"misdemeanors" poems
A Muslim boy with a clock
Is seen as a terrorist with a glock
Maybe i'm right, maybe i'm wrong
But if he were White, Asian, Hispanic or even Pacific Islander
Nobody would of suspected anything.
When are we going to stop fearing an entire race for only a portion radical and illogical ways of treating others?
I don't tolerate people who behead others if they don't agree with their religion
I don't agree with the repressive governments that control everyone and stone them for minor misdemeanors
There are good men out there fighting this evil that has plagued their homelands
I'm all for ending terrorism of all kinds
But let's stop terrorism of innocents too
Sure, i'm afraid of what the radicals will do to their own people, my people and the rest of the world
But i'll be dammed if i treated somebody from the Middle East like a monster when i don't even know who they are
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern girl
The Syrians girls wouldn't have an improved education
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern man fending off the Taliban and risking his entire village to keep Marcus Littrell alive
He would of been KIA a long time ago.
What about the ones who fought and died for America?
Nobody ever mentions them
The media wants me to hate them all, but i laugh and shake my head
Warped minds trying to warp others
I only see the ones who want to do us harm, and the ones who want to live peacefully and away from a life of hell
Brothers and sisters, just a different culture and skin color
I'm sorry if America seems racist or hateful, but i'm proud to be the one who throws those two words in the trash
Because i'm not afraid to speak my mind
And i welcome everyone here
America is everyone's home.
If only the Soviet Union never invaded Afghanistan
If only the people were not scared
To be free like America.
Unity for all,
Religious differences and Cultures alike.
I hope one day a Muslim man or Woman can walk down an American street without being labeled as a terrorist.
I hope one day these repressive governments fall into the hands of democracy
And we start the Age of Unity again.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
I look at the fractured streets
littered with broken promises
peeling billboards peddling luxury to the wrong audience
the contorted vertebrae of this country's spine
and I mourn
the death of the American Dream.
I see it lying at my feet with every step
like the broken-winged bird from childhood fables.
"Fix me," she wheezes.
I tried once, but it died in my hands.
Apparently,
"The Dream" used to be two cars
but now it's two good fists
the wisdom to know when enough is enough
and the strength to say it.
I was born too late to remember anything else.
Here lies the American Dream,
bruised and battered by those who vowed to protect her
doused in oil and set aflame
by misdirection
misdemeanors
and Miss Universe.
Here lies the American Dream
who was born from revolution
and died in its absence
who waited for a day that never came
who lived long enough to see the fruit of her labor
become a raisin in the sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
#120715 #4:30PM
Just a thought,
To where **everything’s ******
Eyes in leer – flameless –
You are Beauty.
Open eyes, open skies
Open realm, open lies.
White as snow, I was
You’re the apple in spells.
As I lived, I have died too.
With rustic munitions,
You gashed my heart out.
With your circles in hoax,
You murdered me.
A sunless morning,
A moonless night,
An air so humid,
An unsalted oceans.
For in time so impeccable,
Befuddling in misdemeanors,
You’re the Beauty who’s a Beast.
Just in time,
Forgiveness is an erudite.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
The
***tilt of my seesaw
is decidedly downward facing dog:
and there’s no rush to judgment,
for the powers that be,
be delighted by slow-walking,
making the waiting
max-tortuous,
but am of an age when everything,
even the long buried sins and unkept promises, poke and **** nonstop,
and the formulae once relied upon
to ease incipient self-deception,
to temporize and salve the consternations
of unkempt aggravated remorse failures,
as aged misdemeanors be matured felonies,
I blurt and declare guilt to all, alas,
and yet,
always an
and yet
in the ultimate crushing of
tardiness, knotted by an indignity of silence,
no one is desirous
of taking my***
confession
5:10pm
Thu Jan 28
2023
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 3:41 PM UTC
if time could be reversed, like a Tardis can do
if time could be reversed, like a Tardis can do
going back and fixing the mistakes, a clean bill no stains
going back and fixing the mistakes, a clean bill no stains
going back and fixing the mistakes, like a Tardis can do
a clean bill no stains, if time could be reversed
yet the errors repeat, an offender ne'er learns
yet the errors repeat, an offender ne'er learns
atop her head a question mark, why such a silly goat
atop her head a question mark, why such a silly goat
an offender ne'er learns, atop her head a question mark
yet the errors repeat, why such a silly goat
hindsight is a good tool, one can see the results
hindsight is a good tool, one can see the results
past misdemeanors on view, realizing one's faux pars
past misdemeanors on view, realizing one's faux pars
realizing one's faux pars, hindsight is a good tool
one can see the results, past misdemeanors on view
atop her head a question mark, an offender ne'er learns
going back and fixing the mistakes, one can see the results
if time could be reversed, hindsight is a good tool
why such a silly goat, yet the errors repeat
realizing one's faux pars, like a Tardis can do
past misdemeanors on view, a clean bill no stains,
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
The courtroom was buzzing,
Deals were struck,
Before Her Worship
Heard from the docket.
Will Luke be saved.
A line of roguish consorts
All on Legal Aid,
Paraded before Her,
In judical chains.
And the lawyers are asking
About The Game of Thrones.
There are too many cops,
All creased and shiny,
Carrying file folders,
Outling the crimes.
I was a spectator,
Small in my corner,
As Luke went to stand
Before his maker,
Before his deal breaker.
All charges dropped,
As if a matter of course;
Except for the charges
From the laswyer and court.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
I have to admit
That I immediately knew what the media meant
As I grew up I drew out-
Side lines
Meaning kinds when you omit the 'n' so I'm sent
To set askew a few lies, yes my butterfly knife flies like a feather pen oh I've been
A berserker moving farther
Further herding words heard for war it's forward
But since before he was drafted roughly but justly
Just to sink in ink engrafted ****** because he's
Made for brigades who blockade it to shock it
Force it shoot it and make it play its poor music to Bach it
Oh face it, we rock it
The battalion's out there and they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle
Yeah my rabble of stallions, they're rowdy
But of course, off course it is not all Norse my love because
They say the other north
Yeah your horizontal course turned up with a
Tincture of madness
And that is the one, single error and I'm glad of it
If you catch it
Maybe a troublemaker by nature but baby a peace speaker missing demeanor
With misdemeanors when getting meaner
But I practice a bit
In an out-there train re-accident be-
Cause the battalion's out there while they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle rapidly
Yeah my rabble of battle lions rabid
To vaporize vapid rabbits
They're rowdy and
And love is getting much louder than growling it's
It's sounding much louder than growling
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
heartbeat creaks in, out, ladder creaking too--
can you feel it, can you hear the petty voices screaming at you,
can you. can you, can you.
crying out, this is what the water gave back to you:
you never liked her anyway, not the way she got into trouble,
regret doesn’t make someone more dead, anyway,
what’s the rush?
riverbed running dry, what’s the rush?
says, you have nothing to worry about
says, god told me about the paintings, god told me,
says, this is your fault
untucked button-up shirts falling from a fifth floor balcony,
this is what love is supposed to feel like
promising bitten pieces of paper to strangers and other misdemeanors
eating at the cardboard cutout suicide dream
some kind of oasis, or
at least a buried treasure, right?
that’s what we came here for, right?
says, don’t make assumptions,
says, don’t make this harder than it has to be,
says, don’t--
corpse in the river, blonde hair
blue eyes get seven sentences and a memorial
speaking in sentences only churches get to hear
lighting a cigarette and talking about the end of the world
isn’t this what we came here for?
says, what a way to die
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
My roommates and I congregated in our suite's great room and we’ll head out for dinner soon.
“Have you ever eaten dog food?” Leong asked Anna.
“No,” Anna answered, “it smells like chicken - it’s got chicken in it”
“OOO!” Leong pounces, “Busted!!”
“What?!” Anna reacts.
“How would you know that then?” Leong asks, doubtfully.
“My mom told me!” Anna cries, in self defense. “She’s a vegetarian too.”
“Your mom told you.” Leong said, like a prosecutor raising an eyebrow for the jury.
“I just took my last English class,” I report, pony-tailing my hair, “my teacher told me - privately - that my writing destroys.”
“Nice,” Lisa says.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling and grooming with pride, “I thought that was a ballin’ complement and I’ve been riding that high.”
“No doubt,” Anna says and nods.
“My English professor..” Leong says, exasperated, “is driving me crazy, I’ve written three final papers so far and she’s rejected them ALL.”
“Huh?” I gasp, “Show me one!” I demand, wiggling gimmie-fingers at her laptop.
“Here’s a question,” Lisa asks the room, “What would you change about your childhood?”
“I would have never grown up.” Sophy said.
“When I was in third grade, in the UK, a girl in my elementary school, was murdered,” I reveal.
“What?!” Anna says.
“Oh, my GOD!” Lisa gasps.
“Spill” Leong demands.
“Her name was Kennedy,” I begin, “She was in another class, I didn’t know her but I started to imagine that I’d known her. I’d think of her playing on the swings in a yellow dress, in daydreams and in nightmares.”
“I can see that,” Leong said.
“I was flummoxed, at the time, how a family could lose a little girl and a president.” I added.
Anna looked confused.
“I was in third grade,” I replied, ”what did I know?”
“Go ON,” Lisa prompts.
“We heard that she was walking home and got snatched,” I continued.
“Jesus,” Lisa said, shaking her head.
“Although I never walked home, I was careful not to be snatched for a while,” I summarized.
“I bet,” Anna agreed.
“That’s what I’d change,” I said, “Poor Kennedy.”
“People **** Lisa pronounced, and there was general agreement to that.
Apr 29, 2022
Apr 29, 2022 at 1:45 PM UTC
I sell loosies
On the strip
Flipping Jacksons
Into Grants and Benjamins,
Tax-free
At 6 five
And a few stones
Shy of a brick house,
My packs are stashed
Like mousetraps
On the block
Primed with nicotine
Beyond the naked eye
Pieces of me
Bleed broken
Between pores of kohn
Like colored inmates shackled in cells
To misdemeanors
Like selling loosies...
And I need mdi's
To breathe
When the air gets thin
Or when a chiseled arm is locked
Below my chin
For selling loosies...
And I'm kissing cement,
Gasping, "I--can't--breathe!"
On bay street
Bullied by black boots,
Blue eyes
And deaf ears
For selling loosies...
But don't tell that
To my future assassins...
Their sacred blue is immune
To my tainted black.
~ P
#ISellLoosies
(12/13/14)
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
a wishlist ten feet long that says 'make me feel love
make me kiss someone and like it'
but its a bit of a catastrophe and its not gonna just right itself
stars dont care if i shine the same way-
do they?
but no ones got the answer
or they do, a thousand
just have to find myself in the sea of intricate possibilities
(or the river of one- they never say)
yet im not there anymore-
am i?
reborn as a storm id say
there is nothing wrong with the way i dont feel
(they wont believe me; the weatherman says the storm was yesterday)
cut open my heart and youll find
a thousand swirling stars evading constellations
a galaxy of planets revolving around themselves
im a larger than life,
im an immortal-
are you?
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Thoughts touching on a tantric level,
pleasures unfold,
caught in a moonbeam,
ships that drift into a nonchalant harbour of desire,
casting long shadows over a rippling sea,
like a soul caught out of the body,
longing for freedom yet cannot be cast adrift,
circling these incumbent yearnings are the great birds of reason,
awaiting to taste the spoils of our misdemeanors,
yet within this paradox we float on ebony streams of cerebral bliss.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
She opened her eyes
Staring in the ceilling of solitude
No jobs, No bills
Waiting for the time to come
But will it ever?
She does her bath
And attended her gyms
Eats in the cafeteria
Of the misdemeanors
She has the hand of Hermes
Good for pickpocketing and handicrafts
In her other time she has
A shadow she becomes doing tricks and trades
Pro you can say in cards, she had a lot of time to practice
Just like that her youth wasted
An act of atrocity
Leading to an ended road
She sure has a lot of time
But yet running out of
Only what she can do now is remorse
She has freedom
But yet leashed
Only what she can do now is behave
Sometimes
A freedom inside is not a freedom outside
Only then you realize what value freedom has
When you dont possess it
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 6:23 AM UTC
The mindful eye had its hold
My life in tatters all around about to fold
could feel the pressure in me
a kettle on the edge
A mindful eye inside me
wanting me all dead
A thousand helpers with it
To show me all my past
all of my misdemeanors
Fruition here at last
It made me think of what Id done
and left me sad inside
the mindful eye did feed me
feed on all my lies
They say that past is past
and future's here a find
Why is the eye still here in me
leaving me so blind
I want to be successful
Have friends and be all kind
But eye is there inside me
taking all my life
I think I'm mad all over
Or maybe its my time
to hide from all this madness
Leave it all behind .......
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
The cityscape cowers beside the desk
Concrete kingdoms hide glass and brick
The adjacent high-rise hides half the skyline
A hotel sinks in anonymous uniformity.
Twelve lights disturb the chalky colour scheme
Before comfortable sepia returns to greyscale
Fatigued blue lights turn to gold and brown;
Ash to brick, fog to smoke, cold... to warm.
Wreckers creep forward as the crowds shriek,
The brutalists weep the loss of a legacy
As all around marvel at what sits behind
Nostalgia blinds us with the tearing of bandages.
The camera pans right, the dust curtain moves east
The show goes on, the crowd stand amazed
Fallen protagonists cannot hide past misdemeanors
The hero's were in the prelude, not the denouement.
Cranes move in, mile high ladders move beams.
Rebuilding the city to obscure its history
The scars themselves in their mid seventies
The tragedies which bore the bones of fragility.
When bombs rain and recession follows
The buildings we raise are only temporary
Let us thank those who battled their right to exist
Their former glory is now something missed.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
He sleeps
How silently he sleeps
Safe from drunken misdemeanors
Safe from incoherent talk
I think I love him
Second love,
It's unknown territory
It’s the Yukon
Should I leave this alone?
This is unknown territory
Please do not look at my ****** interpretations
Just please, just please answer
And leave it alone
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
i won't tire you
with my constant woes
and misdemeanors
i won't burden you
with my worries
i won't squash you
with my unending need
of confirmation
i won't use you
as a sounding board
i won't turn to you
for comfort
that is short lived
i'll forget you
i'll pretend you don't exist
instead
i'll pack away all my troubles
into the suitcase of my mind
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination.
Winds that billow in bellows of blue balderdash,
that hides these vague souls in the elephant grass,
as white horses run for an unconsecrated pass;
I sit sipping lightning from a small green flask.
I cannot see beyond this collision of cataracts,
sitting in a puddle of Alzheimer's and absent facts,
hard to predict parlor tricks' and posthumous pacts,
metamorphosis of those we ****** on, lies intact.
Veins constricted from catastrophes and contradictions,
synapses sinewed by audacious biannual addictions,
misdemeanors of malicious misnomers and maledictions,
breathing in the beneficent bleating of benedictions.
Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Now that it’s finally safe,
Now that Breaking Bad
Has wrapped for good,
And Albuquerque is
Safely free of Mr. White’s crystal ****
That chemical perfection,
That awesome Blue Cook—
As it was known,
Known far & wide,
In the drug trade.
But I digress.
I return at last to New Mexico.
The so-called Land of Entrapment.
I slink back, decisively
To that island of Diversity,
Mutual Respect & Mañana.
I return to the scene of so many crimes.
Not to mention, misdemeanors.
“SMACK,” he’s back.
It’s that crazy **** himself:
The undeniably indomitable,
The late, great Soupy Sales.
Reminding us still,
Telling us, again, specifically,
Not to mention.
I am sitting in a brand new house
In Bernalillo, New Mexico,
Only 15 miles from downtown
ALBUQUERQUE.
Another Over 55,
Gated, golf-coursed
Lunatic asylums
(FOR ACTIVE ADULTS).
I am starting to repeat myself,
An early Alzheimer warning sign,
What do I expect to find here?
Life secluded,
Quiet days,
Getting quieter every day,
As strangers friends & neighbors
Pass on to what Hamlet called
“ . . . the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country,
From whose bourn
No traveller returns . . .”
To a mind-set,
Decidedly focused on the children
I will soon leave behind:
“$15 thousand bucks
To stick his crusty ***
Into a dusty,
Musky box of knotty pine?
(Muskie? The Senator from Maine
Who broke down & cried.)
No way, Giuseppi.
Cremate the crazy SOB!
Cook him.
Nuke him,
Titanium implants & all. Let
Infrared rays do their work,
Arc lighting a late February
Coronado golden New Mexico evening sky.”
Here I sit.
I am listening to
“Sentimental Sinatra.”
Vintage 40s stuff:
Bobbysoxers & WWII.
Once again, I strain for understanding.
Mom & Dad:
Perhaps their music, like ours,
Is a perceptual doorway?
Perhaps my children will someday
Take the time for careful scrutiny
Of why their father was the way he was.
My 65-year old, pensioned-off ***
Behind the gates,
Locked within the asylum.
Our parents;
Our children:
Be they ever inscrutable.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
is that hemlock with your words
numb and nice wisdom demolished
one sip
gone into Hades
where flatlines collect
irrespective of consequence.
is that your tail
behind my back
checking out my misdemeanors
collecting the wild oats
that I sowed
in silicon valleys?
don't mistrust me
i paid the price of hell
to be here in this paradise
fishing for jonah
and
the great whale.
come let us lay together
in this poetic swamp
encapsulate
our doubts in tupperware
tightness, move on into
no explanations required.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
My love was a fire that burnt the edges of my book, spreading to the binding, then from the inside, the flames licked outwardly toward my breath, filling my lungs until black was all that was left.
Ashes brushed aside. I stood with crusted eyes that questioned the surmise, to my late arrival.
Reprisal programmed in the map of my survival, vital to the plans for standing, and rejecting everything I've known, and i have grown in the pain, that has formed my strange demeanor.
My felonious ways, plead behind misdemeanors, for the leaner sentences of my commitments to commence upon the trenches of sheltered fakes, measured, divided, and placed in places to judge the taste of my waste.
Be my guest.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
I wish I were a *******
A ******* in both senses,
No father to be embarrassed by,
Worse still to understand,
No consideration care nor conscience,
Go where I wish,
Do what I wish,
When where how and to
Or with who I wish,
But although I'm called
A narcissist by those who
Did but a minimum research,
And that with biased filters too,
It is precisely my non-narcissisticness,
If indeed that be a word,
That leads to many if not all
My misdemeanors,
So yes I wish I were a *******
For a me free of conscience
Would far closer conform
To the norm
Of society,
And then although I
Would have hurt some,
It would be spread about a bit,
Not all at once
Nor now
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 7:05 AM UTC
Three thousand children
That have no home.
Three thousand children
Are suffering alone.
Three thousand children
Whose parents suffer
Three thousand children
Missing their mothers.
How many children
Do we now have to feed
When the president said
They’re all bad seeds?
How did these babies
And these adolescent kids
Get accused of what they
Nor their parents ever did?
How can a country that
Brags it’s the land of the free
Perpetuate such a craven
Too Nazi-like villainy?
It squanders public funds
On bogus personal causes
Then hides it's thievery
Inside twisted legal clauses.
Three thousand babies
Locked up like animals
Inside pens like Dobermans;
And they are the criminals?
Their parents broke laws
That are just misdemeanors
So, they are beaten and then
They’re taken to the cleaners?
Meanwhile their children
Are kidnapped and hidden
By a Justice department that
Does the evil they are bidden.
That this kind of sick behavior
Exists in our country’s name
Is more than just our personal,
It’s also our national shame.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
You think I want to be this way?
Lonely, afraid and depressed.
The muted light cannot shine through the window anymore.
You think I blocked it out.
So I'm asking for it then?
According to you, I'm petty and whiney
Like a lost dog or a child.
And speaking of children,
It was my fault that he touched me then too.
Seven years old, but yet, I should have known better.
As if by some gift of God, I'd know to resist.
These are the elixirs society has force fed me.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC