I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill

Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?

Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight

To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside

E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here

Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too

Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace

Seize the moment
they say
live in the moment
to seize is to take
to take is to steal
I begin pickpocketing
moments for myself
and no one else

getting advice from what can
only be a moment thief

Articles with click-throughs
said I could love myself
three easy steps
ten easy steps
arbitrary quantities
erroneous
because it has taken
thousands of difficult steps
to begin loving myself
and only with the help
of moments from
strangers and tourists
in my town

The moment thief tells me
not to be scared of being scared

It tells me to be proud
of myself
never ashamed
of how I came to find out
the moment thief
does not know
what I do not know
why I like to make
generalizations
about humanity
as a whole
after being hurt by
only one person

The snatcher says to me
living is as easy as not dying

There is no use shoplifting
the only good lives
are in the street
and in the homes
be a cat burglar
ahead of the pack

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

My bones are diamond shafts.
Each eye a sapphire gem.
My blood is liquid rubies.
Dare I divulge my name?

My members, a master's crafts;
No bacteria, germs or phlegm.
I live free of formal duties.
Shall I flaunt for fame?

No epiglottis or voice boxes,
My heart's a rocketing comet.
No esophagus needed to imbibe,
I just absorb—like the perfect heist.

Hunted by shamans like foxes,
Fronted by the pickpocketing prophet,
Who've seen what I now struggle to describe:

A human creature reborn in Christ.

wandering is nothing but
distracting.
the pace is rhythm
making and recalling
music and verse until

eyes focus on juxtaposed
man with club foot and
pan bottom black eyes.

discordant dismissed song

they're not always there
, breaking,
when wandering .
the percussion stops
in crowds . Revery then
a swarm consciousness
of street starlings
part one mind part
mindful of pickpocketing
magpies

one can always leave
spin the record back
and step on as just
you.
wandering about in
rhythms is a mercy
from deadlines.
a must have time
to pace to
when you have no
destination.

His younger sister was the bride
And he sat facing the gushing girl
He fondled the **** of his walking cane
As he waited for her eyes to meet his gaze;
When they finally did, he smiled a knowing smile
A vexing, blackmailing smile
That sought a response- a glint of acknowledgement;
It sent chills down her spine, sweat broke out on her back
She now regretted having been the one who'd started-
The impetuous demands that violated the natural
And made them feel like some Old Testament pairs
He'd become relentless, with pickpocketing deftness
At the drop of a hat, he'd drop his pants

Now, rising from his seat, he blew her a kiss
And that did her in

imagine this
you awoke to the chirping of mayas,
to the crowing of your neighbor’s chickens,
to the sound of vehicles jolting by the holes

you felt the amber light of sun,
kissing your cheeks
while it exposed the spiders forming
cobwebs on the corners of your room

what a pleasant day, wasn’t it?
to see children by the street
playing patintero
while you watered the bougainvilleas
your mother loved better than you

then you remembered it was Saturday again
and a friend’s mother would come,
selling a basket of bananacues

you quickly grabbed a copy of Jessica Zafra
from your bookshelf with a collection
of novels that you bought
from pickpocketing your father

you marched your way
down to your living area
through the stairs filled
with potted pothos and jade plants
your mother treated like little kids

today must be beautiful. you thought.
so you checked your phone,
hoping for an invitation to a beach.
because why not?
with this sky reminiscent of turquoise,
your skin yearned for the sun

instead of an invitation,
a forwarded message
popped in your screen:
the fourth murderr of the month.

a man shot dead in broad daylight
along the diversion road
in a barrio next to yours.

the spot turned red
as the blood of the man streamed
like a draining river.
people circled the murdered
as if it was news to them.
reality was, it had become a norm

gunshot after gunshot.
you heard them like bad songs on a stereo
and how could you turn it off? stop it?
you had no idea

you see, waking up
in this beautiful island is a bliss.
you get to watch the cinematic view
of a horizon where the sky kisses the sea,
while you stand firm on the pristine shores,
listening to the gentle rustle of palm trees

yet it was only a facade

on this island, where shores shimmer
like jewelry and lush greenery
abounds in beauty,
lies a darker truth

while the murdered men sleep
in agony of injustice,
the culprits loiter in this island,
smoking, plotting the next fire

If words are cheap, what is the cost of a story?
A picture is worth one thousand words,
what does that make your portrait now?
What is a life, a legend, glory, an allegory?
What does the weight of a false accusation truly allow?

If talk is cheap, what are words worth?
How much sense... for those ticking keys?
How many times will it cost to explain only once,
that the consequences are relentless, once unlocked
you can't close your mouth again, nothing taken lightly is free
nothing you give is given in vain, your observations laid out and plain
all under the scrutiny of the next generation of police
they promise you ease of living, no offense, just justice and just peace

Then with that big red rubber stamp of a grin
does the true work begin,
no, no, no!
You do not overthrow your fascists wolf-skins for these sheepdogs, I refuse!
Lobotomize me, roboticize me! I refuse!
Censor my eyes, I can't see the use!
Their propaganda, all is planned-to
take apart a microscopic crack in the legs that take a stand-the
generation who will bear the ashes and trashes and barren-earth gashes
and the morally bankrupt hidden blackmail-blackbox-blacksite-cash-in-stashes

I vote true anarchy in a whirlwind of scared and confused, disenfranchised cries
all that was old no longer stands, burn it down and raze their alarms to meet fresh eyes
whose attention is sharper and whose wits do not harp-or linger on attracting flies
when they speak it is common, to the point and in union, without comical bickering, backstabbing or lies
whose council is one of Utopian ideal, in that it exists only in this Anarcho-Paradise
where nothing they say matters, nobody listens, and there is no order, for if you pause you do not survive
and Nothing is all you are while alive and nobody feels nothing when Nothing dies
it's not like pandemic or fire, riots or dissent, global or local could paint a place into a corner like that though
armed to the teeth, doctors stand back, morgues stand by

Civil unrest, I hereby diagnose the Northern United States with Insomnia
I've been there
what is the continental equivalent to hallucinations, mood swings, weight loss and blacking out?

Civil discourse? I've heard some bad jokes, I love em, but that one's the worst
talk on your stages, your pages, your backseats and square icons
you throw spears from crumbling platforms, unable to hit one another and babble on
when in person the magic of active threats turned, too-soon, too tragic
is becoming lethargic, more shock, more bodies, a better tactic
humankind doesn't deserve its own environment, we're toxic
why can't we all just shut up and stay at home sick, oh
****.

The wealthiest opinions buy their silver spoons before their birth
with all their mercury they speed to heights, and never reach their worth
all the talk they do is quite a feat, indeed!
For, you see it comes from a slit in their neck and both sides of their mouth,
while the noise made, like pickpocketing hands' slides into docile minds with greed
empty, nimble, unnoticed and plucking chain and coin and bead
the richest tongues would rob the rest of roots for their baby to have but a seed.