I grew up in suburbia-
With picket fences as white as the faces
Who say they're godly enough to save babies
(As long as they're not queer)
Because we don't have to live with the fear
Of corpses lining the sidewalks
Of our perfectly landscaped yards
We have no guards firing on peaceful protestors
Because our children are filed into orderly lines
Laid out for them at birth
But for what it's worth, we teach them of racism
From a white textbook that lies about founding fathers
Where segregation is just a word and
Oppression is hardly even mentioned.
Our children, who play at the age of 6
And lose their innocence at the age of 16
Suburbia is a life of it's own,
Gangly arms and legs
Like the teenagers who starve themselves
And steal their parents liquor
Just to get drunk quicker
Ignorant of those on the streets dying of hunger
No wonder I yearn to be far from this hell I call home.

Allen Ginsberg once said
“America I’ve given you all and now I am nothing”
The Wonder Years once said
“Suburbia I’ve given you all and now I am nothing”
But I’ve found fallacies in both of these,
I feel it’s more like
Suburbia I’ve given you all
And now I’m an awkward 20 year old
Who doesn’t know how to talk to black people
Suburbia I’ve given you all
And now I’m way too confident walking around the city at night
Because I forget there are communities
Where people actually have to lock their doors,
Suburbia I’ve given you all
And now I have a 16 year old brother
Who thinks the word *** and **** jokes are funny
Suburbia I've given you all
And now my father hates that I'm for gender equality
Well dear daddy,
I hope this offends you.

Because I am offended
By a community that tells **** victims they were asking for it
I am offended by a community
That tells my best friend Liam
That he's just confused, that
His love for Adam is an abomination
I am offended by a community
That offers equality as thinly veiled oppression,
With houses decorated in the decadence of degradation,
All the while their perfect sons and daughters
Are dying of depression because
The hilt of a gun is so much quicker
Than the drugs of their addiction

Suburbia, you are the seed of suicide
Feeding off of your violent silence,
Your white fences slice our tongues
And leave us mindless.
Suburbia, you have betrayed us.
Taught us ignorance is bliss with
Algebra instead of how to do taxes,
Spent more time worried about
Girls' shoulders instead of *** education,
Taught me not to speak unless
My hand was raised as if praise
Is given to authority without question,
Funny how they forgot to mention
Our country was founded on rebellion.

But suburbia, I forgive you
And so I humbly ask of you,
Find the keys of compassion within the heart and
Shed the lock of ignorance that grips your mind
The door may be rusted but it can open with time
Suburbia, I beg of you
Join us in the war of love
Let us all raise our fists and
Paint peace signs on our wrists,
We are disobedient dandelions swaying in the sun,
Words of kindness rolling off our tongues
Like pacifistic shots of a gun
Firing respect instead of rounds
And burying hate instead of bodies in the ground.

(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)

When we make time,
When we listen:

The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)

When we have time;
Then we listen:

The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)

When we find time,
Do we listen:

The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)

Just don't.

Look.
Some tic reset the clock.

There’s a battle raging through my head,
So much that it knocked me off my bed.
There’s a war raging through the thoughts;
Diverse and dismayed neither I can sort.

Haste is the time that spent wasting
Entertained by such pacifistic maiming.
Ideating the norm and realizing the storm
had just started as I shut the squirm.

Conscience speaks the threat at hand,
the head does not agree the time it spanned.
Where there are more things on heaven and earth;
there are more dreadforth than my brain sports.

The enemy lurks the darkness in me,
passing by the realm of my inability.
I had to open eyes wide to invite the Light
while at the same time shut from plain sight.

Recall the Words spoken to me,
realize there is much for me to see.
The villain emerge from the dark of the moon -
the cerebral crater dormant from the day’s form

“You – are not – real.
You are just a figment;
an imagination, a fantasy,
one that I let you haunt me.”

The One I know died for,
Lived and loved me through the core.
Lies no longer seem redemptive nor elegant nor sped;
Flee not the grace and flee the grave though instead.

Jolt to wake myself up,
admonition that all along I was held at a stop.
The battle becomes the sleep yet decided;
settled more for the Love had invited.

You're so dangerous with your profane paraphernalia
Your pelvis postures pandering favor
The line of your stomach embossed by the fire is like a pasture for me
So paranoid with your pacifistic lust
As you proceed to please me with your posture so slightly
And I attempt to pursue oh so politely
You make me perk up like a peacock just with one peak
You're aware of every petty palpitation you can feel just under my sleeve
You play me like a piano, so plush with your lust politics
Pandering for a pardon of my ***** talk poignancy
I part you like Pluto from your orbits serene hum
I'll pleasure you, pleasure you until you're purple like a plum
A pastimes poetises to be written with pleasing lead
You plan every move like a predator in my bed
You're polarizing, plump, and pampered like a pageant doll
Pilfering every plausible pause with a pose of voice, your moan
Seizing the post with your post - modern pompous pouncing
Prompted like Pisces to postulate your prognosis
Lifting your posterior like the pun of a phaliccy
Pillaging me like a pandemic, a plague
Something to be paraded by paganistic plauds
Your pale skin is like playwear for sins
You're pinning me plastered with the play of your grin
Such a pretty motion picture to paint in the prison of your promise

Normal
The word pertaining to the behavior of the majority of the masses, yet I refuse the title like unmixed blood cells, pushing the average in me back until I’m taken by my higher self, my true form.
But you wouldn’t know much about that. You can’t wait to get home to watch TV or play your video games.
It’s normal.
Higher
Whether through drugs or levitation, getting high is easy. However, the average cannot reach this level, they cannot display this power. Only we can, us being the lyrical miracles that the world has once craved and the world being those around us that give us our inspirations.
Higher.
And I guess I’m a space shuttle. Yet I have felt no high in chemicals, no uplifting in elevators, just the heightening fuel that ignites in my brain. Yet some can’t take the heat of a burning mind filled with questions. But can you?
We are poems, poetry, poetic expressions. But it’s a dual edged blade of which we have all found. We’re all special, from A.D.D to suicidal, we have the experience to write tragedy. From love to loss we have the reason to write about romance. Love, fear, heroics, sadness, strength, all poetic expressions to us.
We are poets
The people who everyone looks at for supporting. Some of us are tough, some of us are pushovers, and some of us are pacifistic. Yet the reality of our gifts open up a new world for us.
We are poems
Our writings speak to our souls, that’s one more connection from our brains to our hearts and the entities beyond. I write about it and you understand where I come, my point of view. My pain, your inquiry, yet to hear it being read is poetic justice to our emotions.
We are communications
No, I don’t mean through phones or emails. I’m talking through spirit. You see a poet down, you help, period, as we are one and the same in heart.  A symbol of independence to those who forget the meaning of the word. But we’re a community and a family, so I love you like a brother or a sister because of the natural familiarity between us.
We are poetic.
Our lives are filled with instances where we simply need to express. Oh, the sweet and sour irony. Our day to day experiences speak for our poetic natures. Whether jamming to Taylor Swift or Tracy Chapman or Migos or even Luke Bryan, musics tell our moods and words tell our stories, our tales, our liveliness and oneness with our selves.
Poetic beings are we, and we are
Poetic

Black
Cold's dark servant
where nightmares are born
lifeless, chilling
        *Red
        Love's fierce anger
        heated licks of flames
        lurid, twisted
                White
                Hero's pure rage
                warrior of the blessed
                blinding, holy
                        Blue
                        S­ky's transient calm
                        pacifistic mind
                        passing, soothing
                                Grey
             ­                   Storm's middle ground
                                fog's muddled embrace
                                clouding, shifting
                                        Brown**
    ­                                    Life's steadfast fort
                                        earthen defender
                                        steady, sturdy

Mirror is merciful  

Lambs sleep in the willow  
Rough leaves carry heaven up  

Delivering the sinner 

Cold black mirror still love his lips
Lamb off the living

Hearts over
Hearts asthma
Hearts lie with no one
Hearts frozen
Hearts mirror
Hearts asthma
Parts Madonna
Hearts eczema
Part scoundrel
I will walk low
Harsh eczema  
I die past a week
Hearts nirvana
I don't need no lessons now
Hearts taking over
I wish I could wake up
Hearts over
Hearts eczema  
Hearts asthma  
**** your theory, and just **** everything
Love must be ashes, that's blood in the blue forest  
Ya it's the age of pure ahead of us  
Hearts over
Hard seller
Mercy I have in the imaginary nation of us
You don't want me here jerking off
Your force, I was sorry
I saw the mirror I thought off when it was all over
Heart scold ya
Oh I am every man
Watch no longer
and in the shadows
corpse scamper
Who moves even slower?
Part suffer
Move **** all day monkeys
Hearts scamper
The holy case of us
Hearts worth of love
In there walks the sheep
Part scabbed up
I was sad and got blue
Hearts taking over
Hearts never
Hearts never

I done some bad
and I've killed obviously
no sweet people, hogs, and dogs, pets  I have no beef with them
Offered me the exit till they locked me in
Harsh scalper
Harsh scalper
Lock in here with nuts that are just like me
Love must be a pacifistic
There's blood  in the small forest  
Out here in the near cosmos  

Delivering the sinner
All woman in the center
iiiiiiiiii
I fear hes lost his nerve
I'm over  living it
I'm over living it

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
iiiiiiiiiiii

IIIiii'mmm
delivering the sinner
AAAaaalllll
woman in the center

In swimming willows
Luxury feast on the edge of love
Luxury feast on the edge of love


Mirror in the sonnet
Mirroring us and them  
I heard he'd lost his nerve  
I'm over living it
I'm living it

you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?*

even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy ****: brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one ***... *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
****, ****, nakedness, ***** and *******...
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.

I hate ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

I just don’t understand?
Talking about sunshine and rainbows.
The type of **** I cannot stand.
When the government is listening to our convo’s in our condo’s.
Selling the info on demand.

I just don’t understand?
Clapping all our hands.
Or dancing like a maniac,
Which makes me think your either high,
Or just plain mad.

I hate ******* happy songs,
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

I just don’t understand?
They’re not even remotely realistic,
The type of I **** I just can’t stand.
With words that are not only dumb but simplistic.
I can’t tell if they are pacifistic or sadistic?
Torturing me with things I will never have.

I just don’t understand?
Clapping all our hands.
Or dancing like a maniac,
Which makes me think your either high,
Or just plain mad.

I hate ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that encourage you to sing along?

I hate those ******* happy songs.
You know the ones that get stuck in your head all day long?

With those repetitive melodies,
That bash the eardrums like a hammer.
Those **** happy songs.
With their optimistic audacity,
That tries to infect me like a cancer.

Yeah those **** happy songs.
That are way to long.
You know those **** happy songs.
That get wedged up one’s ***,
Like some thong.
You know those **** happy songs.
That the radio puts on repeat all day long.
You know those **** happy songs.
That bounce back and forth in your head like ping pong.
Yeah, I hate those ******* happy songs!
Oh, lord please just end this song!...
Thank, you!

It's an itch I won't allow myself to scratch
A scar that's begun to scab
and I must hit the top of my own hand
every time my fingers start to wander towards it again
I've placed that horribly depressing doggie
cone of silence around myself
Thankfully,
it's mostly invisible to everyone except me
I've built brick walls around my home,
I'm not quite sure what purpose they serve anymore,
all I know is that when I first started building,
it was meant to keep myself
from going back to you
Now that all too familiar urge has fizzled out and died along with the rest of them
That desire to hear you say my name again
The longing to feel your fingers dance over my skin
in all the places you knew made me cringe
with something much hotter than happiness
Yes, I won't lie
Those walls were meant to keep me from acting solely on impulsive
reaching for you again simply out of habit
loving you out of routine
forgiving you
because it was easier
than letting you go
But now
the walls are there to keep you the **** away
Don't ever come back for me
Don't you ******* dare
Don't come to my home
Don't show up here with a fist full of roses and a throat full of apologies,
wearing I'm Sorry's like body armor against the fire you know is sure to spit out from the mouth you used to love to kiss
And do you even recognize my hands?
The ones that tidied everything despite my undeniable messiness,
the ones that folded things neatly so only to please you, because we both know that I couldn't have gave a **** if that blanket was here or there or anywhere, I didn't care if it was folded or not, I didn't give a ****, dear, but I folded that ****** for you,
the ones that wrote poems you never even pretended to read,
the ones that created masterpieces your eyes only glanced at, never allowing yourself the time necessary to absorb their true beauty because who the hell had time for that? Hello? There were video games to play, babe.
These hands that would have moved mountains for you,
these pacifistic hands that would have killed for you,
fought wars for you,
burned themselves on the stove tops for you,
picked up all the pieces of myself that you single handedly destroyed for you,
and then, like a child, handed them right back to you.
Do you recognize these hands, love?
These hands that built brick walls so high,
I only stopped because they kissed the sky.
Don't stop me if you see me,
Don't look me in the eye,
you packed your bags and left,
you don't get to say goodbye.

Non existent smile under the distance of the dusty moon,
shook like a tremor before the sun's blues.
Wind passed by like a bus operator,
softened tension like droopy rain.

The road blisters pacifistic valleys.
It smothers her beautiful voice
Like static radio in deep water.

I’m the cracks in the ice geist
The thief in the night light
The reason you can’t even go to sleep
When you’re hype Skype
The read it and write sleight
Of hand with that left heist
The best and brightest western spittin’-Spetnaz platoon type
The jungle, it’s coming
Oh, they want you there runnin’
That whole backwards crazy cooky communally-driven country,
That refuses to bow,
To the lion’s lie crown,
Because the tigress is the Ganga
And she’s watered this ground,
With cheetah archer princes blue
Through pacifistic aestheticians
Who still burn to the moon,
To feel her Saraswati peace of mind
Evoke the monsoon

can't think amidst this
chaotic conglomerate
coined companionship

screaming speakers
weak winstons
sinful sexes
indirect intentions

vicious voices
as if it's insufficiently
pacifistic
in this excessive thinking
my nemesis
feigns friends
concoctions
contradictions
composure
i uphold
to call
when they call upon
myself

sometimes i get caught giggling
by my eyes
in solace
till sagacious flashbacks
attack
i reminisce
in retrospects
those words of his
he chose to omit
their counterparts
which he transmits
with infinite tact
royalty don't smile
signal
leave who you lead
behind
holding their breaths
and possessive
obsessive
over more questions to ask
than answers to grasp
balance is a task
and who
if not you
is talented at
abandoning straight lines
that find themselves at last
lost
alone
in intricately
tangled tracks

- end

The boots and bombs
First dropped in Nam
By order of the best of us
The king-elect who earned our trust
With pacifistic vision quests
The family values kind of guy
Was old and rich
Misogynist
And still you people wonder why
Demands can not be met with this
Depression-causing
Greatness cyst

IF ALL THE OCEANS WERE LEMONADE!

Climbs up on my lap
as if she were scaling an Alp

sits on my book like
she see the cat do

manoeuvres herself so
she is enthroned

on the lap
of the Dad.

Stabs a finger
at a bunch of words.

"What...say?!"
as if only I can hear

the words
voices.

"Well, it's interesting that
you ask...!"

I switch to another
bunch of words.

She's not to see
the sleight of mind,

"Charles Fourier
he say..."

I see the hope
leap into her eyes

as I translate the furry
man's thought.

"When all the world
and the people in the world

finally get to be
as nice as nice can be

all the oceans
with turn to lemonade.!"

She gasps.

Nods that that is how
things should be.

Leaves my knee
a devoted Fourierist.

The original bunch of words
she had chosen would be

that much harder
to explain.

That the moon was a dead mummy
that would eventually give way

to not one but five
living replacements.

An ocean of lemonade
lapping at the docks

splashing over rocks
chasing you up the beach

being the easier of
the thoughts to hold.

*

Then my little three year old treasure got down and danced to the Háry János Suite and became a mechanical little doll( "Wind me up..wind me up!" )to the strains of the Viennese Musical Clock before complaining that the trombones were pushing her about..life with a little girl is anything but dull!. She was enraged she couldn't read and ask "Why I can't hear what the words are saying!"

She would also listen to Joyce on record and not be a bit nonplussed at the Wake as she could make sense of the sound and wasn't put out by the stature of what she was hearing. I asked her what did she think the man with the funny voice was saying and she said "I think his granny just died like my granny died!" She was an epiphany!

Fourier's theoretical system, described by one scholar as "vast and eccentric, was only part of the output of what another called "a most riotous and unpruned imagination."
Fourier believed that in the new world people would live for 144 years, that new species of friendly and pacifistic animals such as "anti-lions" would emerge, and that over time human beings would develop long and useful tails.
Fourier also professed a belief in the ability of human souls to migrate between physical and "aromal" world. Such thinking was set aside during the last 15 years of Fourier's life, when he instead began to concentrate on testing his economic and social ideas.

Fourier's disciples, including Albert Brisbane and Victor Considerant, later pared down his writings into a comprehensible system for economic and social organization, with the Fourierist movement experiencing a brief boom in the United States during the mid-1840s, when some 30 Fourierist associations were established.