guards
I never realized
that they weren't paid to follow me,
they were there to protect me
but i never appreciated them
their bravery
and in a blink of an eye
I HAD LOST EVERYTHING
and suddenly
the people in Africa were eating
the wars ended
the killings,murders,heists were being controlled
and everything through my eyes were
mud houses,donkey carts,torn clothes
boiled potatoes and peas
and the rich people who enjoyed all the things i once had

The lens of the camera shutters.
Paparazzi mutters & shouts, camera crews clutter.
Screaming your name.
In awe of your presence.
To get a piece of your famed essence.
Magazine photo shoots you for the cover.
Photographers stare & hover.
Fashion photography or obscene *******.
Best eyes, best hair, best clothes or best bare.
Best lips or best hips.
Fashion victims & icon vixens.
Dressing room trailers for hair, makeup, & wardrobe.
Traveling for pictures circling the globe.
From actresses to recording artists, producers & directors.
From television & big screen projectors.
Velvet, lace, silk, or satin?
For divas white, black, or latin.
A flowing gown with fans all around.
A populated town with limos surround.
Hands, feet, & autographs splash with rain.
Thee walk of fame on it has your name.
Your aura has potential & appeal.
To worship, adore & kneel.
A red carpets beneath your heels.
Life,  fame, success, wealth is unreal.
Happiness & joy you can feel.

Cuerpo de la mujer, río de oro
donde, hundidos los brazos, recibimos
un relámpago azul, unos racimos
de luz rasgada en un frondor de oro.
Cuerpo de la mujer o mar de oro
donde, amando las manos, no sabemos,
si los senos son olas, si son remos
los brazos, si son alas solas de oro...
Cuerpo de la mujer, fuente de llanto
donde, después de tanta luz, de tanto
tacto sutil, de Tántalo es la pena.
Suena la soledad de Dios. Sentimos
la soledad de dos. Y una cadena
que no suena, ancla en Dios almas y limos.

EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.

HONOR                drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.

APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
                                flaking off.

CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.

TRAGEDY            rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
                                under the hood.

BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
                                traffic.

POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.

ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
                                yellow.

BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
                                hubcap.

PANIC        races in the family car where panting and blowing
                              isn't helping.

HAPPINESS       drives almost anything with a baby in the back
                              seat.
                    

MACHO ­       drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
                               his ego.

MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
                                hip-hop star.    

PRETEEN       rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.

YOUTH      hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
                             down.

MIDLIFE CRISIS  rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.

OLD AGE    drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
                           won't fit in the parking spaces.

LOVE   floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
                          need of wheels.

ljm

the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.

The cassette player

would sit on the cabinet shelf.

Cassettes were tiny

objects

of mysterious mechanics.

I’d play her over

and over,

daydreaming

about the recording studio&bottled; water

from a foreign country,

about Manhattan avenues&

stretched SUVs,

Lincoln limos fur coats

the flavor of the nineties.

I’m walking the avenues

today.

The same steam as in 1999

blowing up from manholes.

I own these streets

today

with keys to an apartment

jingling in my coat’s pocket.

I came from afar,

I played with words,

and made it here.

El hombre de estos campos que incendia los pinares
y su despojo aguarda como botín de guerra,
antaño hubo raído los negros encinares,
talado los robustos robledos de la sierra.
      Hoy ve a sus pobres hijos huyendo de sus lares;
la tempestad llevarse los limos de la tierra
por los sagrados ríos hacia los anchos mares;
y en páramos malditos trabaja, sufre y yerra.
      Es hijo de una estirpe de rudos caminantes,
pastores que conducen sus hordas de merinos
a Extremadura fértil, rebaños trashumantes
que mancha el polvo y dora el sol de los caminos.
      Pequeño, ágil, sufrido, los ojos de hombre astuto,
hundidos, recelosos, movibles; y trazadas
cual arco de ballesta, en el semblante enjuto
de pómulos salientes, las cejas muy pobladas.
      Abunda el hombre malo del campo y de la aldea,
capaz de insanos vicios y crímenes bestiales,
que bajo el pardo sayo esconde un alma fea,
esclava de los siete pecados capitales.
      Los ojos siempre turbios de envidia o de tristeza,
guarda su presa y llora la que el vecino alcanza;
ni para su infortunio ni goza su riqueza;
le hieren y acongojan fortuna y malandanza.
      El numen de estos campos es sanguinario y fiero:
al declinar la tarde, sobre el remoto alcor,
veréis agigantarse la forma de un arquero,
la forma de un inmenso centauro flechador.
      Veréis llanuras bélicas y páramos de asceta
-no fue por estos campos el bíblico jardín-:
son tierras para el águila, un trozo de planeta
por donde cruza errante la sombra de Caín.

neither your helipad nor your limos
neither your huge country mansion
nor the famed cellar of vintage wines
in your basement world of wonders
neither your wild and loud wardrobe
nor your collection of fancy silk ties
when it matters most in this world
can make any real difference for us
in our assigned bits of rugged terrain
your fabulous diamonds and rubies
and your green emeralds and pearls
are no more than mere shiny trinkets
before the warmth and camaraderie
exuded by those who still can smile
and still can laugh a deep hearty laugh
in this world of sordid corporations
shady conglomerates and mega deals
you had better be on the lookout for
smooth operators and suave conmen
with fads, facts and figures to sway you
these are the hyenas of today's world
and they will always dissemble if it pays

Just one bonnet babe
A bonnets a hat
Wear two if you can't choose
No
Those shoes don't make you look fat
The earrings are nice
So wear the diamond ones in your left ear  the pearls in
The right
No I can't see any ***** line
OK the limos outside babe
Yes that gator purse goes well with your hose
I love fishnets
No I don't like the ones
Your sister wore last night
I didn't even notice
Can we go sweetheart
The limo driver says he has to get gas
He can't idle all night
Yes the kids will be fine with uncle Marv
And aunt Bess
I did I did remember to write down all the numbers and give them to Marv and Bess yes especially 911.
I wrote it real bold in black marker
Its gonna be a blast baby
If we ever get there its only the celebration for our second months anniversary.

Rock And Roll Memoir

It was too **** loud
I never liked Bobo
our first drummer
            or
was he the third?
The riffs?  Stolen.
Lyrics written
by a callow youth
still torment me
to this day like a
                                            s
                                     w
                                                a
                               r
                                                     m
                                      of
                          b
                                        e
                                                    e
                                    s
My obituary
a bit of boilerplate
written by interns
at Rolling Stone
lays waiting
patiently
for the call.

I don’t remember
      in any particular
   order
the origin
                                             of the band name
                     the outcomes  
                                                   of
                                                             the lawsuits

                                            what happened
           in Houston


penning “Love Carburetor”
                                                                             on the bare
***

                                   of a groupie named Skyyy

                      

           writing
                    a song cycle

                                           about the Laps                      
riding  
  
                                 in ambulances
           limos


helicopters

or

                                                                                     punching
Bill Graham

on the sidewalk
                                                               in front of

                                                  the Fillmore                                
                                                                                                    


                                                                                                    East.

If you say
we played Farm Aid
twice, well
I guess you would know.

I can’t ****
standing up
or hear a word
you’re saying
and my doctor says
we must get
a handle on my liver
before we think
about replacing my
knees
hips
corneas
heart and lungs.

But I’m booked
to a ten night stand
at the Beacon
with the New York Philharmonic
performing our first album
in its entirety
with our original bassist Ian
somebody or other
plus interviews
on Fresh Air and Morning Joe
to promote a concert
film by Jim Jarmusch.

The Poet
©Mark Maysey (1991)

Down on the corner of Highland and Odin
Not far from the Hollywood Bowl
I Met a man with a sign that poetically rhymed
And he wasn’t but forty years old

He said you may not know it, but I am a poet
And for a token I’ll write you a rhyme
He said my pockets are bare
So please show you care
And soon he wrote me these lines

Down on Odin street
Everyone’s lonely I meet
Though we’re birds of poor feathers
We all flock together, down on Odin street
There’s outcast preachers and out of work teachers
And building with old weathered doors
Someone’s Grandmother
Some guy that calls me brother
And Veterans of foreign wars

He said he once had a good life
Had himself a good wife
Limos and first class he’d fly
Now it’s cardboard condos
Old cars with bondo
And strangers that quickly walk by

Well I thanked him for his rhymes
With nickels and dimes
He was grateful and he bowed his head
And with nothing more to say
He slowly turned away
And he walked to another and said…

Mr. You may not know it
But I am a poet
And for a token I’ll write you a rhyme
He said my pockets are bare
So please show you care
And soon he wrote him these lines
Down on Odin street
Everyone’s lonely I meet
Though we’re birds of poor feathers
We all flock together, down on Odin street
There’s outcast preachers and out of work teachers
And building with old weathered doors
Someone’s Grandmother
Some guy that calls me brother
And Veterans of foreign wars.

Have you ever heard of poets
Being superstars
Riding round in limos
Groupies by the score

All the ones I know are famous
Have been decades in the grave
Maybe that's why I have a hard time
Even giving my poems away

Why I can rhyme with the best of them
What have they got on me
I also want all the fans I can
Throwing themselves at my feet

I hear that Edgar Allen Poe
Had a goth ******* the side
And romantic William Shakespeare
Had women chase him all his life

And even that meanie Bukowski
Still has those drooling over every word he has to say
And little ole me out here in the weeds
Can't even get the time of day

Let alone get a single one
To even look at me
It's a lonely life when all you do is write
It all out in poetry

Perhaps a lasting catchphrase
Where they'll all remember me
"To me to be or not to be only through death will I succeed"
When it comes to poetry...

Hinge'ing on huffing
Puffs Oh Henry
Don't flip your lid
H is for Happenings hot
For hire,
Party Bus Limos
With the scantly attired
Oh Henry did you hear?
Oh dear, you lush
Don't flip your lid
H is for hush
Hinge'ing on your lips.
Hey Y'hear me?