Lord I just ask you to guide me, in this pouring rain.
Praying for a change
All I feel is pain..
My life on this earth feels so alone
Everyone I love has met you
Don't have anyone else to hold.
I still don't know why you chose my life to suffer this way.
Broken hearted, ashed out blac & milds, emptied bottles,
Lost in a cycle..
Im praying to be strong, like my mom said
So I'm still fighting.
Living blinded, sometimes I do feel like screaming for help
But no one reached out a hand
When they knew that I fell.
Blessed that I now have an umbrella
To protect me from the rain
Im still holding on
Cause the season has never changed.
No one really heard of this pain
Cause we all sinners
We too focused on the hopes of fame.
But that's just the flick that starts the flame
How could we hold our head up in the pouring rain
One day I shall release my spirit
Into the sun
Then reunite with all of my loved ones.

©MH

I grew up in a village
Americans always seem to laugh
at the very idea of a village
how quaint?
but I did
it was five or ten years behind the times
and in the pub,
the huntsman,
the local
there is an old Marlboro
cigarette vending machine
with lights and menthols
and 27's and reds
and milds and ultra milds
and all the others
I'm too drunk to remember
I miss those machines
bells rung of a simpler time
I miss those machines

A Monday morning in Richmond
     is like waking up with your head
   shaking with commotion.

You pray while you take a dump.
       You end up going across the street to Starbucks,
    with three-sixty left on your credit card.

For some reason unbeknownst to you,
you feel that you're a Renaissance artist,
brought to earth to perform studies on human beings.

Little by little you realize that you're the son of God.
There's a moldy tennis ball in
your pocket labeled: God.

Rap, or is it, Rock music that pumps through your ears?
And you're not afraid anymore.
You start to notice the handwritten facade built around your surroundings.

The State Farm billboards
perched above the scaffolding.
Your nose drizzles with crimson.

Memories of the Christopher Walken Impersonator stains the keyboard.
There is no real difference between the garbage man
and your best friend, the one who supplies you with mescaline.

And the comedown feels like a Indian Monsoon.
Electrocute your senses
until you've turned numb to your baby sister Victoria.

The Toyota Avalon cruising up
the street corner with the yellow high beams
is not the white witch from The Wizard of Oz.

Trip falls.
Inhale smoke.
Speculate more.

Dirigibles in the clear, blue sky plummet down.
You listen to your parents while you're high on *****,
wondering why mom dukes looks like Johnny Depp.

Fingers tremble as you try to type out
a handwritten letter from prison.
You meant to text message your mom, "Happy Mother's Day."

And instead
you typed out to her,
"Happy Birthday Mother!"

Lows and highs permeate through your heart.
Caving in, the walls crush into each other.
That girl was married and you gave her a head start on life.

You stole your best friend's birthday money to buy M. You tell yourself everything
is going to be okay as you swivel in your leather recliner,
A ****** dollar bill jammed up your left nostril.

Long, blue rails dotting the wrinkled notebook paper,
used up from the last owner. You
can't stop coughing.

You throw up on your clothes.
And you start to think that
maybe you are ******* up and you can't stop without an intervention.

Then
you start to think,
maybe this is all in my head.

The cold wind nips at your exposed ankles.
Red sores develop on the back of your elbows.
Local pariah is far away from his hometown.

Your favorite Uncle has stage 4 lung cancer,
and you're chain smoking menthols
to ease the edge that splits your brain in half each morning.

What is struggle without the lost—
without the success on the other side of sanity?
You pop prescriptions to ward off the insects gnawing away at your eyeballs.

Gouge your intestines with a straight edged blade bought
from the dollar store.
Ode to Keroauc.

The unholy manuscript written with pen and needle.
Cool story bro.
But you have nothing, but mistakes to offer to this unjust world.

And earth continues to spin on an uneven axis.
When it comes to a point where fiction and nonfiction
        are void of speculation.

           When it comes to the point where reality and dreams coincide
and you begin to stumble
over your shoelaces that are tied.

When it comes to a point where
               your enemies and friends seem the same that is the point
when you attempt to sleep.

But sleep will always allude you, you Danny Art
          So read your poetry aloud to the unsung.
To the sleepless.

The Walkers dressed in rags approach you,
smoking on black and milds, dark rings
circling their eyelids.  

And the time of night which you so longingly search for
in the face of listening to The Dark Knight soundtrack, gives you a pulse, a sudden click that boosts you into peril.

That bloodstain drenching
the corner of your eye sweats profusely. And that's when you start to wonder:
is everything that I'm doing baked in fallacy and witchcraft?

The comedown.
The comedown.
The comedown.

You are the burden of my fellow constituents, lost in reverie,
gone in madness, forlorn from deeds,
that are too great to imagine.

Your tears mean nothing
in comparison
to the world at large.

And that's okay.
And that's okay.
And that's okay.


You begin to discover,
that you do not write poetry,
but you write greeting cards in a journal.

Or a pen and pad,
ink
and blood.

[ final, before flight ]
learnt through dusty feet
and stomachs growlin’ their
dyin’ growls. days and weeks
with leakin’ roof, and
nature’s bountiful army
marchin’ on and through.
candle-lit synthetic canvas
absorbin’ fired raditation,
*** upon baked ground
starin’ at drunken fire pit –
conversed two hours, and
with dawn one side meld’d
in the dancin’ orange and reds.
walk’d macadame, in full June
the tar bubbled to the surface
and patch’d holed soles –
surfaced skin, turn’d black.
graveyard of gypsum;
burnt out child’s playground;
horse protectin’ territory, or life;
pawnin’ everything not bolt’d down –
death of materialism,
birth of a ******* mentality.
bought Black-and-Milds so to
reroll a few cigarettes,
save wood tip for later use.
save everything for later use,
stash everything for later use.
stab’d in stupidity and
made to mend the wound with
worries of:
   will i use this hand again?
[ C ]
cryin’ for Annie, cryin’ out,
knowin’ she will return without
my concern. knowin’ she’s
probably rummagin’
through some neighbor’s house.
cryin’ out. cryin’ out.
lyin’ down on pallet’d floor,
gettin’ usher’d out so
she could ****.
[ A ]
mouse detectives on VHS,
an awkward glance at left –
all the signs, none of the glory.
misdirectin’ for no reason,
reappearin’ without reason,
disappearin’ for every reason.
[ T ]
road impart’d day’s heat
through all the night, and
moon lit unknown paths.
cryin’ out, peddlin’ faster,
carryin’ weight in
hope at final penance.
no penance.
[ O ]
an artist’s rush,
turn’d paper to masterpiece
with seemin’ lack of effort.
stole heart, keel’d in, cast off to
placebo girl in roomate’s bed.

- - - abrupt ending

Marlboro Menthols, Lights, or Milds
Cowboy-killers, cancer-sticks
Guilty pleasure, a necessary fix
Holding hands with coffee

You get that jolt
Or shall I say relief
Days become more bearable
Courtesy of these,

Alcohol as a 3rd dimension
Aiding in more than just sleep
Take a pull and fill the need
Clear your head for a quick second

Alcohol, caffeine, nicotine;
They’re all I need

Women sit on the laps of drunken men
Each man has claimed his *****
Only one man sits alone
Nursing a bottle of Jack

His eyes downcast and shadowed
Are filled with fire and doubt
A fire that burns sharp and bitter
Much like the liquor in his mouth

Woodsmoke covers the sweet smells
Of *** and Black and Milds
As all fly higher, they care less and less
The energy becomes primal and wild

Slowly they separate in groups of two
Each pair to find a tent of their own
The clearing empties, the fire dies down
And only one man is left alone

Getting Ready
On the go
Doing things
Need a blow

Giddy gaggle
Endless Gags
Toothy giggles
Tongues a wag

Dressing up
Getting down
Goofing off
Clownin round

Pretty girls
Wearing pearls
Dancing Swirls
Fluffy Furls

Blowing Kisses
Giving Hugs
Singing Ditties
Cut a Rug

Buoyant Banter
Flashing Smiles
Bubbly Blabber
Smoking Milds

Shakin *****
Gettin Down
Wigglin *******
Goofy Gowns

Keep a Groovin
Boogie all night
Shake Them Legs
Les Dames et Dynomite

Oakland
8/23/01

Music Selection:
Jackson 5
Dancing Machine

Black and milds
Mask the darkness
Of a cold, rainy,
Starless night.

They fill my lungs
The way that headlights
fill the fog,

Leave bits of Ashes
In the cushions -
Glowing, then gone

Now all that is left
Is a hole in the seat,
And a smell I can't get rid of.

Let a little lonely thrill
careen from Ikea bolt
to Ikea ***** under the thin,
chipped legs of my folding chair.
Let it bolt across the
tabletop like a daddy long
legs when the kitchen light
flips on and hums into
a deflated, blinding brightness
at 3:26 am on a Wednesday in February.

Let a little lonely thrill
find its way past my loose
muscles and blooming skin-
let it melt down into my dankness
and start to sing so loud
that even my sweat radiates vibrato.

I want it to burrow from
ear canals to pastel brain
and flood my gums
after seeping through cheekbone
pores, hostile and sun-stained.

I need to feel it scream
its loud, grisly engine
to life from the parts of me that
might soon spoil.
I'm not moldy but you're
also not yet desperate. (Your checking
account can handle a few more
diner trips and coffee runs
and it's already Thursday.)
With any luck you can avoid
chewing on me entirely this week.

I am (silently, always silently)
begging
those manic hero spirits
that bounce
and rise across every pothole
of every road that my
tires didn't dodge.
(Whether by lack of skill
or lack of will is up for debate-)
I don't want the trails back.
What's the fun of tracing a failed
treasure hunt backwards?
It hurts more than it heals.
It illuminates exactly where each wrong turn
was made, ignored or aggressively denied.

I'll finish this road trip but
I know this whole playlist by heart.
I'm done with truck stop maps
that I can't fold correctly,
that I can't keep from tearing
along the creases.

I'm done with wine flavored Black
and Milds, wooden tip,
bought in boxes of five
or individually with dimes
and ripped dollar bills
stashed in the glove box,
kept there specifically
for the occasional urge to storm
any aspect of myself with concentrated
poison and my lungs volunteer.

I'm done with getting by on
metallic coffee four Splendas
and my white knuckles,
my raw nerves.

I've made it clear I can maintain this
grit that I've been dragging across
the Tri-State Area since last June,
but I can no longer ignore
the constant windburn
on my shoulders, chest
and forehead.
I need to spend some time with my back
to the express lane on the interstate.

I need a break.
I need to let someone else drive for a while.
I need to sit passenger side with
my hair down, bare feet hanging out
the window and lost in a daydream
that is so very far away.
I need to let the sun pour
wide and easy
into my open mouth,
janky limbs finally loose,
the words at the tip of my tongue
hitchhiking on the caress
of slicing traffic.

I'll keep my sunglasses on deep
into the night-
until each lightning bug has kissed me Hello,
Darling. Good Evening,
and it becomes hard to tell a yellow traffic light
from the moon.

I'll just coast. I'll know the salt in my mouth
is the day's hard work cooing at me;
that the sweat of my neck has been absorbed back
into me; stiffening my clothes and curling my hair,
until I'm back behind the too-tall steering wheel,
avoiding tolls and damp again.

Because lately I've been so tired.
I can't see straight to my neon-exhilarate.
I know a little time with my head lolling
again the seat, the window, you,
and a little sip of the landscape
taken for purely what it is
instead of what it's becoming-
will stretch my gut back where
it belongs instead of double knotted
to the tailpipe, waving along, air-drying.

Give me a few hours and I may
nearly forget the slow
burn of that ever-aching ghost light.
I think I'll close my eyes now-
If I focus  all of my energy toward
a mind and body learning
stillness, I can almost feel
a rhapsody at one thousand sun beams.
It's a new day in America,
it's a new day in my bones.

Part I

My body never prepared to run out of air
celebrate it?
I said Send.
I said it again and again. Send.
the world's loneliest flipping machine
withering from your obtusity.
I'm sclerotic.
Yes, yes that's it.

I want to stir you
strike you into soup.
I'll observe the dictionary,
every word will flow from me to you.
Flip, flip off the diver's board,
Blank and Blank by the shore
Color it in, out, up, down
I'm sclerotic.

Remember this, need this
counting people all in pairs:
I saw everything through sixteen vision,
bleary, misted with vanilla yous.
Soft skinned, little girls, hot and milds between their teeth

I don't hunt but I could.
Autumnal again and I'm just repetition
speaking of repressed rage.
Let us analyze the handwriting of every
colleague, drop out, ghost buster,
Coffee house inspired.
I'm sclerotic.

I'm walking through the forest and
you're not there.

Part II

I write because I'll die
I die, I die, I diee.
It's been too long since I went swinging
Missing my pour of moon to the tip top
of my new ceramic mugs.

It's all up for traps
the reindeer, the telltales, the chlorine.
Hyperextended among the cruel cats, where are the cool cats?

REVERSE back to nail polish
I got manicures as a little girl
Staring at my hair now
every shaved bit on my leg is its own waterfall. Hah.

I cry for my beauty
I was told I was wrong with
highlighters, colored ads,
illuminated in the eyes of old dogs.

Take a gulp,
I did and I walked
for every moment I regretted.
I walked.
Childish foolish acts, crimeful commitments.
I said Send. Send.
She said you might not like me but to never fret
you love me.

I'm walking in a tunnel
(Where's the light?)
and you're not there.

Part III**

This is the beginning
of a low-budget film, black and white
this part is when the audience yells
"Someone fall in love already!"

I think there is something truly remarkable about me
(and you)
and the boy who cried wolf and
probably other people
too

I don't want my words to dissipate or fall
into space
disappear in the inners of the web.
I want them to creep in through the crevices
speak to the many as they
walk and see and notice.
I find a strange comfort in swinging at night in
an empty park
and a intriguing mystery the first time someone sighs my name.

I'm swinging in the park and
you're not there.

Black & milds burning my fingers.
I know that it's bad, but it feels so good.
Stress weighing on me heavy.
I talk to God, but, no clear answers.
Tell me what I'm fighting for.
Dear God, if you're up there, tell what I'm fighting for.
What am I crying for?
Hoodie over my head, God, what am I hiding for?...

You spend your whole life trying to be perfect,
Just to find out that you ain't ****.
You try to be the guy that carries all the burdens, including your own,
But you realize you're ill-equipped.
You break everything you come across: glasses, vases, and hearts that are now lost,
Because of you.
This poem is not from my point of view,
But if it was I'd understand why he feels so blue…

You see living in this life, you're bound to feel doomed.
Good things can happen to you, but negatives will still loom.
And people wanna be all close and personal with you and your truths,
But nobody's loyal around here, all they want is your truce;
Not to be cordial, but just to get in on the news,
That's why I choose a lane to pave, and never say when I move.
​But even when you try to be humble,
​You start to  get in your feelings when you hear the slightest mumble.
​And then you wanna rumble,
All along we've been living in a jungle, and I don’t mean no New York.
We in a world and generation where your “homies”’will eat and not bring extra forks,
They will let you starve.
Selfish and self righteous,
Very messy with their moves.
That's why I rarely go out, and my friends, I let God hand pick and choose…

Now the perception is mine.
Hoodie still on, world’s cold, but I'm doing fine.
Black N milds still sitting in the cup holder while I drive,
Formulating lies in case my mom found out like “they ain't even mine.”
“Well why they in your car? You want your lungs get black and die?”
“Man, momma them ain't mine. They must belong to one my guys.”
​Can't erase the unerasable, or trace the untraceable.
​10 times out of 10, all your wrongs will come back to you.
That's why I keep my guards up like Garda,
Because karma’s like that crazy ex girlfriend you can't shake off of you.

I've been finessing the systems.
I've been showing all of the symptoms of a hardheaded BOY that just won't listen,
And think he's a man, and that he can stand on his own to.
And will tell you to your face he never wanted you.
​Counterfeit power.
​Egotistical attitude,
​That is sure to fall through.
Let him fall through…

89 degrees and humid, sunset at 8:30.
Eastern barbeque smokin out in the backyard
the grass is getting lo-o-o-ong, but
it can wait until next Sunday.
iced tea, sweet, sinful tea
and no cowboys in sight.
just Low Drawled Camouflage Men
and Freedom to Own a Gun,
black n milds, porch swings and
mosquitoes turn up in your ear holes
like politicians touting their pro-life campaigns.

cigarette smoke and black n milds
im tired of things that dont matter to me
from a dystopian family
to my unfulfilled being
im sick of things swallowing me
the wind blows and the trees rattle
no stars tonight
but when will i be free
manipulation and guilt
im trapped in walls of 3
family
careers
and who i want to be

It seemed normal enough,
The moment I saw her.
She walked in the store, door chiming as she stepped over the theshold.
nonchalant look on her face
Just killing time really.
I was standing behind the lady at the checkout line
She got closer, standing beside me, asking for singles of black and milds
One rhythm, the other blues.
She was vibrant, letting her voice reign over the cashier ringing items over the scanner.
The sun gave praise to her silhouette, sprouting wings behind her
We made eye contact for a split second
Hair arched behind her ears.
Tight fitted jeans. Jacket stopping at the bounce of her purse.
The sliding door seeming to hold a bit longer.
Her eyes looked right through me, placing a brief hold on giving the cashier my items.
Coke zero, a bag of chips.
I really don't know what made me stop,
Just driving around, nothing better to do.
She was polite, placing one foot in front of the other.
Pausing for a moment longer,
I suppose I was enlightened stepping into her world.
Her back letting the sun through the sliding door.
Paying no never mind to the newspaper and candy littered in front of the register.
Stealing glances of past mistakes as she passed by.
The thing about a perfect moment is that it never lasts as long as it's suppose to.
Exchanging an hello for a sensual look, following the trail of perfume left in her eye.
The over compulsive touch of eyes.
The peace of mind of something out of the ordinary.
The verbal pleasantries of open gestures.
Warm, inviting.
Honestly, speaking never hurt anyone.
Though I was curious if she bit or not

Some one should get some chillies up these saps
they need some sense burned into these soggy brain
some steel in foamy bodies
some lead where it matters
it may blow some heat into these drips and wets
so maturity and reality could flare up
and perhaps they may know what adulthood means

Some one should get some chillies up these saps
all these floopsie woopsie materialization and silliness
no realness, no essence, no passion, no steam, no chutzpah
drop the chips and fries, get some chillies and not the milds
eat daily and watch fire light up in you, your brains come alive
all the slimy hogwash cobwebs singed and fired off
women won't have to beg for attention in beds and idle tools will up
take heed and go get some chillies and learn passion and sense

at my age, still like in my prime and a martini
anytime, anywhere, ready to go and not just once and over
brain as sharp as a golden button, have to down the fire that burns
a stallion  with fire, a scholar with wit, a sage in tune within and out
Years of fine chillies, no alcohol except rarely, skin aglow like youth
fire and passion simmer in calm grace, the inner strength of love
a men of all seasons cause of the seasoning of pure chillies..
not gangling buffoons, with no heat in hearts bodies and souls
and  wilting little sausages they compensate for, in bullying stupidity.

These children sing,
these children dance,
these children laugh.

Lights, milds, plastics.

The tide and the moon guide everything and everyone.
The vultures are repeated in eternal circles.
Everything is a continuous fluid,
from the same sea to the tip of my palms

Joy is breathed slowly.
Especially at night ...

Here peace seems possible