Black and White Reflections: An open poem to Gov. Schwarzenegger, Mrs. Hilton, and the U-T


 
The Union Tribune
Newspaper today:

Unconscious smiles cross my face as I opened the front page.
A2, Public Eye- "Paris Hilton Sentenced to 45 days in jail"
It was as if a light had shined down upon me,
as if god herself had spoken and said,
"Here is proof that I exists. Your Welcome."
...
Four paragraphs later, I remember why I am an atheist.
"[Paris Hilton] has called the sentence unfair...
her fans have posted a petition on the Internet
urging Gov. Schwarzenegger to pardon her."
Why? I ask, pounding my fist against my chest,
ripping out my hair in handfuls,
tuffs falling like tears of rage on the page
blurring the truth and revealing the
ignorance of the youth;
"The petition, which had more than
nine hundred signatures..."
wait, repeat,
NINE HUNDRED SIGNATURES(!?!?)
"...urges the governor to pardon Hilton because..."
wait for it...
wait...
"...because
she provides 'beauty and excitement
to our otherwise mundane lives.'"

I have never had much faith in humanity
but this article, drives me to the brink of insanity
television, tabloids, teaching trash to our families
replacing education, talent, a work ethic, and spirituality
with proclivity for vicariously living our dreams
through empty, wasted shells of human beings
that feed and fiend on attention deficit teens!?

This is why I am becoming a teacher.
For those
NINE HUNDRED(!?!?)
 plus people,
who think the best use of their lives
is to sign a petition supporting a
person who should be imprisoned
for prostitution;
but they can't understand,
ignorance is bliss,
so I need explain it in a way they can get;
like,
"Life...
is shorter
than Britney's new hairdo;
shorter than her 14 minute
faux concert at House of Blues.
Life is more fleeting than
Federline's fame;
and opportunities come and go
faster than Oprah's weight;
that if your life revolves around
50 Cent's lyrics,
that's how much you'll make
working the position you took,
robbed of your potential to create;
so take a break from the magazines
from the television screens,
from these people who are paid
to sell complacency for dreams!
Stop living their lives!
Start loving your own!
Learn, remind yourself you have a soul!
Read a book, write a book,
or paint me a picture,
reconnect with the flickering spark
of your human spirit!

Because entertainment and education
are separate divisions,
and every time you change the channel
you're making a decision,
lining full pockets of puppet master
corporate politicians;
hiding behind glowing boxes distracted
from famines by fashions,
we fatten our waistlines while fascists
fashion weapons,
then government's lull us into submission
saying, 'Don't ask any questions,
just watch American Idol auditions!'
Meanwhile global tensions tighten,
and companies siphon trillions,
so that by the next election
we'll be txt-ing in our votes for
'America's Next Top President!'
And I know the present has pressures,
bills, babies, and credit card collectors,
and it's comforting to put on the blinders,
escape into the lives of entertainers,
these dealers and fakers,
owned by studios and bankers,
brokering bullshit,
and we are the takers;
but,
if our only concern is to
complain of eyestrain,
treat education with disdain,
forgetting our ability to think and attain,
make a difference and campaign,
our governments, restrain,
our freedoms retain,
our right to profane,
our beliefs, explain,
our lives, regain
by severing the umbilical cord,
the noose,
of the trash media chain,
...
then Paris Hilton is right.
However
I believe
the most mundane
and worthless aspect of all our lives,

is her."


 

 

 

 
Forgotten Perspective

Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
From the direction of the noise,
thrumming against the clear pane,
emerald and jade wings flash;
a rubied throat dances, twinkling
as the small thin boned bundle
dashes itself in futility
choosing death, rather than obey
these invisible laws of man.
Whose memories are these?
Hands cup gently,
frozen, unmoving, unblinking;
weightlessly still inside open palms.
Until the first fresh breeze
in minutes? Hours? Dark eyes and light
peer deep and blind;
another window closed.

Returned to the natural freedom
of open spaces;
a lingering envy, a green
speck against the empty blue sky.
While I remain,
unsure which eyes were mine.

[
Heroine A Sonnet

Hidden in my glove compartment, two grams,
tied in a junky friendly black balloon;
perforated veins await the next slam,
as in the dark I cook a rusty spoon.
Surgical tubing held tight in my teeth,
I pull back the plunger, full chamber load,
pre-cum squirts from the needle's tip beneath,
dirty street lights gleam off steel as time's slowed.
Razed bruised blue lines numb to the metal's tear,
easing off, blood adds a faint crimson hue,
battle-weary soldier's thousand-yard stare,
fluid motion fries reality's view.
Leaning back, I finally close my eyes
this night unable to hear the baby's cries.]

 

 
Life: In 3 Stanza's

Suns pass

as stars wax,and

wane across unseen skies

as dream filled eyes

tremble in reverence.

As starlight ends, our day

begins forgetting the miracles

blindly witnessed.

As light grows souls go

so we sow in thick rows

with bare hands calloused

by subsistence, blistered by

life's toils, strife's toils,

while the hangman coils the

final loop of our existence.

We plant seeds, plant

hopes, plant goals, plant

dreams, water beliefs with

tears and sweat from

fists that bleed and mouths

that need because hungry

bodies must feed!

Because starvation breeds

death's seeds!

Because death's seeds

grow into death's weeds and

death's weeds bring dark deeds

done, moiling in the midnight hour

of our mortal desperation.


 
From Eden's gardens tangled

vines creep and mothers weep

there is no sleep as men slink

like wild beasts in nights

shame, they kill and feast,

with tortured moans from

withered rows from withered souls;

humanity twisted and overgrown

morality starved by stomach's

groans, so vultures circle

dieing homes while jackals

gnaw on human bones and

ravens pick at throats slit

windows dark, souls unlit,

spirits die and gray skies

forecast future troubled times

suns scorch while wells dry

  tongues thick while arms lie

flies drinking off dry eyes,

as darkness falls, babies cry;

to dead to live, but to dead;

to be able to die.


 
Lighting bursts and pressures build

silence grows, something yields,

the world erupts!

The ground trembles,

forests burn while smoke billows

black soot rains sulpher ink,

rivers stained strained flash flood

rip raped lands till mountains

crash-!

Nothing.

Left but blackness

time passes impassive

till the impasse is past.

Clouds break,

and stars wax

and wane across

unseen skies

as dream filled eyes

tremble

in reverence.


 

 

 

Fusion

 
Lips like finger tips connect,

a speck, electricity arcs join 'n,

as colliding like riding lightning,

the speed of light ends

in gravitational bends, black hole

my soul swirls as the galaxies of

I and you like cosmic dreams crash,

smash fast stuck wishing our days

away on dead stars, ghosts of suns

past last while you and I ride,

each other with

 hips that waltz

without fingers crossed

behind the well spun white lies of

Well-meant words in pillow

talks and moans, swears and oaths, uninterrupted

by the relativity of

futures unknown and promises lost

tossed into the passing backdrop;


 
No! This momentary flash lasts in, ripples ridding

emotional waves of passion, embraced,

flesh feeds desires and deep needs,

penetrating, connect, souls feed

filling human needs combine in

loves flame fanning fuels firing furnace's

furious roar pressure builds with steam

until red lining steel bends, backs bend, moans blend

souls spin together in

exploding quantum schemes

of sublimation, radiation,

fallout all that's left sheets wet

air is sweat laced and sex laced,

her white lace, balled up in

his place.


 
Cigarette smoke rising in the dieing mushroom cloud

sunset of fusion, two embers glowing from,

orgasmic physical bonds knit,

room lit, by feeling and knowing,

like the sensation of home

knowing that warmth that lingers

like lovers fingers

intertwined in this moments time

fresh scent of young flesh

of you and me, meshed,

pressed in comfort.


 
But what now we say as the night plays its way

into the morning horizon.

Dusk glows and silence grows

contemplating decisions.

"You don't own me, baby, and you don't know me, baby, and

I need to be free, baby,

to be me, baby, fulfill my dreams and destiny. Maybe baby what I'm trying to say is that however long our lines of time are crossed connected

 these love lines of hand's

match pressed palms together read a silent prayer said"

so she said

"in freedom we are together,

separate hands wield different fates

so we are now like the beauty of the eclipse,

in distant orbits our worlds, revolve and

here we are circles perfectly matched

each alone but lights overlap and are trapped

in memory of the moment. And if our paths catch

if love lasts then this moment of hands pressed

won't pass so let me go and let me glow

and let me know that I can grow

strong and independent."


 
So freedom in open doors and open palms

these lovers psalms, open hearts

not barred by false expectation

but cages flung open like doves coming home

released from the prison of dependence

then returning on their own.

Filled with self love overflowing the

the cups we were made of, happiness

the frame of our shared days and moments,

in the wide open spaces we possess,

roaming free how much more it means when

you are not my obligation, but my choice,

every single moment.

And every night, feeling that speck,

arc into a spark, as and we again

break the laws

of physics.


 

 

 

Black History Month

 
It may be hard to offend me, but I do tend to get upset easily,

when I am confronted with any kind of social hypocrisy,

like priests and politicians trying to legislate sex,

while in the backs of their closets little boys are kept.

That is the kinda shit that really pisses me off,

but even worse are these false American idol role models,

and I'm not talking about that show on, what the station, "false freedom"?

I mean fox,

no I'm talking about the celebrities wearing name brands and flashing rocks.


 
Let me ask you all a question,

close your eyes, take a sec',

if we could travel back in time, 200 years into the past,

how many cotton clothes would you buy,

knowing how many African slaves died,

knowing how many dark mothers cried,

knowing about all the rape, murder, and torture that went untried,

knowing how much hate was justified,

and the daily struggles of these people just to survive and stay alive!?

How many, cotton shirts, would you fucking buy,

and don't say none because that is a lie.


 
You see it's funny because February is quickly coming up,

the time of year we all know as "Black History Month",

where every classroom watches "Roots" and Dr. King's freedom bell rings,

where George Washington Carver makes peanut butter and Rosa Parks takes a front row seat,

while the Birmingham Police and Fire Departments stop asking for donations for a few weeks.

But I'm trying to raise awareness, since it's the first month of a new year,

we'll let February have Black history and use January to talk about the Black present and future.


 
That means we are talking about slavery;

we are talking about segregation;

we are talking about sweatshops;

we are talking about humans bought and sold on auction blocks,

because that is the present.

We don't need to look 50, 100, 200 years into our past

talking about dead people and ancestors we never met.

Let's talk about today, since it is January,

and I'll tell you a little about your relatives still living,

his name is Azeboh, or Chekumboo, or Choma,

her name is Orpha, or Mandisa, or Keisha

he is 8, or 12, or 17, or 23...

she is 7, or 13, or 15, or 20...

locked in a designer jean sweat shop,

in a diamond mine, in a shoe factory,

he is one of the 10,000 slaves

she is one of 10,00 sex workers,

in just one of the dozens of camps covering Africa,

covering China, India, Mexico, South America.

Tighten the sneakers that are to expensive to wear running down the block,

finger the material your shirt is made of,

now touch that diamond in your ear or around your neck,

and as you do, tell me can you feel the lashes on his back?

That frost on your finger you bought from DeBeers,

bought them 50 new slaves,

out of which, just in time for your anniversary next year,

15 will be killed.

I don't know if diamonds last forever,

I do know how many of Flava Flav's and Puff Daddies

relatives had to die,

be molested and raped,

be whipped and beaten,

starved and worked for no pay,

just so they could walk around with

their bling in place.

I don't know if a diamond lasts forever,

but I do know that thanks to all of us,

slavery will.


 
So I say,

bring on the reparations!

For the millions of men, women, and children

who suffer for all American, both black and white, comfort.

Bring on the reparations!

For Africa, for India, for China, for South America, for Middle Eastern

families who have lost a father, a mother, a son, a daughter, a way of life,

to Nike, Adidas, Fila, Reeboks,

to Coca-Cola, Pepsi, BMW- Ford-Nissan and Starbucks!

To Wal-Mart, Kmart, Target, and Big Lot's!

To Victoria's Secret, Ralph Lauren, L.L. Bean, Levi, and Timberland!

To Disney, Old Navy, Gap, Abercrombie and Fitch,

To Phillips-Van Heusen, Eddie Bauer, Banana Republic, and TJ Maxx!

Because every day we force on these people conditions

that make them dream they could live in Harlem.

And I think if anyone deserves

reparations

and affirmative action,

it is not us,

but them.


 
As for how many shirts we'd buy,

if we could go back in time...

your honest answer would have been, as a country,

673 billion dollars worth,

or about 2,300 dollars each.

Somehow I doubt

the people of January's Black Present month,

or February's Black History month,

would thank you for your support.


 

 

 

Dream

 
Whitey

is not

the problem.

Because for thousands of years,

before Europeans set foot on African fields

tribes destroyed tribes, blacks were killing blacks,

slavery covered the continent before whitey got into the act.

Women were subjects, subjugated to there king's,

harems and whores weren't some new Western thing,

forced to stay in homes, cook clean and make kids

the culture was destructive long before whitey corrupted it.

European just did what they've ever since done best,

exploited the culture, globalized and marketed it,

acting like drug dealers to greedy African kings,

dark skinned empires were the first to profit from slavery.

Till running out of enemies to ship and sell to auction blocks,

the cheap labor addiction they helped start they were powerless to stop.

Like jonesing crack addicts, Europeans turned on their dealers,

the center could not hold, greed has always been contagious.


 
SO now here we are 700 years later,

on a continent where none of us are truly native,

no longer Afar, Maasai, Zulu, or Berber,

no longer Spanish or English, Italian or German,

melted together in America today,

none of us knows our ancestors, so we use skin color to hate,

coastal signs and gang colors replacing tribal ways,

while the wealthy rape the poor with no attention to race.

The problem today isn't the color of our skins;

the problem is greed and the ignorance that allows it.

You think its coincidence that poor people don't vote,

while 10% of this country controls 90% of it's wealth?

Put down the knives and the guns,

the needles and remotes,

as long as we're a people divided,

we're a people conquered and controlled!

I may look like white Jesus, but I think like Dr. King,

and the destructive black and white cultures I see,

on B.E.T., M.T.V., ESPN too,

are a nightmare version of our leaders dreams from before.


 
I had a dream...

that the ringing of freedom was not just the sounds of the chains of slavery passing our servitude from a person to the almighty American dollar...

I had a dream...

that our brothers in humanity were not auctioned off to the highest paying record company or team sport prostituting themselves to the greed of cooperate mass media plantation owners...

I had a dream...

that "bitches" and "hoes" were still just dogs and field tools rather than words used to describe societies mothers and sisters and daughters; and that mothers and sisters and daughters stopped acting like pets to breed and used tools to rent and walked with the beauty, pride, and strength god gave them...

I had a dream...

that bad grammar and broken English were not justified with pride,

that men were measured not by the size of their rims, the number of speakers in their Lexus's and Escalades, or amount of gold on their teeth, but by the power of their thoughts and words,

that the members of society who did achieve something returned and gave back to the grassroots communities they came from leaving them a better place than they had,

that ego's, vanity, and pride were replaced by humility and decency as virtues in our heroes and role models,

that drugs, violence, sexism, and hate were not excused as "telling it like it is", telling little kids how to act without taking responsibility for the fact that little kids deserve better than to repeat our own fucked up past!

I HAD A MOTHER-FUCKING DREAM!!!


 
And as I stand back and look back at our corrupted cultural communities,

I wish I'd never woken up.


 
Not because our fathers and grandfathers dreamed

of a better life than this for us...

but because I thought,

we'd at least

expect better

of ourselves.


 

 

 

Prayer

 
I want…

you.

I want to taste your,

spirit. I want to imagine

your back, pressed against my

chest, running my hands over

your arms, making Goosebumps

dance, with my lips next to your,

ear, hearing the sound of your breath,

…catch…


 
I want you.

I want to trace the lines of your neck with

my tongue's teasing touches and

soft sloooow seduction

tasting your salty scent,

your smooth skin,

silent moans seeping from sealed lips

while your shut eyes,

…flutter…


 
Cool caresses become

hot with need, desire so deep it drips…

down… my kisses flowing…

down… my hands running…

down… you lean back,

holding my hair, guiding my head…

down, the terrain of your topography,

I need no compass, though we are both lost,

trailing the curves of shadows and shoulders,

of chest and breast,

side, stomach, hips…

…lips…


 
The heat radiating off you bakes my skin

as I bask in the rich deep scent and taste,

the sacrament of your deepest secrets,

my Ark, my grail,

I want you to overflow so that

I may be baptized in your passion,

and Christened by your lust,

so on my knees,

before you

I pray!

The building moans and whispered words

in the lost dark language

of each other's name build

in tempo and rhythm as I press and

you pull these locks with growing tension

yearning as you feel the aching sensation

The hot breathe of these lips and these words shaping

the silent chant my tongues transmission an

electrical storm until lava through your veins course

released from your every cell and pour you lungs explode

in your swear,

your call,

your plea,

your roar,

to "Don't stop! Don't Stop!,

Oh God Yes!

OHHhhhhhhhhooooo…!"

…


 
And that, is just the beginning,

of foreplay.

 
 

"Text"

 

 
I texted you, "Hello...",


 
but what I really wanted to say was that its been

four weeks since I last heard the sound of your voice over the phone,

touching my ear like a hot breath and

I can't remember feeling  my heart beat since!


 
I hit SEND instead...


 
So slow seconds stretch into eternities

and as I try to stop staring at the clock

whose hands run backwards as I watched and waited

for the moment the vibrating tone would tell me

that-

You have (1) New Text Message...


 
I looked, wondering if it would have taken this long

to type the words I wished for,

"I love you, I miss you, I want you back",

and as I reached for the phone, the world started turning black,

my fingers were trembling as waves of dizziness passed,

before I realized I'd forgotten to take a

breath...


 
Menu; View Inbox; Exhale...


 
Zach!? Zach! No not Zach,

please not Zach, please not now,

this isn't the person I'd hoped would write back!

And what if they both had sent messages simultaneously?

And hers had gotten lost, now I'd never receive,

The words of her love! Oh cruel fate and cruel destiny!

Please, just a moment, some slight digital delay,

to save me from-

You have (1) New Text Message...


 
So I cautiously reach out again... and...


 
No! It's Kat! Fucking Kat!

Which means really, Kat and Chris,

The last thing I need is to hear their lovely- dovey drama bullshit!

But I'm bitter and frustrated, so I angrily re-texted,

            "Please Kat, you're her friend, which makes you my Prometheus;

please Kat, can you search out the answer to the riddle of her divinity for me?

Please, Kat, can you bring back the knowledge

of how to make the pillow smell like her again?

because at first holding it in my arms as I feel asleep

was the one thing that made me feel close to her still,

and now it doesn't and I feel so far apart...

...please... Kat...

-SEND


 
No response! No Response!

And as the day fades to black,

the phone in my pocket becomes

the monkey on my back.

As I wandered around town hoping and waiting,

until internally frantic and unable to keep containing,

the confusion that covered my mind like a cloud,

the shape pain of wondering if she'd given up, moved on,

The anger! The exhaustion! The depression! The END!

So I took the phone to the edge of Sunset Cliffs and said,

"No longer will I be tethered to the past, I can forget!"


 
So I cocked back my arm; wound it up just like a pitcher,

And took a deep breath, body set, torso filled with tension,

And preparing my mighty roar of primitive masculine aggression,

as I was about to let go... I heard the beep of a text message...

            ...I looked...

"I love you,

I miss you,

I want you...

back"


 

 

Be

 
Be

I have to admit, I'm a little confused,

we often hear the cliche of being alone in an empty room

but I've never heard in all my reading and being

of a person alone who feels the pleasure of company.

It doesn't make sense, at least not to me,

because if loneliness has nothing to do with objective reality

than neither does companionship, compassion, or love,

or any of the emotions we speak or write of.


 
But we turn over stones chasing tangible leads,

buying anything that will help us stop feeling so empty,

But it's a lie! It's a ruse! leading to the suicide blues

of the rich and wealthy; burying their sorrows in crystal brown bags,

of alcohol inducing suicidal tendencies. Because they know the truth

that's why so many hide, bottles and pills swallowed in the dead of night

that we'll never hear about, media muckraking,

only sells violence because that's supposed to be interesting.


 
That "empty" feeling isn't from lacking wealth

it's from not being rich in the one way that counts.

So we buy their bullshit without thinking about it

not knowing they don't have shit unless they can convince us to want it!

These false idol slum lords peddling snake-oil,

on street corners, cars cash, coke and sex symbols,

cell phones, Ipods and ugly expensive cloths;

the right soda, the right brand; we're a bunch of corporate whores!

Selling our identities, our bodies, with advertising ads,

because they hook us on cool, on sexy, on rich; till we totally forget,

that all it takes to make an "in-crowd"

is to keep others out of it.


 
Do we really need another divide,

between boarders and races?

All these meaningless lines separating each other,

brother from brother,

creeds and religions,

politics and gang colors?


 
Stop the hate! Stop the fighting! Stop this devolution of society;

this fracturing isn't a quilt, its a brokenbreaking humanity.


 
And the worse that it gets, these crack addict sweats,

so spun out on spoon cooked media advertising bullshit

that we kill and we steal, robber barons of the world!

Forgetting that with every dollar we stack and we build

the bars of our own jail, and become our own prisoners,

reaching out of shut doors for the very thing that put us here!

We've forgot! We have forgot,

what joy even is, we've forgotten that what it was we really needed

was already their, and always has been.

We've been brainwashed by commercials

and capitalism, and forgot

that not a single emotion depends on them.

Loneliness is always their, and always will be,

right next to happiness and love, confidence and peace,

all these emotions come from within us

so reverse all you see.

Stop looking out,

asking the world to decide for you

what it is you feel,

you need,

you care about!


 
We've forgotten how to be humans, forgotten what it means,

We've forgotten how to feel without this media IV feed.

We ape like we're free,

but we just act like monkeys,

with a bad dope dependency.


 
Because happiness cannot be made bought or found,

because it's already within us

and we each contain

all the love in the world so stop running! Stop hiding!

Stop fearing and dieing!

Destroying ourselves in back boardrooms and black markets,

selling our souls to the slave-owners that bought us!

Just stop! STOP! Stop looking for what you need!

Stop searching for yourself,

happiness, creativity, aren't on some store shelf!

It's already inside you,

and always will be!

Stop looking, stop forgetting,

and remember what it is to be


 
free


 

 

Blue

 
Do you know what it is to be blue?

Really blue? I mean really really really blue?

Let me tell you, I'm blue,

and it is

fucking

HARD!

No one understands you and no matter how well you do do,

your friends and your family and your coworkers dismiss you,

or mock you or tease you or get really pissed at you,

they yell at you and scream at you saying "Stop being blue!"


 
I wish I could change the colors I feel,

just like changing my shirt to a different veneer.

I've tried and I've tried to modify my hue,

but it just isn't me, and I think there is nothing I can do.

I wish I could be like the rest of my town,

but everywhere I go I seem to bring the crowd down.

I lost all my friends and my family stopped talking to me,

so without any options I realized it was time to leave.


 
I packed up my bags, without looking back,

saying "I'll move to a place where I won't have to act!"

In my luggage I threw my big bag of weed,

my peace signs and rainbow flags and posters that said "Anarchy!"

Al Gore's new documentary went into the bag

with my Virgina Wolf novels and my Pro-Choice rally name tag,

and my uncensored text book on evolutionary biology,

and my four year degree from a damn good University!

I left the bible where it was, propping up my old table,

and though I took the TV, I said "Fuck it!" to cable.

With two hundred hours of punk, reggie, and rock

loaded onto my IPod, it was almost time to stop.

And so finally, with my Greenpeace card tucked safe in my wallet,

I put it all in my Hybrid and took off for California!


 
Because blue is the color of my heart and blue are the thoughts in my head,

and blue is the color of blood running in the veins beneath my skin.

So I make no apologies, what I had to do I did,

because it's fucking hard to be a liberal when the whole

god-damned-state's-red!


 

 
Prologue to Life... or... What Else Should I do While The World Sleeps?


 
Cool air quenches my, sore throat,

crisp clarity cleansing the cough caused by coke coffee and

cigarettes,

consumed under the starry eyed  causeway of too much,

bad poetry and,

good weed.


 
We are all high,

we've just traded in one drug for another.

The canniboid and hallucinogenic

consciousness expanding antennas

pointing out to the cosmos

of a better tomorrow

have been unplugged;

hiding ourselves from the discovered

depths and distance of the human experience.


 
This the degree of emotional death in our society;

liquor store Hallmark cards using,

empty words to describe our own three ninety nine cent feelings.


 
What happened to those children of

modern thought?

Who traded in for

the RX prescription plateau of acceptance?

choosing the safety of hiding within themselves,

than facing the fear of their failed reality?

What is this glass wall

that separates us all

from our idealized conceptions?

Why would I rather change society,

the whole world,

to make

MY two halves whole;

than simply... change myself

to achieve the same result?


 
I will not be another shackled

Ebenezer Scrooge or Jacob Marley,

one of six billion,

ghost or slaves,

dragging, weighed down,

by the shackles and chains of

someone elses failing responsibility;

for unquestioned acceptance is

death;

dead before we even

knew we were alive...


 
NO! that is Not ME,

you see,

my beat;

isn't the sound of, live flesh against dead, of

palms pushing out aesthetic equations;

metal and glass and wood,

bombs and bullets and bullshit

isn't!

my music...


 
my music, my beat;

is the organ,

the four chambered rhythm of red reality, whose

internal echo is the air upon which, my

passionate notes float.   Your

passive silence is the chorus on which I play, my

off beat, my

off rhyme, my

self


 
to echo in,

This moment where the vitality of now and ability of imagination are,

indistinct.

This is,

my medium,

this is,

MY melody,

this is,

MY MUSIC,

and the silence where we are NOT

separated by words, you, embracing NOW,

either reflect, my

lite; or create your own;

but do not be another shadow in this

ever darkening

and silent world,


 
The alluring sirens song of

fear and complacency,

may tempt, but will NOT triumph

over our

Ignoble Human Spirit.


 

 

 

Waking Life

 
It's, five thirty, and silent sirens scream

blaring alarms that pierce this waking dream

Regression into the shower, waiting for the

 fetal truths to come in the dark womb of

warmth and shampoo in which I'm reborn.


 
What time is 6 o'clock when the world sleeps and steals my hallucinations of life?


 
My collective unconscious fills with the tribal beats of 50,000 years,

 coalesced into the spiral swirl of cream in coffee; whose galaxy today?


 
Lite up. the cigarette of false control

the day taking hold with caffeine and nicotine

enabling the the sleep walk of dressing like

every other individual.

Lite up with the addiction of happiness you cannot create on your own,

is happiness really worth the effort?


 
630- I see the world reflected in my smile... the world needs to brush more often. Where does the decay begin, 6 hours ago before my eyes were even closed tomorrows fate was sealed. How much less important than a single day am I?


 
Light! Camera! Makeup!


 
Central character in my small auxiliary role on this stage of self importance

self impotence

without awareness of our own drama we are flaccid to the power of the human condition; pull my strings, make me dance...

pull again, ill sell my soul,

just because i grab my own and give them a....

remote control to the radio television

satellite bowl hard wired access to my desires and goals,

doesn't mean I am more than a puppet.

all actors have free will


 
What else can I do but lay here and tune in and out and in to the cosmic roar of the universe.

 Or is it just the lonely echo of my own hidden consciousness's static

reminding me my

"broadcast will resume at the normally scheduled hour" of not yet


 
at Seven i discovered i was a false god.

I saw my perfection in the first full yellow rays; it looked nothing like me.

"Before it can be me I have to be me and I don't even know who me is!"


 
a thousand drops of dew trickle together down my life's windows, adding to the stream of thought

finally i am evaporated off this flat two dimensional plane into a world of deeper symmetry and meaning,


 
not 8

not time

not ready

no

shit driving down the road of potential catastrophe,

me, my car, my planet, my galaxy, flying in circles within circles, down predetermined lines of imagined meaning on the black nothingness of the universes asphalt highway

careening in a bubble of illusion where the maximum speed approaches infinite and space has no brake-lights.

Crash


 
crash slide trip fall spill into the office where lost in the reality of waking i see that the world has just begun to go to sleep. i open the door and enter the dream of life.  its time for bed.

wake up


 

 

 

Red Eye

 
"Buckle your safety belts, folks"

Guardian angles mime with vague and silent gestures

the emergency exits in case of emergencies

It's okay to scream. Not enough people do. Its easy to forget

stuffed for efficiency in a metal tube hurtling at speeds we can barley imagine two thin membranes of awkward jutting aluminum keeping several tons of important cargo

and its owners

soaring miles above the ground


 
We level off around 10,000 feet.


 
Do you want Coke or Diet?

You can't decide because the two year old three seats over is throwing a tantrum and anyone who doesn't believe in abortion has obviously never flown coach


 
look left to the deep sea of my emotions, out of which sticks the mountain of creativity surrounded by plateaus of laziness and dis-inspiration. Its a long burro ride to the top.


 
"We seem to be experiencing some nasty weather, take your seats please and put up your trays. Don't panic folks, we're just coming into another glass"


 
Teeth stained red reflected blue background error fuck windows. Tethered by the line which wraps around all writers throats as the gods of despair and drunkenness puppet another show midwifes to the anguished depression which are the contractions of talents birth C sectioned with a cigarette and scotch on the rocks left alone to endure the postpartum hangover of morning.


 
It's twenty one o'clock Pacific Standard Time, so set your watches back since we lose and hour for each one we gain approaching the night before tomorrow. Out your left you may see the cloud formations of drifting desire lingering over a town named after someone you've already forgotten whose face you remember better with your eyes closed.


 
Halfway home.


 
We've grown middle aged in out time together descending from the crest of our mutual ignorance of the wonder in our experience at all. Alternatively drifting and dropping the trip is lost before our minds have grasp that it's begun. Our first real look at the faceless mass of familiar strangers is usually our last. Considering the cost, it's always a pity, but it isn't a journey if we don't have an end.


 
The world shrinks as our destination approaches while the maps and globes are crumbled in the hands of time and technology into bits and balls bought and sold in the international market of our living rooms and kitchens hostels to the diplomats of profit and pleasure until we've Wal Mart-ed the Ikea to the Target of Ford McDonald's Microsoft Starbucks  -and-can-I-get-a-twelve cylinder-venti-super sized-order of-somebody help me please-on-the-side-with-that-to-go? for corporations business casual Sunday formal black tie sweatpants lunch meeting scheduled for the day after IS THIS REALLY MY FUCKING LIFE after which it is socially taboo to wear the color of your particular insanity.


 
Nauseating; the final few feet we fall with a faint fetid flavor wafting through the stale compressed air's last moments with plastic-lined paper bags holding the reruns of our delicate constitution's fragmented feelings. Emotional baggage rattling around in the overhead compartments of our stowed conscience, we rush to unfasten the seat-belts of obligation which fastened us to subjective reality as we trip over our neighbors in a rush to disembark the frightening flight of dis-poetic a-prose for safer and more secure grounds.


 
It's like watching a car accident paused halfway through slow motion in reverse. That's how you know you're having fun.


 
Thank you for flying to drunk to write
and too tiered to care airlines, we hope you enjoy your stay at whatever emotional landscape your left in.
Now excuse me while I discuss the journey from sobriety to spinning with my porcelain copilot,
followed by an in-depth study of the Carioles' effect in action.
Have a nice day! =)

On "Language Poetry"

 

 
A.        Language poetry. But what

            letter upon letter, syllables, words fucking

            a page, a paragraph, promiscuously birthing silence.

For what, if meaning is, dug, rooted, deep down

Both within and without the ejaculatory

Mess of black and white dots? Nothing. Spiraling

Into

            free flowing

                                    running

                                                slopping

                                                            spilling

                                                                        sssircling


 
                                    Shit.

[Part Z]            Otherwise known in the back of our minds,

                        we recognize "Language Poetry" in the inherent meaning

                        seen behind the symbol and beyond the symbolic, recessed

                        deep down as we contemplate a piece of crap

                        swirling in countless circles. The literal

Part IV. metaphysical connotation of the


 
DIII.      denotation of the


 
Ia.          "I am a Language Poet!" flushed down the black

              hole of porcelain and shit shat shot out the back (whose

              fucking hoarse? I don't even own a saddle) your mind.


 
I.            who knows, if it happens to land on paper,  I'll

              be published.


 

 
 Untitled

Burning from your soul

a hot spring of desire dripping from the deep caverns of your empty ache.

The taste of you, the coppery rich mineral essence of a stream

welling up from the dark fertile earth.

The scent of your sex, primal passion and primitive need overpowering the

artificial.

Beads of sweat wash you clean, leaving you stripped and bare of all

but your most secret self.

Quaking, quivering, legs stomach hips loins heart, fluttering, spasming.

Flutter, flutter until electric waves burst from within, and the fire of your

veins is drawn out upon great burning wings

which open, and you with them, soar.