"neighborhoods" poems
I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.
I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.
I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.
I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.
The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
Build me a slow boat to Timbuktu via China
Heave down a fleecy cloud and let me float to Nirvana
Hunt me a unicorn and let me ride to the Enchanted Forest
Find me a giant eagle and let it lift me to Outer Mongolia East
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
Show me a Church and I'll show you a hall full of Sinners
Point out a wife and I'll reveal a liar and a fake and none dimer
Call a Doctor and its a Monster who betrayed the Hippocratics
That Government Boss is a cruel heinous snake without ethics
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
See that Preacher and see a spineless hypocrite back-stabber
That lover was nothing but a sick deranged false **** twister
My dear acquaintance a heartless corrupted shyster unhinged
A Newsagent full of pitiless, gloomy, vile, psychotic joy-suckers
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
That friend of years a bloodsucking Judas who betrayed and stole
Uncles who rained terror with sadistic pleasures in parts unwhole
Show me nieces and find two-faced ******* with poisons in veins
Neighborhoods full of silent killers and Rapists of truthful genes
'please don't me leave here amongst demons with human faces'
A vicars' daughter wielding angst axes better than a viking
The pathetic Moors zombies tearing flesh on masters beholding
The dead-eyed Arabs salivating madly or at daggers drawn
Contemptible Men-kids with pin ****** used as King's pawns
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
Build me a cottage in rolling green fields with blue skies
Find me a fair maiden with a true heart and warming smiles
Show me a place that holds fairness and justice real and dear
A world with humanity we're all sisters and brothers for care
'please don't leave me here amongst demons with human faces'
[email protected] August2018
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
The lines have become blurred
between lawlessness and legal
Shot in mid-air, the American Eagle
the symbol of our freedom dismantled
Big Brother can't handle
the fury of Liberty within the mind
of the time
of those that rise
Neighborhoods are war zones
each house a prison, overhead are drones
So Uncle Sam can listen.
We give up our rights
for our house and lights
Forgetting those who fight the good fight.
Patiently we wait
at the government gate
with a rumbling stomach and an empty plate.
Our words are weapons
that are kept in line
with threats of a fine or prison time
Road blocks or baracades, they're both the same
So government control
can remain.
Shooting an American seems routine
and daily life,
a twisted dream.
War is on our doorstep, just outside
from Big Brother there is
nowhere to hide.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
6.8k
Feared on both land and high seas
Many a tale can be told
Of the pillaging of neighborhoods
Daily setting sail these pirates bold
Days spent digging for buried treasure
Leaving no stones unturned
The pirates ***** was out there somewhere
Blackbeard's gold is what they both yearned
After a day of living reckless
The warm waters would call their name
Where they would do battle in their sailing ships
Perfecting this pirate game
Both of them young brothers
Buccaneers through and through
Wise enough to listen to their mother
When she said get in the tub you two
Yes their high seas are warm bath waters
And their cutlass a mighty scrub brush
As legend would have it in their short years
They are pirates of the tub
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
First, I am from Cassidy
a heritage left behind in Ireland 100 years ago
when a young girl crossed the Pond
Searching for a place in the New World
I am from Sin City
where ungodly saints reign supreme
and the hot summers are barely bearable
Within its glitzy, barren landscape
I am from a Dramatic Family
where music is the main language spoken
where, if you announce you’re left “full,”
Someone will proclaim to be “Fuller!”
I am from Low-income Neighborhoods
where ****** kids have nothing to do
but play hide ‘n go seek
And have ice cube wars
I am from Music
an instrument in every room of the house
with two musicians for parents,
You can only assume on what will become of me
I am from American Traitors and Famous Scientists
Catholics and Musicians,
Military Families and Abandoned Individuals
That’s where I’m from.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
1159
Great Streets of silence led away
To Neighborhoods of Pause—
Here was no Notice—no Dissent
No Universe—no laws—
By Clocks, ’twas Morning, and for Night
The Bells at Distance called—
But Epoch had no basis here
For Period exhaled.
4.9k
Bottom feeders flourish
When the economy's a bust
When bad times are the norm
And good times turn to dust
When neighborhoods go south it's sad
But a sign of their demise
Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up
Before your very eyes
When stores close down or move on out
After years in the same place
Their memory is a radar blip
They leave without a trace
But as fast as they lock up their doors
Another shop moves in
It's the local pawn shop dealer
He's a shark without a fin
Like dollar stores and boarded doors
The pawn shop shows the way
That business has moved on out
Or closed or moved away
They prey on peoples hardship
They broker deals without a care
They don't need to know your history
They just know that you're there
The street has three new pawn shops
Palaces of buy back stuff
It's bad when there is one around
But, three...well that's enough
One opened by the Jeweller
Two doors down across the street
Now he's buying up possessions
Of everyone he meets
Folks who purchased jewellery
From Old Cy at his old store
For each twenty of it's value
The pawn shop gives you four
Cy can't afford to buy back
He doesn't have much money left
And besides his store insurance
Doesn't cover much for theft
The people at the Pawn shops
Took jobs and live in town
They trained two counties over
They succeed when times are down
It's a sign of the recession
Downtown dies and fades away
And then the bottom feeders surface
Their the ones who're gonna stay
You can look in the shop windows
Know who bought what and from where
You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's
And you know who bought them there
The guitar that hangs beside them
That was pawned by Emma Rose
She needed money for the bills
When the fresh fish plant had closed
There's a snapshot of the township
Sitting inside on their walls
They pawn shop is successful
While the economy still falls
You can see a piece and start to cry
For you know just why it's there
There's no one here to help them
There's no jobs and it's not fair
They open up each morning
While the nights dregs still sleep outside
They have done two hours business
Before lights on at Cy's
It's a sad and constant story
Of just what a town's become
But when asked if they've been in there
The inhabitants go "mumb"
They never seem to close up
The town's never make it back
While most places lose money
Pawn shops make it by the sack
The bluesman has some stuff there
The bartender has some too
Even though her bar's still going
She did what she had to do
The street, it is it's own world
Jewelly shops, banks and bars
But inside the local pawn shops
Are hidden all the scars.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 7:54 PM UTC
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
"the Garbage Cans!.......
.....................covet the
Garbage Cans!!"
this was my father's
........... ...."grave advice"
and he was
.........................so right!
I
(moving stealthily!)
thru the rich neighborhoods
KNOWING THE BEST UNGUARDED GARBAGE CANS!
shall remain
.................................well fed and healthy
watching all you others
so simply
.........................die
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 10:10 AM UTC
someone asked why i was never happy
for any notable period of time.
"i need the darkness to appreciate the light."
someone asked why i was never in the neighborhood
anymore.
"i never feel content in one place for more than a day."
someone asked why i was always alone.
"i've been looking for Her."
someone asked if i believed in war.
"i am bored."
someone asked if i struggled with pride.
"i'm on social networking sites."
someone asked if i felt a heavy sense of regret.
"i've gotten over the feeling."
someone asked if i was ready to die.
"no, my head is still full of all the whys."
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC
Running down that Ecstasy Highway
as fast as my little legs can carry me
I'm blind as a bat with ear plugs
But we were both
searching through this night time
skyway
reaching out to touch some one
and be touched.
All the guide books said this is the way,
turn right at Desire
turn left at Oblivion
and head on down
to the
neon lights, you can't miss it
as long as you are riding that
Ecstasy Highway.
I was told
some people find it at the end of a needle
others wait for the drop of the cards
and there are those who throw themselves
off that mountain side cliff looking for the winds to ride.
Some find it laying with you.
I've gone somewhere else I can't describe
made a wrong turn
thought it was a Transcendental highway
maybe
because I've been up and down,
made wrong turns right and left
made a wrong turn
at the corner of Sanctuary and Bliss.
I'd ask directions but there is not a soul around,
smacking my GPS
lost beyond words
with nothing familiar
in
neighborhoods looming
stark cracked out buildings
and
broken street lights
people with apocalyptic eyes
even the cops won't come down here any more
and the only help I've found
the only guide I have
is delusional and lost
though occasionally profound
dressed in piercings and tatoos
and she keeps yelling at me
something about going home to you.
Too tired to go on.
Had lost that bat back at the beginning of dawn
finally sat down at the coffee shop
at the corner
of
Love and Compassion
ordered up some hot self-acceptance
took a breath and looked around
still looking for the way back home.
I know it's just down the road
a stop light or so
maybe there's an on ramp
or a sign pointing out the way
to get back
on that
Ecstasy Highway.
I stopped at a gas station
talked to a guy
who told me lefts and rights
but my eye lids fluttered
fell asleep
right when he told me what I wanted to know
and when I opened my eyes
the station was closed
not a soul around
and I was running down
unfamiliar roads.
So if you hear a small lost voice
in the night
that's probably the sound of me
standing at the crossroads
of
Self-pity and Remorse
knocking at the Post Office
trying to mail these words
at a place that been long closed.
Please give me a hug or two
and send me on my way
if you give me any advice
I probably won't hear a word you say.
You see
I'm trying to make my way
back again
to that
Ecstasy Highway.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
You said: "I'll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally."
You won't find a new country, won't find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You'll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere:
there's no ship for you, there's no road.
Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere in the world.
3.6k
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
So many sellouts claimin' they real when they only want a mass stage appeal
****** swear they be down for the hood? but how while living lavish in the white neighborhoods?
This ***** turned scooby doo ****** where the **** are you? You loosin' ya black views
How the **** you gone say slavery was a choice I remember when you had a voice
Ever since you called Bush out it seems like got drained out
Gallons of blood a spiritual transfusion ***** ya loosin'
Ever since your lips ****** on that white ******* **** **** them Kkkhardashians say it louder once the mic enter my hands enemies get the sweatin' cuz of my verbal weapon
yeah ya been coming out makes me doubt
No wonder why they call you gay fish half of them ******* is really *******
In the celebrity world where boys is girls and girls is boys seduced by the evilness that swirls life ain't about diamonds and pearls
Pandoras box dusty as **** so no need to throw a fit Kanye I got a black polished AK' forty seven ready to send you to heaven
No ladder leaning on a stagger soon to end up a plastic bagger
Coroner's dinner deaths the winner while ya visions growing thinner
**** what ya stand for I take you back through the "wire" throw gasoline all over you then light a fire burning your empire
**** your kids and ya legacy none of us admire
Your coonery I'll crown you with thorns full of barbed wire til your soul transpires
Yeah punk ***** so
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
I say **** kanye **** kanye **** kanye yea yea eeeee
Also **** them white ***** kkkhardashian once again letting you know how they do brothers in
****** go crazy or end up in the pen or another gender trend
**** making friends **** chasin' ends
And if you wanna join kanye ya casket ready soon to be tucked in ....
Night night you ***** ******* die slow
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I've heard of tornadoes
Mangling buildings and structures
Or hurricanes
Destroying landscapes and neighborhoods
Or earthquakes
Splitting the earth in two
But no one told me
A girl with green, wandering eyes
Would be my most destructive
Natural disaster
Mangling,
Destroying,
Splitting
My stomach, head, and heart
Stripping them from my ground
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
It started hot and passionate and blinding.
Then it ran,
ran from me
faster than the alpine highway or
an Afro over your cute lisp.
And a bus leaves for 13 colonies and 14 days and
pictures are all I have.
Colorful but in
50 shades of grey.
Then never a breath from you
on the home front.
And disappointment marks my eyes.
Running all over town with eyes
like video cameras and
minds like a metal detector.
We wish we could be a fly on the wall or a plant in the earth or a new hair on your chin.
All moments,
every moment,
we know.
My fiend.
Detect this on your police detector.
Little blue Honda that looks tan in the sun.
White Camry.
Up the street then back down.
Serpentine through the neighborhoods
hoping to see a familiar body,
but not be seen ourselves.
Every day
till July 15.
Then waving goodbye to an empty house I once knew.
Where I stayed too long and talked too much about nothing.
Too many memories to remember and flash before my heart.
Then I blink and they're gone and we've passed it.
And finally I've mimicked Taylor Swift
and wrote a song about Paris.
And boys in Montreal.
Late hours. Early hours.
All hours.
Spent engulfed in our own music from our minds.
Military men. Marines that cheat and break hearts.
not enough sleep.
Lots of tire on asphalt.
Up and down and up and down and back again.
Not enough French
and a brand new white iPhone.
And the sun sets on another day
and still the one thing I want
doesn't go my way.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Empty classrooms
Filled with sunlight
Vacant stairwells
Accompanied by cobwebs
Busy city streets
filled with
Rushing people
And loud children
Deserted parking lots
With nothing except
Bottle caps
And lonely pocket change
Placid libraries
With abandoned chairs
and desolate books
Familiar neighborhoods
and childhood streets
Thoughts of you
String along with me
Everywhere I go
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
Where is the seat of psychic pain?
Are MRI's made to trace the vein
To neuron neighborhoods
Sealed, yet synapse connected,
One to another
By chain link fences?
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 9:44 PM UTC
Unfinished sentences have become my forte.
Unvoiced emotions have become my norm.
When you see penguins or giraffes,
When you taste pancakes or lo mein,
When you hear josh turner on the radio,
When you drive through the eclectic neighborhoods
Of hilly chilly San Francisco,
Will you miss...
I will always love...
Even though I shouldn't...
But maybe one day...
Yeah...
One day this won't hurt so much...
Right?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
hold the anthill days at bay.
And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.
where the ice piles up
like car wrecks.
And, out of those disastrous angles,
jumps up and trips back down.
Blinking eyelids, right then left.
Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.
Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.
The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
"Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.
And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.
where winds breathe dust
by mouthfuls
So, into our familiar mishaps,
***** up and falls back down
melting into neighborhoods
dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
many blossoms adorn
the neighborhoods in our town
lovely is their sight
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
They'll use Martin Luther King day to sell anything from mattresses to cars.
Even he has been ripped up and replanted,
capitalized, like Christmas or Easter,
by the people who give us images of a white Jesus,
but you bet they don't pay everyone equal.
We have boulevards, schools, and libraries named after King,
but streets over, we have Confederate soldiers carved into a mountain,
we call 'em heroes, that's what I was taught,
the ones who fought, the ones who ate lead,
But, they aren't talking about who really put a bullet in Dr. King's head.
What the **** is wrong with us?
America will go see Selma in millions,
this weekend, go back home to their all white neighborhoods,
thinking about how it was bad then, but now, it's all good.
Who are we really trying to fool?
Stand up for the pledge in school
Put your hand over your heart and forget
all this country denies you
telling you that there isn't a heart of a human beating inside you
because you're gay, you're black, you're not like that,
She was a flirt, she wore a short skirt,
Every day you try to heal the hurt
Justice for all? Like are you kidding me?
There ain't such a thing here as liberty
Do you know where you stand
was Native American land?
Ripped from their bleeding hands
And don't even get me started on Iraq and Iran.
You know that mountaintop?
The one I was talking about,
Did they tell you it was a KKK meeting spot?
Bet not.
I wonder, is the clay here red from all the blood?
We hide our history,
sing promises of liberty,
say that racism ended with slavery,
and it's Stonewall Jackson, he's a hero, they say
but never speak of Stonewall Riots any day
and I'm afraid for our children and what they will learn,
in classrooms, will they be silenced?
Come here kids, let me tell you a story,
of Ferguson, New York, Hong Kong,
about how people will look back and see they were wrong,
But some never did, some died with hatred,
some died because of it,
Let me tell you about homeless LGBT youth
Let me tell you about all these issues
Let me tell you the truth
And there are different ways of seeing it,
but only one way to say it,
you and I both know,
You just have to listen for it.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Spurred on by scarecrow's
chemical coercions
convicts and sick souls
spill out into the streets
To slice dice
cook and eat
An orange jumpsuit army,
a crushing orange wave consumes
The neighborhoods and avenues
Chaos is constant
Carnage is complete
No single hero can quell a wave of madmen
well acquainted with violence
Like an avalanche of razors, and ambulance sirens
Wielding improvised blood letters
And bone snappers
Citizens scream and flee
Consumed by the visions
Contained in the cloud of fear
It is clear
it is going to be a wild time
in old Gotham tonight.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
I have the privilege
Of forgetting my heritage
Because seventy years ago my grandfather rejected his home country
For mine
And a people so focused on not being a minority
That I am no longer considered one
I can move into privileged neighborhoods
Because sixty years ago my grandparents tore a few pages out of their books
I will be hired because fifty years ago my father was born
A parchment colored page
And forty years ago my grandfather refused to teach his son his native language to his son
So he could be privileged enough to forget his heritage
And thirty years later meet a white women
Twenty years, marry her
Seventeen a son
Fifteen a daughter
the color of a blank page
But I will not tear out my pages
Nor will I let them stay empty
I may have risen above my grandfather's homeland
But I will be sure never to forget it
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC