Here is a collection of poems. The open mic is a great inspiration.
Freedumb
Life, what a joke.
A laugh so hard that it could only be a comedy–
bombs, haves and have nots, humans crawling on top of humanity
to rule everyone below and laugh defying gravity.
That’s the goal of life after all, right?
To be on top,
to reach the pinnacle,
to become so successful that you epitomize it all
to be satisfied
to be liked
to be fully entertained
to be able to be so much it’s hard to explain.
You want it all?
Yes, everything from everyone else.
Eyes glaring, staring, capturing every move.
You see that?
That’s success.
That right there in your sleep in your thoughts in your allness
in that big fat feeling of greatness
after you’ve been inspired to take on the world,
pooof!
Blow it out of your palm.
Can you handle the man that creeps up behind you in silence?
He gets so close that you can feel his breath.
Then he lets out the biggest laugh, Ha..Ha..haha.
That makes your heart skip and jump,
and you jump too.
This laugh was fast, deep from the belly of this hideous fool.
You can’t stand the laughter handle the startling shock after,
but you know you want to prevent it from ever happening again.
You must be present in the crowd at the circus.
Dreaming of becoming the maestro of the show, and you didn’t know
the whole thing’s as flimsy as a blade of grass.
Don’t want to cry so you laugh.
You look around and see everyone is laughing.
You bought the ticket in high hopes of being fully realized
while stuffing your face and loving how it tastes.
“Amusement here,” he whispers and leans closer.
“Amusement here,” he whispers again and laughs standing tall above the crowd, looking down at everyone.
My Son is dead
“Mom, it’s not sweet enough.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m serious”
“Me too.”
“You’ll be fine like the grains of sand I use to scrub the dead skin from my feet.
I’m swimming. I’ll see you soon.
You’ll be tucked under the fallen tree resting in the deepest crevasse beneath the waterfall.
I’ll found you around 2:30 in the afternoon
when the sun has passed its highest point on the way to the other side, just like you.
It will shine on your still opened eyes, and I’ll catch the flicker from water ripple to eyeball reflected back to sun in my vision on its way causing me to turn left and slightly downward.
I see you.
You stare at me,
me at you.
We have forgotten who is dead or alive.
In this moment we are together.
It is so sweet.
Tears are none.
We are already submerged under the crying cliff.
You remain.
I will be out of breath soon,
but I will always know where to find you.
What a dream…
I just feel so physically changed
so mentally rearranged.
How can I differentiate sanity from insane?
It’s not just my life.
I’m a wife.
I still have other kids to raise.
Contemplate earth and heavenly space.
Remain in praise.
On my knees,
on my knees,
on my knees,
please, I’m begging for relief,
the kind you promised even if you took all of my kids from me.
Can’t eat, no sleep, full of grief.
I thought your gift to me were all of my babies.
Yet here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
We remain together.
Here we can see,
but what we can’t see is eternity,
divine earthly tragedy
taking us to the place that we ourselves profess that we would rather be.
All this hypocrisy,
I’m right your wrong philosophy
confusing even the wisest human being.
How did you feel at 16?
Yet here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
We remain together.
We didn’t choose humanity.
We didn’t choose to understand tragedy.
It’s something that arises naturally inside of me.
Thank god for all these friends and family.
What else arises naturally?The soul?
The thoughts?
All of me?
The supple touch of infancy?
No longer will I say bye bye, baby bye bye
Never again will I have to say bye bye, baby bye bye.
Because here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
And together we remain forever.
All Welcome
How can we make poetry something understood more universally?
Because at the moment only I can understand me, and when I start to speak
it’s English made to exclude those that England could not defeat.
I communicate with more than speech, but in groups I retreat
to opening my mouth assuming everyone will understand me.
I want poetry more universal so that more people can share whats beneath
supports the tongue and cheeks flapping while we all look at the speaker
waiting for our turn to speak.
It’s a look at me and listen to what I am about to say, thing.
We do. We stop talking and begin to listen to you talk.
The language projects our ability to articulate what we think.
These words decipher what we think.
We command our prophecy with sentences from words we learned. We didn’t learn to think.
We learned to diminish our thoughts into something digestible.
We dumb down infinity and say something like I don’t know, and when we do know,
we say things that prove we don’t. We start off by saying did you know…?
And continue to describe the after life and how we all should subscribe to ensure that when we die our elevated life can continue into something divine.
Words dumb down thoughts into wrong and right.
Don’t chew with your mouth open cuz it’s not civilized.
Poetry is shackled by imperialist legacy.
Every language is different and most are based on he and she.
There has to be a way to express more of infinity
like expand poetry to become understood universally.
Still trying to take written word and spoken word into something more people can understand.
Da Vinci understood the limits. So he painted.
How can poetry become a painting,
an object open to interpretation not subject to the need to know a language?
Choices
lift my chin up.
Lick my lips prevent the dryness.
Packed inside a circus tent
paid my dues now where’s the highness.
Sitting on the railing out of shyness.
No one knows what I’m thinking.
No deodorant, always stinking.
Try to escape so I climb the railing.
Oh, now you see me.
It wasn’t until our eyes locked
that you wanted to be me.
Constantly dodging looks, barely into books,
lied about my looks and
mad cuz America is hooked on
lights, camera, no action
just sitting in front of the T.V. screen
making fun of all the acting.
Always retracting,
hiding behind my long hair, aggression and my glasses.
Never punched nobody just told fables of lights out, laughing.
Here comes the popcorn man,
the tamer of the lions,
petrified of 9 to 5 so I sit at home relaxing.
Documents of what I want, I know I have the talent,
but all I do is sit and wait and boil on wasted time.
I’m wasting all this limited time.
We all are but I know it’s deep inside me.
Force yourself to show yourself through all the mockery.
Throw yourself up off the shelf.
Go water the fucking flowers.
Pick up a book, don’t just look but
ponder upon it for hours.
No one forces you to move unless you’re in the way.
So much talent with broad strokes of Hamlet,
and so much tender love.
Love for Hip Hop and
Bee Bop and
artists with art shops and clothes made by hand
under duress cuz you know it will be hot.
Tired of sitting around waiting to be inspired.
Angry at walking the walk and talking the talk
but never ending up with that fire.
Searching for higher ground.
Looking for a crown that I put on my own head.
Satisfied with what I’ve done,
no longer want to be dead.
Can’t complain the life I live
I deserve to feel just rusty.
Never lift my fingers fast enough to
make my armpits musty.
Left dusty, old as fuck and not enough to make it pay.
At my moms with the A/C on
while the younger cats get under way:
Coming up with new technology,
understanding psychology,
got more energy that Hercules,
24 hours spent determined to make the dream,
some poor as fuck still screaming cream,
20 years old on the movie screen,
globally connected originality,
avoiding temptations of society,
already being what they want to be
while I’m held up
in an unlocked room
choosing not to be free.
The spell of comforts got me.
It’s holding on so tightly.
Heavy like a ball and chain,
its power on me mighty.
Attitude so flighty,
counting down the days until I’m gone again.
The road to nowhere, better off somewhere
anywhere else but here.
Then I’m gone and pondering on what the fuck I left for.
Was jonzing so bad to leave
I had my left foot out the front door,
obsessed with obsessing for more,
choices.
Interpreting noises,
poised up by my own annoyance.
Choices, they got me here alone again.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Staged Life
Precise,
economic circus ride.
Blame me for this rigid framed life
precision, economic structured circus living.
I was born into mainstream society.
You know, the one where money separates you from everything you need.
Humanity naturally thinks that morality is a corporate responsibility,
and as we move further from birth and closer to death at some point we reach maturity.
That’s when you have a job and
can afford to get all the things you’re taught to need.
Ring, ring, 7:30 alarm goes off to start the day.
Don’t play, don’t run away,
just stand in line, clock in and
don’t be late.
But, “you were born to be great…
“Some day, not today, that’s what the future holds,” my parents used to say.
Well if I was,
then they were
and you were, but
America needs a middle class because that’s how economics operates.
So stop drawing and put your pen away, and
start applying for some jobs.
Steadily pushed since birth from my bursts and
natural thirsts into lecture halls where I’m told
what I like and love are just hobbies meant for free time–if I have any at all.
Brain waves interpret the wake state just as a circus monkey needs to be trained, tamed to entertain.
Only entertainers need to be great.
Young man sit up in your seat straight.
Rules castrate, control the animals that populate.
No hands,
only machines precise, prevent, create.
It’s magic the life the hope tv portrays–clowns, ballet dancers,
jesters, acrobats and royalty, popcorn man,
lion tamers, bright lights, facades and VIP.
Yet, real life creates some rainy days–maintenance, transportation, cages, trash and security,
mockery, workers, lines judgements and impunity.
Economics needs this dichotomy.
It takes workers and rent to open a circus tent.
I bought my tickets ma’am can I go in?
“Come back in about an hour. The previous show has yet to stop.
In fact, why don’t you and your friends spend some money in the gift shop.”
Why?
Because it’s a framed life, precise, economic circus ride.
I do.
What do you do?
I do many things.
Why do you ask?
To break the silence.
What do you do?
Now you make me think.
Well…
I’ve been driving around looking for solace.
But I get paid to stay at my desk all damn day.
My job doesn’t teach me where the soul is.
I’m not even sure that grace knows my name.
I’m always looking forward toward the weekend.
That’s the only end that I’m not afraid to lose.
Surely someday I’ll retire,
and I’ll have stories then about what I’ve done for you.
Raised all of my children up and they went to college,
l’m leaving all of my grandchildren a million dollars,
but until I’m 6 feet in the ground and a beautiful tombstone,
to answer you frankly, I don’t know.
Convenient Store
Global war, mail-order whores, obsession for more
Walk in, glass doors secure concrete floors and boxes cardboard.
Gaze the maze. Isles of plastic wrapped indulgent denial.
Slap the hand of an enticed child with not enough cash to buy any trash.
Stuff pockets with chips and chewy chocolates.
Save room for rubbers and beer.
Stand clear of wet floors.
Hold open refrigerator doors for short skirts trapping objects in porn.
Liquid laced sucrose
splash chemical colors into cups held in hands
who’s owner feigns smoke from cigarettes behind the clerks stand.
Get in line
behind the next lucky lottery loser
spending his daughter’s lunch money on corporate predicted futures.
Impatiently wait
inhaling freon frozen air
provided by clean coal energy causing pollution.
Who cares.
“Next.”
Hand your cash to the clerk who stands there seeking asylum from Saddam Hussein.
Put your things in the plastic bag made to last a million years.
Walk out the door and throw it away.
How convenient your life is.
Isn’t it great?
Sit and just ponder
Packed my things and headed here.
In my mind I had to get clear.
Record player, guitar, some chips and headed not too far.
Hardly any traffic from my point of view.
Only had a couple cars in my rear view.
The freeway rolled right on,
in the wind blew the clouds and the sand.
I flipped a U turn and parked the van,
Plugged in the record player and here it began.
Opened the door and stepped out on the sand,
unfolded the chair and here I sat.
Only got up a couple of times
to change the record or follow the sunshine.
Came empty handed, other than that
between the road and the water that’s where I sat.
Watching commerce meet nature with planes over head,
seeing runners and walkers and blue to the end.
A few trees stand tall and been there all day.
A few flags and a truck parked and ready to save…
a few lives.
I couldn’t get enough of the B side riffs.
I turned that shit up; the sound headed for the cliffs
A flag waves over my passenger window
with peace in the paint that you can see when the wind blows.
Some kids on the inline skating the trail.
A few girls pass by and give no love at all.
All this around while no commotion in the sea,
just ripples of blue, white and green.
Some seagulls above and sailboats out yonder.
I came here to sit, see it all and just ponder.
Loneliness is thought to be so bad
Social norms foster community. We are born into sharing.
Something within society told us that to be alone means to be sad, angry, depressed and all together not good. Is society good?
Social norms produce war, famine, murder, greed, hatred, competition and more and condemn loneliness.
To be lonely just means to be away from all of those norms society hides from but is solely responsible for creating.
It’s worth a life long experience to question why loneliness is so despised.
An experience is the only way to cure the spell and be ok with sadness.
To be alone and sad prevents taking actions out on others.
There is only the loneliness to take it out on.
When the desire to be alone accompanies any other desire, even suicide,
it’s better than taking another with you.
Loneliness, the spell cast upon despots and junkies is the cure for anyone who needs to think.
In loneliness with no influence from another person, nothing can stop the mind from learning to trust the the thinker. The two work together.
Sadness is ok and loneliness is fine too.
Next to real
Pecking keyboard looking for somewhere to fit.
Search for somewhere families gather not just when death comes or holidays like Christmas,
but somewhere we all want to be, to see, to live; It just popped up with a click.
Could have been there 20 years ago had one known how to accept the body,
its feelings and something beyond worthless.
Tall, skinny, empty and looking confident
so torn from where society grows and learning how to sit
next the self that knows its real,
next to those that keep it real,
next to those that see real,
next to those that have everything complete,
next to those, oh fuck they know,
next to those that read with flow,
next to those that can change the world,
next to those who want it all and can have it if they try,
next to him, to her, to them, to us,
we all sit side by side.
Facing Death #1
“Babe, it’s not sweet enough.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m serious”
“Me too.”
“You’ll be fine like the grains of sand I use to scrub the dead skin from my feet.
I’m swimming. I’ll see you soon.
You’ll be tucked under the fallen tree resting in the deepest crevasse beneath the waterfall.
I’ll found you around 2:30 in the afternoon when the sun has passed its highest point
on the way to the other side, just like you.
It will shine on your still opened eyes, and I’ll catch the flicker from water ripple to eyeball reflected back to sun in my vision on it’s way causing me to turn left and slightly downward.
I’ll see you.
You’ll stare at me,
me at you.
I will forget who is dead or alive.
In that moment we will be together.
It will be so sweet.
Tears will be none.
I am already submerged under the crying cliff.
You remain.
I will be out of breath soon,
but I will always know where to find you.
Facing Death #2
Since I am already on death, I find that when I am facing death I have infinite thoughts.
I guess I have Infinite thoughts about everything.
Infinite about everything, what’s left?
Is life after death?
Do we even die?
I breathe and I feel,
does that mean I’m alive?
Is living not dying?
Is dying not living?
All these words attempt to describe
an experience,
do we experience death?
I mean, when my heart stops beating and I no longer answer your call
do I know what I’m feeling?
Am I, I?
To you, I am no longer alive.
To me, I am still questioning such a phenomenon.
I am asking about how I will feel when I die,
if I will experience the joy or other of such a sudden change.
When I saw you lying there covered in blood I called your name,
more than once,
more than twice.
I screamed “HEY, how can you stop at life?”
You remained so relaxed
like water spilt on the ground spreading effortlessly.
Are you experiencing anything?
Your eyes are still open.
Do you see hysteria?
Can you understand that I’m yelling at you?
At some point I accept that you’re dead,
but you’re still here.
I can see you.
Your’e staring at me.
Can you see me?
Say something.
Ok, don’t speak.
The dead do not talk.
They merely sleep.
So rest.
Be in peace.
However, I am not at peace.
Why?
Have I been taught to distance myself from death leaving a trail of tears along the way?
Your shoes are still at my house.
Should I walk only in those from today
and keep your life at my feet?
I’m shaking.
I’m shivering.
It’s so cold I can see my breath.
The lights shine through the broken glass.
The tires are still spinning.
The music is blasting.
It’s party time.
How can you be sleeping?
Sleeping, is that the same as dead?
Is death this peaceful resting?
At this moment I am facing death.
When you die, I am facing death.
When I die, I am facing death.
Here is a collection of poems.
The open mic is a great inspiration.
Freedumb
Life, what a joke.
A laugh so hard that it could only be a comedy–
bombs, haves and have nots, humans crawling on top of humanity
to rule everyone below and laugh defying gravity.
That’s the goal of life after all, right?
To be on top,
to reach the pinnacle,
to become so successful that you epitomize it all
to be satisfied
to be liked
to be fully entertained
to be able to be so much it’s hard to explain.
You want it all?
Yes, everything from everyone else.
Eyes glaring, staring, capturing every move.
You see that?
That’s success.
That right there in your sleep in your thoughts in your allness
in that big fat feeling of greatness
after you’ve been inspired to take on the world,
pooof!
Blow it out of your palm.
Can you handle the man that creeps up behind you in silence?
He gets so close that you can feel his breath.
Then he lets out the biggest laugh, Ha..Ha..haha.
That makes your heart skip and jump,
and you jump too.
This laugh was fast, deep from the belly of this hideous fool.
You can’t stand the laughter handle the startling shock after,
but you know you want to prevent it from ever happening again.
You must be present in the crowd at the circus.
Dreaming of becoming the maestro of the show, and you didn’t know
the whole thing’s as flimsy as a blade of grass.
Don’t want to cry so you laugh.
You look around and see everyone is laughing.
You bought the ticket in high hopes of being fully realized
while stuffing your face and loving how it tastes.
“Amusement here,” he whispers and leans closer.
“Amusement here,” he whispers again and laughs standing tall above the crowd, looking down at everyone.
My Son is dead
“Mom, it’s not sweet enough.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m serious”
“Me too.”
“You’ll be fine like the grains of sand I use to scrub the dead skin from my feet.
I’m swimming. I’ll see you soon.
You’ll be tucked under the fallen tree resting in the deepest crevasse beneath the waterfall.
I’ll found you around 2:30 in the afternoon
when the sun has passed its highest point on the way to the other side, just like you.
It will shine on your still opened eyes, and I’ll catch the flicker from water ripple to eyeball reflected back to sun in my vision on its way causing me to turn left and slightly downward.
I see you.
You stare at me,
me at you.
We have forgotten who is dead or alive.
In this moment we are together.
It is so sweet.
Tears are none.
We are already submerged under the crying cliff.
You remain.
I will be out of breath soon,
but I will always know where to find you.
What a dream…
I just feel so physically changed
so mentally rearranged.
How can I differentiate sanity from insane?
It’s not just my life.
I’m a wife.
I still have other kids to raise.
Contemplate earth and heavenly space.
Remain in praise.
On my knees,
on my knees,
on my knees,
please, I’m begging for relief,
the kind you promised even if you took all of my kids from me.
Can’t eat, no sleep, full of grief.
I thought your gift to me were all of my babies.
Yet here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
We remain together.
Here we can see,
but what we can’t see is eternity,
divine earthly tragedy
taking us to the place that we ourselves profess that we would rather be.
All this hypocrisy,
I’m right your wrong philosophy
confusing even the wisest human being.
How did you feel at 16?
Yet here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
We remain together.
We didn’t choose humanity.
We didn’t choose to understand tragedy.
It’s something that arises naturally inside of me.
Thank god for all these friends and family.
What else arises naturally?The soul?
The thoughts?
All of me?
The supple touch of infancy?
No longer will I say bye bye, baby bye bye
Never again will I have to say bye bye, baby bye bye.
Because here we are together.
Yes, here we are together.
And together we remain forever.
All Welcome
How can we make poetry something understood more universally?
Because at the moment only I can understand me, and when I start to speak it’s English
made to exclude those that England could not defeat.
I communicate with more than speech,
but in groups I retreat
to opening my mouth assuming everyone will understand me.
I want poetry more universal
so that more people can share whats beneath
supports the tongue and cheeks flapping
while we all look at the speaker
waiting for our turn to speak.
It’s a look at me and listen to what I am about to say, thing.
We do. We stop talking and begin to listen to you talk.
The language projects our ability
to articulate what we think.
These words decipher what we think.
We command our prophecy
with sentences from words we learned.
We didn’t learn to think.
We learned to diminish our thoughts
into something digestible.
We dumb down infinity, and say something like
I don’t know, and when we do know,
we say things that prove we don’t.
We start off by saying did you know…?
And continue to describe the after life
and how we all should subscribe
to ensure that when we die our elevated life
can continue into something divine.
Words dumb down thoughts into wrong and right.
Don’t chew with your mouth open cuz it’s not civilized.
Poetry is shackled by imperialist legacy.
Every language is different
and most are based on he and she.
There has to be a way to express more of infinity
like expand poetry to become understood universally.
Still trying to take written word and spoken word into something more people understood.
Da Vinci understood the limits. So he painted.
How can poetry become a painting,
an object open to interpretation
not subject to the need to know a language?
Choices
Choices
lift my chin up.
Lick my lips prevent the dryness.
Packed inside a circus tent
paid my dues now where’s the highness.
Sitting on the railing out of shyness.
No one knows what I’m thinking.
No deodorant, always stinking.
Try to escape so I climb the railing.
Oh, now you see me.
It wasn’t until our eyes locked
that you wanted to be me.
Constantly dodging looks, barely into books,
lied about my looks and
mad cuz America is hooked on
lights, camera, no action
just sitting in front of the T.V. screen
making fun of all the acting.
Always retracting,
hiding behind my long hair, aggression and my glasses.
Never punched nobody just told fables of lights out, laughing.
Here comes the popcorn man,
the tamer of the lions,
petrified of 9 to 5 so I sit at home relaxing.
Documents of what I want, I know I have the talent,
but all I do is sit and wait and boil on wasted time.
I’m wasting all this limited time.
We all are but I know it’s deep inside me.
Force yourself to show yourself through all the mockery.
Throw yourself up off the shelf.
Go water the fucking flowers.
Pick up a book, don’t just look but
ponder upon it for hours.
No one forces you to move unless you’re in the way.
So much talent with broad strokes of Hamlet,
and so much tender love.
Love for Hip Hop and
Bee Bop and
artists with art shops and clothes made by hand
under duress cuz you know it will be hot.
Tired of sitting around waiting to be inspired.
Angry at walking the walk and talking the talk
but never ending up with that fire.
Searching for higher ground.
Looking for a crown that I put on my own head.
Satisfied with what I’ve done,
no longer want to be dead.
Can’t complain the life I live
I deserve to feel just rusty.
Never lift my fingers fast enough to
make my armpits musty.
Left dusty, old as fuck and not enough to make it pay.
At my moms with the A/C on
while the younger cats get under way:
Coming up with new technology,
understanding psychology,
got more energy that Hercules,
24 hours spent determined to make the dream,
some poor as fuck still screaming cream,
20 years old on the movie screen,
globally connected originality,
avoiding temptations of society,
already being what they want to be
while I’m held up
in an unlocked room
choosing not to be free.
The spell of comforts got me.
It’s holding on so tightly.
Heavy like a ball and chain,
its power on me mighty.
Attitude so flighty,
counting down the days until I’m gone again.
The road to nowhere, better off somewhere
anywhere else but here.
Then I’m gone and pondering on what the fuck I left for.
Was jonzing so bad to leave
I had my left foot out the front door,
obsessed with obsessing for more,
choices.
Interpreting noises,
poised up by my own annoyance.
Choices, they got me here alone again.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Staged Life
Precise,
economic circus ride.
Blame me for this rigid framed life
precision, economic structured circus living.
I was born into mainstream society.
You know, the one where money separates you from everything you need.
Humanity naturally thinks that morality is a corporate responsibility,
and as we move further from birth and closer to death at some point we reach maturity.
That’s when you have a job and
can afford to get all the things you’re taught to need.
Ring, ring, 7:30 alarm goes off to start the day.
Don’t play, don’t run away,
just stand in line, clock in and
don’t be late.
But, “you were born to be great…
“Some day, not today, that’s what the future holds,” my parents used to say.
Well if I was,
then they were
and you were, but
America needs a middle class because that’s how economics operates.
So stop drawing and put your pen away, and
start applying for some jobs.
Steadily pushed since birth from my bursts and
natural thirsts into lecture halls where I’m told,
what I like and love are just hobbies meant for free time–if I have any at all.
Brain waves interpret the wake state just as a circus monkey needs to be trained, tamed to entertain.
Only entertainers need to be great.
Young man sit up in your seat straight.
Rules castrate, control the animals that populate.
No hands,
only machines precise, prevent, create.
It’s magic the life the hope tv portrays–clowns, ballet dancers,
jesters, acrobats and royalty, popcorn man,
lion tamers, bright lights, facades and VIP.
Yet, real life creates some rainy days–maintenance, transportation, cages, trash and security,
mockery, workers, lines judgements and impunity.
Economics needs this dichotomy.
It takes workers and rent to open a circus tent.
I bought my tickets ma’am can I go in?
“Come back in about an hour. The previous show has yet to stop.
In fact, why don’t you and your friends spend some money in the gift shop.”
Why?
Because it’s a framed life, precise, economic circus ride.
I do
What do you do?
I do many things.
Why do you ask?
To break the silence.
What do you do?
Now you make me think.
Well…
I’ve been driving around looking for solace.
But I get paid to stay at my desk all damn day.
My job doesn’t teach me where the soul is.
I’m not even sure that grace knows my name.
I’m always looking forward toward the weekend.
That’s the only end that I’m not afraid to lose.
Surely someday I’ll retire,
and I’ll have stories then about what I’ve done for you.
Raised all of my children up and they went to college,
l’m leaving all of my grandchildren a million dollars,
but until I’m 6 feet in the ground and a beautiful tombstone,
to answer you frankly, I don’t know.
Convenient Store
Global war, mail-order whores, obsession for more
Walk in, glass doors secure concrete floors and boxes cardboard.
Gaze the maze. Isles of plastic wrapped indulgent denial.
Slap the hand of an enticed child with not enough cash to buy any trash.
Stuff pockets with chips and chewy chocolates.
Save room for rubbers and beer.
Stand clear of wet floors.
Hold open refrigerator doors for short skirts trapping objects in porn.
Liquid laced sucrose
splash chemical colors into cups held in hands
who’s owner feigns smoke from cigarettes behind the clerks stand.
Get in line
behind the next lucky lottery loser
spending his daughter’s lunch money on corporate predicted futures.
Impatiently wait
inhaling freon frozen air
provided by clean coal energy causing pollution.
Who cares.
“Next.”
Hand your cash to the clerk who stands there seeking asylum from Saddam Hussein.
Put your things in the plastic bag made to last a million years.
Walk out the door and throw it away.
How convenient your life is.
Isn’t it great?
Sit and Ponder
Packed my things and headed here.
In my mind I had to get clear.
Record player, guitar, some chips and headed not too far.
Hardly any traffic from my point of view.
Only had a couple cars in my rear view.
The freeway rolled right on,
in the wind blew the clouds and the sand.
I flipped a U turn and parked the van,
Plugged in the record player and here it began.
Opened the door and stepped out on the sand,
unfolded the chair and here I sat.
Only got up a couple of times
to change the record or follow the sunshine.
Came empty handed, other than that
between the road and the water that’s where I sat.
Watching commerce meet nature with planes over head,
seeing runners and walkers and blue to the end.
A few trees stand tall and been there all day.
A few flags and a truck parked and ready to save…
a few lives.
I couldn’t get enough of the B side riffs.
I turned that shit up; the sound headed for the cliffs
A flag waves over my passenger window
with peace in the paint that you can see when the wind blows.
Some kids on the inline skating the trail.
A few girls pass by and give no love at all.
All this around while no commotion in the sea,
just ripples of blue, white and green.
Some seagulls above and sailboats out yonder.
I came here to sit, see it all and just ponder.
Loneliness is thought to be so bad
Social norms foster community.
We are born into sharing.
Something within society told us that to be alone
means to be sad, angry, depressed
and all together not good. Is society good?
Social norms produce war, famine, murder, greed, hatred, competition and more and condemn loneliness.
To be lonely just means to be away
from all of those norms society hides from
but is solely responsible for creating.
It’s worth a life long experience to question why loneliness is so despised.
An experience is the only way to cure the spell
and be ok with sadness.
To be alone and sad prevents taking actions
out on others.
There is only the loneliness to take it out on.
When the desire to be alone
accompanies any other desire, even suicide,
it’s better than taking another with you.
Loneliness, the spell cast upon despots and junkies is the cure for anyone who needs to think.
In loneliness with no influence from another person, nothing can stop the mind from learning to trust the thinker. The two work together.
Sadness is ok and loneliness is fine too.
Next to real
Pecking keyboard looking for somewhere to fit.
Search for somewhere families gather
not just when death comes or holidays like Christmas,
but somewhere we all want to be, to see, to live;
It just popped up with a click.
Could have been there 20 years ago
had one known how to accept the body,
its feelings and something beyond worthless.
Tall, skinny, empty and looking confident
so torn from where society grows
and learning how to sit
next the self that knows its real,
next to those that keep it real,
next to those that see real,
next to those that have everything complete,
next to those, oh fuck they know,
next to those that read with flow,
next to those that can change the world,
next to those who want it all and can have it if they try,
next to him, to her, to them, to us,
we all sit side by side.
Facing Death #1
“Babe, it’s not sweet enough.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’m serious”
“Me too.”
“You’ll be fine like the grains of sand I use
to scrub the dead skin from my feet.
I’m swimming. I’ll see you soon.
You’ll be tucked under the fallen tree
resting in the deepest crevasse beneath the waterfall.
I’ll found you around 2:30 in the afternoon
when the sun has passed its highest point
on the way to the other side, just like you.
It will shine on your still opened eyes,
and I’ll catch the flicker from water ripple to eyeball reflected back to sun in my vision on it’s way
causing me to turn left and slightly downward.
I’ll see you.
You’ll stare at me,
me at you.
I will forget who is dead or alive.
In that moment we will be together.
It will be so sweet.
Tears will be none.
I am already submerged under the crying cliff.
You remain.
I will be out of breath soon,
but I will always know where to find you.”
Facing Death #2
Since I am already on death,
I find that when I am facing death
I have infinite thoughts.
I guess I have Infinite thoughts about everything.
Infinite about everything, what’s left?
Is life after death?
Do we even die?
I breathe and I feel,
does that mean I’m alive?
Is living not dying?
Is dying not living?
All these words attempt to describe
an experience,
do we experience death?
I mean, when my heart stops beating
and I no longer answer your call
do I know what I’m feeling?
Am I, I?
To you, I am no longer alive.
To me, I am still questioning such a phenomenon.
I am asking about how I will feel when I die,
if I will experience the joy
or other of such a sudden change.
When I saw you lying there covered in blood
I called your name,
more than once,
more than twice.
I screamed “HEY, how can you stop at life?”
You remained so relaxed
like water spilt on the ground spreading effortlessly.
Are you experiencing anything?
Your eyes are still open.
Do you see hysteria?
Can you understand that I’m yelling at you?
At some point I accept that you’re dead,
but you’re still here.
I can see you.
Your’e staring at me.
Can you see me?
Say something.
Ok, don’t speak.
The dead do not talk.
They merely sleep.
So rest.
Be in peace.
However, I am not at peace.
Why?
Have I been taught to distance myself from death leaving a trail of tears along the way?
Your shoes are still at my house.
Should I walk only in those from today
and keep your life at my feet?
I’m shaking.
I’m shivering.
It’s so cold I can see my breath.
The lights shine through the broken glass.
The tires are still spinning.
The music is blasting.
It’s party time.
How can you be sleeping?
Sleeping, is that the same as dead?
Is death this peaceful resting?
At this moment I am facing death.
When you die, I am facing death.
When I die, I am facing death.