I’m selfish and vain
But maybe you used to be the same?
You have to stay and help me through
Because I can’t imagine my life without you
I just want you to know
Please Please Don’t let go…

I’m so sorry About everything I Did wrong
Theres somethings even I can’t express through song
All the times I said I wish I’d never met you
Well I guess It would be hard for me not to…
I was young… I was Alone
And I wasn’t sure what place to call home
I’m so sorry

Well you taught me everything I know
And I really can’t let you go
Ive stuck up for myself just like you said
Just replaying memories of you over in my head
I Just want you to know
Please please don’t let go

I’m so sorry About everything I Did wrong
Theres somethings even I can’t express through song
All the times I said I wish I’d never met you
Well I guess It would be hard for me not to…
I was young… I was Alone
And I wasn’t sure what place to call home
I’m so sorry
Thankyou for being there for me… I’m sorry

yoga poses in the dark,
recycling the exhales
as if they were
shreds of napkin scraps
riddled in ink.
what good is man
without a muse?
what good is light
without shadow?
these blinds are like
deep cuts in my dreams
with all their weapons unsheathed
as I wade in the seize
of your shaking.

sipping soy milk out of a
plastic straw,
my legs like vines
twirling, twisting, writhing
under cotton clothes
I can see the stones they've thrown
leaving bruises on my
monotone throat.
you are whiskey
and I am wine
they don't taste nice
together
but they work just right.

the last hit of that cigarette
in your old apartment
as your broad shoulders held up
my legs
and you carried me to the balcony
so we could watch the sun rise
what a ride
what a ride
what a ride

Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.

Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.

Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.

Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.

Cheap *****, digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:

Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.

Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.

Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.

Billboards, subways, phones and buses:

Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.

Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.

Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.

Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.

Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.

Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.

Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.


Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.

Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.

Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.

Many think of anger, as hot
fiery
volcanoes erupting
The ground shaking
Thunder
In my fathers voice

When I think of being angry
I think of silence
Of turning the ocean to ice
I think of glass
And reflections
I think of lava
because I think true rage
is kept hidden

It isn't the smoke that escapes nature's destruction
Or the roaring flames that engulf it
It isn't a thousand shattering windows
Or a deafening wind

Its the silent, burning lava
Rage is eternal
Destroying all in its path
Without so much as a
*Whisper

Just because my eyes
are slightly more red than the
average, and my ears listen more to
                                                                ­                                                    roars

than normal talk. My fingers are
more greedy, reaching for things
never yearned
                                                                ­                                                    before

I met you. Why now do familiar faces wish to
pour into my sharp eyebrows
                                                        ­                                                            speec­hes

I don't care much to hear. Does
it matter that running feels more
natural, instinct that I should feel
                                                            ­                                                        afraid

b­ut I don't. Do I care to
figure out
                                                                ­                                                    the monster

that reflects back into my cheekbones.
What does it hungar for? What does it
know? I'm not sure if I have the  
                                                           ­                                                          will

to overcome it. Or the ability to pry away
the nails that resemble too much
the rage of
                                                              ­                                                        claw

mar­ks. Dare I take a light into these dark
thoughts and search for long sentences
that traveled
                                                        ­                                                              awa­y

from the mess. What do I expect to find, what
is it I look to now for answers? Should I
stand on
                                                                ­                                                       what's left

of this old bridge with these rotten logs and
aging secrets? This sight- is it part
                                                            ­                                                            of me

or is it just a sad painting I keep confusing
with a sad memory. My heart aches for beauty
in the intriguing hues of gray.
                                                           ­                                                             or maybe

this gallery, this mueseum of
inner maps will lead to new rooms.
Red eyes, angry claws, mighty roars,
sharp eyebrows
                                                                ­                                                        the monster is

what I believed to represent. Perhaps
it is only a mere splattering of
                                                              ­                                                            brush­strokes

I allowed my mind to be absorbed into. Like
all good art, it captured my soul, paralyzed.
                                                      ­                                                                 ­     and I

was unsure of reality. How funny
it is to be so lost and not know it. Now
I see clearly, now I can
                                                             ­                                                              continue

to know. Know what I hungar for, what
I crave. I am what I want
                                                            ­                                                                 to be

and that is as comforting as walking
onto a porch to observe the sun as it
dives into solid ground.
                                                         ­                                                                 ­    Free

as the cool night air, welcoming
the stars and all the promise a new
morning has to offer.