#0078 - Quicksand

Reality is alit with dissimilarities and likenesses:
duality.
Moving through crowds and emptiness with subdued celerity,
the steps of a klutz overtaking finesse,

the stint I find sitting upon me oppresses
my individuality,
trapped in crude arrest: a mentality
of denying creative access

that would otherwise roam free, God bless,
in a virtual reality
that is at least real to me -
more real than the hermetically sealed casket that bears our address.

#0077 - On Undue Extravagance

I feel as if it isn't hard to write
A poem that can tempt the genius mind.
Weave stories of a turtle with a kite,
And soon in such a mind you'll likely find:
The turtle is a slovenly reject
And, as such, lumbers like an ugly slug
Presenting sloth as something to reject
Else one's life passes like that of a bug.
The kite is brilliant opportunity
Forsaken by a lazy, useless beast
That though we easily can view and see
Flies off into the vastly empty east.
     Though, truthfully, I only wanted to
     Write something for a child in preschool.

#0076 - 18

I wonder what has changed so drastically in the neurotic synapses in my brain
that as of 5 days ago I can now go out for a relaxing smoke break;
I can now give new life and shelter to my own human being;
I can now swear my endless loyalty to a pretty girl;
I can now drink my way into a blissful oblivion;
I can now fire bullets in foreign lands;
and buy 700 horses set on wheels.

From what I know, the hidden corners of my school smell like nicotine and marijuana;
infants have been birthed by girls still attending classes I passed long ago;
girls much younger than I have been with men much older than I;
boys much younger than I have taken sacramental wine;
teens have taken up arms in nationalistic service;
and 16-year-olds have crashed cars.

So why do I now suddenly hold a skeleton key in my hand?

#0075 - Nighttime

The window of my darkened room
gives way to moonlight's lunar rays,
and as I sit here, grimly think-
-ing, peace leaves me while silence stays.

Here I think of all and no-
-thing, mind confused and soul attuned
to this strange night where I have quick-
-ly found myself a sullen lune.

I think I think of something, but
I'm not sure what I'm thinking of.
The gears within my head are shift-
-ing as the shadows dance above

my head that rests upon this pill-
-ow softer than my hardened feel-
-ings, catching all my unknown doubts
in restless peace, in restful sleep.

#0073 - Thought 16

Why not
wander through
the chasms of life
with a smile
upon your face?

#0072 - Thought 15

There it was,
our bright, naïve hope.
Left the shelter of our shells,
found its way into a harsh reality.

#0070 - Alchemy

21 ounces nicotine
19 ounces cocaine
1 razor
1 straw
2 grams heroine
1 syringe
15 ounces marijuana
1 lighter
22 ounces liquor
55 ounces beer
1 glass

And thus,
the ingredients to my magical potion.
I call it the "Elixir of Joy."

The concoction that makes me happy,
plasters a smile upon my face
up until I pass out,
and even then I get to dream of fun, ridiculous things.

#0069 - Advice

I promise I am not controlled
by failure or by fear.
I simply take advice where I
can find it, far or near.

And I have learned a simple thing
about others' advice:
that those who give wise words are oft-
-en scarred and bruised by vice.

The best advice will come from those
who've rolled and bathed in mud,
and those whose countless leaps of faith
have colored them in blood.

The best advice will come from those
who've felt their kind hearts shatter,
and those who stare at blades and rope
and into murky water.

The best advice will come from those
who've screamed and fought and cried,
and those poor souls who've been betrayed
or to whom others lied.

Though when the times are good the on-
-ly thoughts I need are mine,
in darkness I'll take words of those
whose times are worse than mine.

#0067 - "When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless?"

When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless?

Is it strange to say that I need not smile to be happy?
Is it strange to say that I need not cry to be sad?

Is it strange to say that I need not sulk to be disappointed?
Is it strange to say that I need not boast to be proud?

Is it strange to say that I need not kiss to love?
Is it strange to say that I need not insult to hate?

Is it strange to say that I need not waste my time to embrace permanence?
Is it strange to say that I need not treasure my time to embrace transience?

Is it strange to say that I need not be opulent to be rich?
Is it strange to say that I need not be destitute to be poor?

When have I ever given the impression that I am emotionless,
Compassionless,
Mindless,
Thoughtless,
Or any other -less when compared to anyone else?

#0065 - Memoir

I don't need this memoir, this souvenir.
I never liked these memories,
and I don't now,
and I still won't for a long time.

But I'll keep this anyways.

Maybe one day,
once I'm old and senile,
I'll have forgotten all of the bad
and this will only bring to mind good times.

#0063 - Haiku VI

Wind moving through leaves:
It makes them fall gently, and
Without brazen noise.

#0062 - Life Personified as a Connoisseur of Art

Here,
Take that moment.
No, no; that one.
Yes, that one right there,
with the gorgeous horizon
supplemented by colours that just explode in brilliance,
and highlighted by the clear, idyllic passions of the artist.
Perfect.

Alright, put it up on...
That wall.
Yes:
that backdrop will truly make that landscape shine
like a sky of endless blue.

There you are.
But no, it's a little crooked.
Tilt it to the left, please.
There.
No, no, no.
Stop!
That's too much.
A little to your right.
Apologies, I meant to say my right.
Little bit more.
A minuscule amount more.
There.
Perfection.

It's a little high, though -
the distance between it and the ceiling is far greater
than the distance between it and the ground;
can you raise it a bit?
Yes.
Oh, my.
Perfect. Outstanding.
Now shift it a little to the left...
A little more...
There we are.
Now let me look at it for just a moment.....

Hm.

On second thought,
I don't really like the sunflower in the corner -
the splash of yellow is totally unwarranted.
There's some tinder in the attic:
could you just burn that moment in the backyard for me?

#0061 - "I guess this is what Prometheus felt like"

I guess this is what Prometheus felt like
after achieving the unachievable
- taking the fire of the gods -
and then being exiled
to a lonely existence
upon a jagged mountainside.

This is how he felt
when the world became null
and the only sensation he experienced
was that of bloody vultures plucking out his innards.

#0060 - "There is a man in the Sahara right now"

There is a man in the Sahara right now, I assure you.
He is thirsty and hungry; I can assure you of that too.
While you’re complaining about the coming rain,
His blood-red, sun-kissed arms create a world of pain
That he survives with gritted teeth, day in and day out,
Whilst you blindly fail to recognize the clout
That you’ve expressed upon the fortunes.
He trudges through fields of cacti, over desert dunes
As you walk with clear exasperation up a flight of stairs,
And while his breaths shorten and his dry, ravaged skin tears
Open, you’re traversing down a mindless path, devoid of cares.
Maybe there’s simply nothing else that you know,
But you’re not in a harsh, merciless desert right now.
If only you would acknowledge that you’re living in blissful fatuity,
Living in beautiful frivolity.

#0059 - Haiku V

Obserwuj kiedy
Spadam, miliona mil nad
Parzącą wodą.

#0058 - Haiku IV

Metallurgy is
Finding beauty in crudeness.
It's not unlike love.

#0057 - Silence

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

Silence.

Noise.

...you can hear the monotony of the world.

#0056 - "Sometimes my poetry is a puzzle"

Sometimes my poetry is a puzzle or struggle;
a challenge overcome, a mystery to be solved.
The word I choose to rhyme with “stomp” or “sell” or “sea”
is an answer to a question in a game of Jeopardy.

Assonance in my tertiary troubles
turns out to be a tool of the trade.
Alliteration also,
and always alluding to Ares and Achilles -

Greek legends, unique, but both bound by war;
not much different from men -
whether writing haikus or taming wolves,
always drawn to bullets and pikes.

The pieces come together.

Sometimes my poetry is a river:
it flows and flows and doesn’t stop until it’s run dry.
Even a mountain won’t stop it;
rather, earthen masses simply split one stream of consciousness into two.

Sometimes my poetry is a painting
I’ve stared at for hours without finishing,
and sometimes it’s an accidental coffee stain
from which I draw my inspiration.

Here or there,
this or that,
my poetry is always the universe of my mind
finding its way into tumultuous reality.

#0055 - Somber Thoughts

They fill my head like sludge.
Like tar.
Like quicksand.

They're ubiquitous like air or death,
weighed down to form a
5-ton paperweight that holds down thoughts
like a suffocating slough of venomous snakes.

I am Atlas,
bearing the weight of the world
and twice that.

I am Prometheus,
Constantly having my innards plucked out
by a swarm of gloomy vultures.

I am Icarus,
burning like a gasoline-coated match from the Sun's heat
any time I try to rise more than a meter from the Earth.

I am all of the gruesome Greek legends and tragedies
rolled neatly into one
pitiful,
suffocating,
drowning,
somber
mess.

#0054 - Thought 14

Here I sit,
waiting in silence
for the arrival of Hell.

#0052 - "My mind is often thinking of an end"

My mind is often thinking of an end
To all I hate and, more so, all I love.
I think of how I could somehow append
More time to life: I fear both goat and dove.
Yet flowers never wish they could live on
Once seeds of theirs have spread across the land:
As soon as offspring are assured 'pon yon-
-der hills, they quick succumb to time's bleak hand.
Old canines, felines, insects and the Jay,
Once coming near their end, they simply lie:
They do not dramatize their deaths, and they
Don't mope 'pon knowing that their time is nigh.
     It's strange to know that death I always fear
     When everything its end must one day near.

#0051 - Cinquain II

Fire rises,
Always heading
Upwards to the blue sky.
I wish I could emulate its
Courage.

#0050 - "Wake"

             Wake
             Walk
             Stop
             See
             Think
             Speak
             Do
             Return
             Sleep

Wake             

Travel             

Pause             

Comprehend             

Understand             

Ask             

Perform             

Return             

Dream             

#0049 - "Don't trick yourself with tinted looking glass"

Don't trick yourself with tinted looking glass.
Experience the passing time with ardour,
For even sun and moon will one day pass.

Though one can't see the Earth in all its mass,
Nor pinpoint each and every linen pucker,
Don't trick yourself with tinted looking glass.

Do not think never-ending growing grass,
Do not think never-ending florid verdure,
For even sun and moon will one day pass.

The world can falsely pretty be. Alas,
Perceiving what it truly is is harder:
Don't trick yourself with tinted looking glass.

Be wary of assumptions quick and crass:
Your moments, gifts, are ephemeral succour,
For even sun and moon will one day pass.

Don't give yourself to thoughtless, dull impasse:
Live in the moment with an innate fervour.
Don't trick yourself with tinted looking glass,
For even sun and moon will one day pass.

#0048 - "I apologize if I am anachronistic"

I apologize if I am anachronistic or be-
-hind the times. I promise I don't mean to be.
This is the tumultuous hive of the bumblebee.

These sounds and colours are my muse; they're
Ever-present and never lacking in their
Brilliance. I at once am not and simultaneously at once am here and there.

It isn't just an éclat of unmoving colours I see,
But rather a swirling, turbulent sea
Of something like alphabet soup, since each wave forms a rolling "C."

Under the surface of the waters, everything is a manta ray
Whose slick skin is alight with the sun's ray.
A singsong voice in my head sings do and re

With an eventual, sonorous mi,
Which expresses its perception of the world to me.
I adore but never mimic the sun and moon and moon and stars in their beautiful bigamy.

#0047 - Haiku III

Placid pondwater.
Even a slight breeze of wind
Can form ripples, waves.

#0046 - Cinquain I

The sky,
In all of its
Everlasting beauty,
Is too distant: I can never
Touch it.

#0045 - Exploration #1

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NaPoWriMo 2016: Retrospect

Throughout the month of April, I wrote one poem every day in recognition of National Poetry Writing Month.

I must say, it was a fun experience. More than anything, it gave me me quite the literary adrenaline boost, which I feel will likely cause me to be considerably more eager to write more poetry than I may have otherwise. It's a good feeling, being part of a mass movement of poets from across the nation and across the globe. I will admit, some days I was bogged down by the various obstacles that life has to throw at you and ended up writing four - or even just two - short lines of text for the day. That in itself was also a good experience, though; that is, learning how to use words not just when they are in abundance but also when they are wanting. Well, I thank Maureen Thorson for having started this wonderful event, and I hope to participate again next year!

                

#0044 - "Drizzle, drizzle, little weasel;"

Drizzle, drizzle, little weasel;
Let your tears fall to the carpet.
Trick me once, you’ll be forgiven.
Trick me twice, and you’re a weasel.

Laughter comes to you as sadness:
Fake and underpinned by cunning.
Tears and laughter that you offer
Only search for thoughtless pity.

By your tricks I’ve been deceived, but
I won’t in your presence falter
Once again, for what you’ve done has
Left its mark upon my conscience.

Thanks to you my trust has faltered:
I no longer wish to be a
Punching bag for honeyed parlance.
Drizzle, weasel: I’ll ignore you.

#0043 - "Green is not the only hue of nature"

Water flowing through the wooded acres,
Carving paths through Daisy-littered grasslands:
Visions I consider ever sacred.

Feel the grassy carpet with your hands and
Do not fear the clouds that fill the distance;
Knowledge, beauty: both are framed by bookends.

Find your place within this precious silence,
Fearing not the storm that's soon arriving;
Rain is part of nature's peaceful parlance.

Drizzle, rain, for now you're steady falling.
Fill this lush verdure and florid pasture,
Fill this landscape with your silent roaring.

Green is not the only hue of nature.

#0042 - "Hush"

Hush, my child.

I know you wish to know why the ocean waves churn in sea shells.
I know you wish to know why the sky is the same color as your eyes.
I know you wish to know why the stars only come out in the nighttime.
I know you wish to know why the end of the rainbow is never ever found.
I know you want to know why some things taste good and some things taste bad.
I know you want to know why some nights you have dreams and some nights you don't.
I know you want to know why some words you're not allowed to say without trouble.
I know you want to know why some people like to hurt or ignore each other.
I know you wonder why we exchange paper instead of simply sharing.
I know you wonder why we are sometimes so afraid of each other.
I know you wonder why we don't dream once we're "old."
I know you wonder why we are all so...strange.

But honestly, my child,
Often I feel that I know even less than you do.

#0041 - "Winter always ends"

Our doors were frozen over - we were blocked in.
The winds outside howled as if retribution for some grave sin.
Through days and nights the snow grew,
Always somewhere in alteration between a polar tundra or slough.
The pale white was never less than three meters deep,
And through the cracks in our walls the cold winds would seep.
The raging Winter went on for many nights:
Ostensibly never-ending, but then we saw a light
Outline our shutters. It was a shade of white and yellow
That melted away the dull, cold grey of the snow.
We all clamored to the window to gaze upon our discovery,
Pulling close to the icy glass to see what we could see.
About ten meters from the front-facing wall of our battered house
Was a spot of green grass that refused to espouse
The totalitarian grate that the Winter loudly proclaimed,
And its own spot in the wasteland of frost it claimed.
From this patch of green we watched as, slowly, a bud appeared.
It lifted itself out of the earth: through the freezing cold it seared.
In an explosion of florid brilliance, it opened its little bud
To show its magnificent Rose - the lifeblood
Of this barren land. As we watched, we forgot the winter's billowing
And thought of the coming sun and Spring.
We remembered that grey clouds will always make amends
With blue sky, and that Winter always ends.

#0040 - Thought 13

I know that life is as complex as calculus,
and that it is more tremendous than La Terre.

I simply ask that you help by refraining from confusing me,
for I am vulnerable to distractions.

#0039 - "While walking through this sunlit glade"

While walking through this sunlit glade
Well-brightened by this sunny day,
As I was passing, 'long the way,
I chanced upon a fresh bouquet

Of Daisy, Lavender and Rose,
Whose florid odors filled my nose.
From this bouquet my vision rose;
Among the trees were scattered does.

With wary eyes they stared at me,
Who in their home they first time see;
They wonder who this beast could be,
Residing in their forestry.

The flowers are of lovely hue,
But stirring fear I'd quickly rue;
And so I move along in lieu
Of picking florid red and blue.

#0038 - Thought 12

I'm not sure which is more frightening:
Plato's fire,
or the dark shadows it casts.

#0037 - "Sharp curves and curved edges"

Sharp curves and curved edges
fill my world
in a cacophony of paradox
and juxtaposition.

Fatuity is thick in the air,
oozing like blood through
the convocation of superficial speech
singing dissonances
that resonate in my ringing ears.

I move by stumbling,
and no one perceives my near-falls;
I wonder what the reaction will be
when the concrete and asphalt
finally speed up to meet me
in a brief, painful "hello."

I wish silence filled the air
rather than these sounds and stares.

#0036 - Thought 11

The attic
is not filled
with things
we don't need.

#0035 - Thought 10

I don't think ingesting chemicals would be so enticing

If they weren't served at brightly-colored restaurants.

#0034 - Thought 9

It's too cold to the North,
Too hot to the West,
Too dark to the South,
Too bright to the East.

#0033 - Haiku II

Flames provide warm light.
Though, if one ventures too close
They'll likely be burned.

#0032 - Thought 8

I'd like to sail into the horizon.

To find my way to that curve at the end of infinity

Where the Atlantic shoulders of the ocean hold up the clouds and sky.

To fall off the End of the Earth;

To disappear.

#0031 - "Pain manifests itself in many ways"

Pain manifests itself in many ways.

Sometimes it's a wave:
it ebbs and it grows.

Sometimes it's a dose
of poison, sinking slowly, unnoticed, into your blood.

Sometimes it's a gargantuan marsh of slush and mud
that you wallow endlessly through; a viscous mire.

Sometimes it's a violent explosion of raging fire,
an all-consuming inferno centered on you.

In any case, the worst you can ever do
with your pain is to leave it unchecked and let it fester

rather than making amends and laying your pain to rest.

#0030 - Thought 7

Seconds:
 Longer than instants,
 Shorter than moments.

#0029 - Thought 6

If you enjoy a poem,
or even if you're hurt by one,

Chances are
you would benefit from getting to know the poet.

#0028 - An Ode to Dioxygen

Air.
It is the one thing in this world that I desire more than anything else;
The one thing in this world that fills my day as unyieldingly as sound or seconds.

Air.
It courses through my body,
Charging my movements like the electricity running through my phone,
Flowing through my veins like the water that fills the depths of the Congo.

Air.
It is the puppeteer standing behind the combustion of my car engine,
The mastermind behind the neurotic synapses that gave birth to e=mc²,
The lifeline that everyone is unknowingly betting their life on,
Our omniscient companion that we only think to miss when our head is under waves.

Air.
It is what I think most deserves a "thank you" on Thanksgiving:
For providing us with the beauty of music through its rhythmic reverberations
And for the cool breeze that remedies searing sunlight from a summer sky.
A "thank you" for the energy it provides after passing through the mills of Kansas,
And for the lift that brought the Wright Brothers up from the ground and into fame.

Air.
It lends its hand not just to me but to those that I love.
I thank it everyday for giving life to a pair of human beings that have raised me,
For giving life to friends that have been and friends that are now,
And for being ready to catch and provide for the children I will one day have.

Air.
It is my best friend and my immortal companion,
My always loyal Passepartout,
My always faithful Watson.

Air.
I guess the thing I like most about air is that, no matter what,
It will always be there for you.

#0027 - "Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor"

Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor;
A cacophonous noise: calamity.
Its piercing clattering turns mine ears sore;
A failure vast of mine dexterity.
A wetness in mine eyes I feel hath stirr'd -
'Tis quickly seen that I am thus contrite,
For saltine tears have been with speed incurr'd;
They redden eyes and blur mine once-keen sight.
They make my failure to the world be known -
'Tis thus to others quickly realiz'd.
My failure resonates through flesh and bone:
A wronging worse than could have been surmis'd.
     A mourning time, but I myself console:
     A fallen pen should not my life control.

#0026 - "Costs are naught when time is set aside"

With time, the nightly hours spent alone
Gave eager way to conscious, lawless trysts.
Returning nightly to my dreams' abode,
Following moonlit hug, embrace and kiss.
Dust gathers, slowly coats leather-bound books
Sitting neglected on my wooden shelves -
For them my thoughts no longer long or ache,
But rather seek to with my other dwell.
Strings pegged on a guitar, strung tight as coils,
Are tense, but not as are my longing whims.
Like snapping strings my mind fast bursts with joy
When they I near, and hold as close as gems.
     But costs are naught when time is set aside
     For those who dearly in your heart reside.

#0025 - A Teacher to his Students

A
desire I have is to have you
Be
an unconquerable, unending
Sea
of ideas. I'm making a little
Dea-
-l, so lend me your
Ea-
-rs: I want your best, your greatest
Eff-
-ort. You can keep your backwards caps, your hashtags and denim
Jea-
-ns, but I want to see you use the letter
H
to reference Horatio;
I
want to know why not to kill a mocking-
-Jay.
Understood? O
K?
I want to be utterly crushed by
El-
-ephants of knowledge, leveled by atomic bombs of wisdom.
Em-
-igrate your thoughts from your mind into this world of opportunities and
En-
-d your anxious silence!
Oh!
And a little FA
Q:
if you're thinking of asking
"Are
you serious?" Yeah,
Es-
-quire, I am! Perfectly serious! So show your
Tea-
-cher that
You
don't just treat your knowledge as a le-
-Vy
to be collected by the school! Ask the five
W
s often, and when your doctors take your
X-
rays, make them wonder
Why
you're filled with so much
Zea-
-l! Be the voice that no one else will be for you.

#0024 - "I try to find my place upon the Earth"

I try to find my place upon the Earth;
To find a path or road on which I'm set;
But hard it is to find what I am worth.

My past endeavors I sometimes regret -
If what I've done is right I'm not quite sure.
My growing past is not pristine, and yet

What I fear most is my unknown future;
I wish it would its unknown plan let leak,
Provide me knowledge to serve as succor.

I'm lost and do not know what I should seek.

#0023 - "The passing time runs through my hand"

The passing time runs through my hand
like yellow sand, both coarse and fine.

Horizons pass as dusk and twi-
-light mimic life, so quick elapsed.

Each moment forms a memory,
a precious seed for mental stores;

one easily lets moments fly,
lets time pass by from memory.

#0022 - Thought 5

I wrote a poem.
This is not the poem that I wrote, but rather
an announcement that I wrote a poem.

#0021 - Thought 4

Love and pain reside
in the same part of your heart.

Be wary of which you choose to hold on to forever.

#0020 - "My hourglass used to be filled with sand"

My hourglass used to be filled with sand,
but then there was a leak,
and slowly, surely, my time ran out.

I filled my hourglass with water,
but then time flowed by in the blink of an eye.

I filled it with concrete:
at first I liked having time at a standstill,
but that got old pretty quick.

I once left it empty,
but air flows even faster than water.

I filled it with dirt:
sometimes time would flow,
but sometimes it got stuck and I'd have to shake it loose.

I've put many things in my hourglass,
but I can't seem to get time to flow just right.

#0019 - "J'ai eu la peur pour choses étranges"

J'ai eu la peur pour choses étranges -
Choses différentes, choses pas connai.
Mais maintenant j'accueille le change.

Jeune mignon, «je bonbons veux mange,»
Mais médicament j'ai l'évité;
J'ai eu la peur pour choses étranges.

Ma colour favorite orange,
Autres j'ai pas utilisé.
Mais maintenant j'accueille le change.

Étais en nouveaux, grande ménage,
Avec personnes je pas parlais;
J'ai eu la peur pour choses étranges.

Ma tête: un chaotique sporange,
Créant peureux sourcis, pensées.
Mais maintenant j'accueille le change.

Et aujourd'hui je suis très sage;
Beaucoup des léçons j'apprenais.
J'ai eu la peur pour choses étranges,
Mais maintenant j'accueille le change.

#0018 - "I was in a courtroom the other day"

I was in a courtroom the other day.

Don't worry, I wasn't the criminal -
I'm White.

Now, if I was a politician
I would never say that,
For fear of a lynching of my reputation.

I'm not a politician.
Because,
As we all know,
Politicians are the worst kind of people.
If there was a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Politicians would take first place.

Just look around:
Right now we have a man that wants to build a wall to keep the rapist Latinos out of our country,
Which is not much worse than the man two hundred years ago who wrote about freedom in our Declaration of Independence despite owning his own conveniently unadvertised slaves.

But I guess I shouldn't be too hard on politicians.
After all, if politicians take first place in a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Poets must take close second.

After all,
Poets lie all the time.

But we don't call them lies.
We call them "metaphors."

So,
I use my metaphorical river of words
To describe our politicians as metaphorical mules:
The main attraction in the metaphorical circus of politics.

Their favorite thing is metaphorical white chocolate,
But they cringe at the mention of metaphorical milk chocolate
And metaphorical dark chocolate,
Despite the fact that chocolate is chocolate,
No matter the color.

They won't make a comment on metaphorical fried rice,
Though,
Because fried rice does the best in our universities
And runs 1.5 million of our businesses.

Fried rice doesn't run the country,
But it comes close.


I'll just say that while I'm happy to be living in our melting pot,
It disappoints me that some people are still afraid of throwing certain vegetables into the broth
On account of shape, size or color.

#0017 - "Many people dislike the snow"

Many people dislike the snow.
It's a nuisance - they would know.
It freezes the windshields of parked cars,
Freezes shut the glass doors of bars
With warm beers;
Heineken, Weissbier.

I like the snow.
It falls and covers up my weeds;
They still sit in the ground, I know,
But covered in white, they can't be seen.
But sometimes the ice and powder
Also covers my precious flowers.

#0016 - "I saw a lady weeping in my dream"

I saw a lady weeping in my dream.
Though crowned, was not a monarch nor a queen.
Things right and wrong her ancient vision'd seen.
From what she said it seemed that she should be

The housewife of a diverse family -
A melting pot of personality;
One child counted distances in li,
Another'd crossed the trying eastern sea.

I asked her what made tears fall from her eyes.
She looked to me and gave a weary sigh.
She said she'd taught her children not to lie,
To never without reason scream or cry.

But now they screamed and cried throughout the night,
Throughout the day with one another fight.
She sought to show them back into the light,
But differences had blocked their childish sight.

#0015 - "The ancient walls of grandma's home"

The ancient walls of grandma's home
Are contrast to the halls I roam:
The doorways made of melted sand,
The corridors of metal and
The endless screens and paper reams.

I'd rather have the sun's warm beams;
The ocean blues, the forest greens;
The birds evincing morning joy;
The place where I was once a boy,
With hens and dogs exploring barns.

This place was home to carrot farms,
Was worked by men with reddened arms.
But reapers guised in suits then came
With profit as their only aim
And little care for right or wrong.

This land is here, but not for long;
The birds will sing their final song.
Rebar spreads far its concrete lair
And smog extends through once pure air -
It chokes the lungs and chills the bone.

The ancient walls of grandma's home
Are contrast to the halls I roam,
But soon I fear they'll be effaced,
With concrete towers be replaced.
And in my mind resides a fear:

That what I can no longer see
Will one day fall from memory.

#0014 - Thought 3

I'm afraid of becoming a tree.

A tree has 200,000 leaves.
A tree has 200,000 opportunities to catch fire.

So I remain a sapling instead, safe under the shadow of a protective canopy.
Spring may come,
but I don't want to grow.

#0013 - "Laughter is the epitome of happiness"

Your sonorous laughter is the epitome of happiness,
and your smile is a perfect example of bliss and joy.
Your gleaming gaze is formed of radiant rays of sun:
metaphorical waves of ecstasy diverging from a star.

But when I deeply gaze into the wells of your eyes,
I can see that in their depths rest pain and sorrow;
although you carefully veil them with covering lids.
Your lids are of tin - easily adapted, but easily torn

open to show your festering wounds -
wounds that would be long forgotten
if you would keep from picking them
like a fidgeting child with dirty hands.

When coping foreign gaze
you wear your band-aids,
but by the end of the day
they've long peeled away.

They say that before solving a problem
you must first acknowledge a problem.
You see clearly, but your only problem:
you'll only confess to empty darkness.

I know you crave your solitude,
the safe succor of being silent.
I always hear silence is golden,
but sometimes, quiet is violent.

#0012 - "I've learned the flaw of stoicism"

I've learned the flaw of stoicism: life
assumes its blows have no effect on you.
The world brandishes its serrated blade
and assumes that your armor can withstand

its tearing blows, its tyrannical rule.
Each day it digs in the ground with a spade,
and upon the lip of the grave I stand
and watch: the growing pile of dirt stacks high.

My demeanor remains dully unchanged,
my smile and expression stoic and bland.
My countenance marked by a weary sigh,
my gaze isn't kindly, and isn't cool.

But I feel the tormenting tremor, and
thoughts run across the landscape of my mind.
I constantly think, but don't know how to
stop waning, how to maintain the charade.

#0011 - "Words"

Words

can be

eloquently

phrased to express thoughts, to confess

or represent

laments.

They

can hurt

or can comfort;

a whetted blade or sunny day;

a call to fight

or flight.

One may say

life's complex: c'est

formidable, fort minable.

Life is perfect,

direct,

hard.

Mam dość;
Solidarność:
Solidarity, and pari-
-ty. Grievances
must hence
stop.
Love poems...
Show love to them
with metaphors, with lovely words
and trysts, saying
"darling;"
"dear."
Six lines
with words and rhymes,
millions more to skillfully use
to show, express,
confess
Thoughts.

#0010 - "It seems like people talk and hug and kiss"

It seems like people talk and hug and kiss and lay together
not because they've earned the right to do so
but because they can,
and if they can then why shouldn't they?
It's all a game, and they're just there to play it through:
Meet,
talk,
hug,
kiss,
sex.

Finish it all like a campaign in Call of Duty:
Hunt,
stalk,
shoot,
kill,
endgame.

Finish it all like a play, like a broadway show:
Curtains rise,
they talk,
they sing,
they dance,
then you let the curtains fall back down.

Finish it all like a movie:
Titles,
introductions,
the tempers rise,
the climax appears in an explosion of meaningless color,
and once the conflict is resolved everyone lives happily as the credits roll
     along the blackened screen.

Movies are the best, though,
because you can skip past the dull parts and flip to the exciting ones
- why bother with formalities
when the exciting parts are a button press away?

And it gets boring.

You've finished the game,
so you throw it in your dumpster or return it to Gamestop for $5 or leave it
     under the crap in your closet to collect more dust than the sweater you got
     from grandma that's always been two sizes too small.
You've experienced the show,
so you leave the theatre and throw out the ticket stub as you do; don't bother
     keeping it, because it's not a memory - you just needed that extra credit
     in your english class because you didn't feel like reading up in first semester.
You've experienced the movie,
so you return it to Redbox or look at what similar titles Netflix is offering you;
     you tell your friends about the exciting parts but forget the slower parts
     because you weren't paying attention or because you were busy holding
     "fast forward" on your black, plastic remote.

I won't ever finish you like a game.
I won't ever throw out memories of you like ticket stubs.
I won't ever give you back like a borrowed disk
and forget the parts I could have skipped over.

#0009 - Haiku I

A sputtering fool -
Is he truly a fool if
Others will follow?

#0008 - "Your grin extends from ear to ear"

Your grin extends from ear to ear,
A selfish rat, a sly, striped cat.
You wear a medal and a badge,
Where one says "faith" and one says "trust."

But I can see that it's an act -
You spew your words, but I'm no fool;
With questions asked, you make no sound,
Pretending what I say is moot.

An open book is what you are,
And I can see your missing page;
I don't know what exactly's gone,
But I can see the torn, ripped frays.

#0007 - "I see a woman and her dog"

I see a woman and her dog;
her dog is black, and so is she.
She holds herself with wooden rod,
provides a smile and nod to me.

Her dog, he wags his furry tail
with flopping ears and hanging tongue.
But in her eyes I see a tale
that stops the air within my lungs.

To him they'd shift their gaze and say,
"Why, there he walks along the street;
he doesn't whine, he won't complain,
exactly as a pup should be!"

To her they'd shift their gaze and say,
"Why, there she walks along the street;
she won't revolt, she won't complain,
exactly as a Black should be!"

While he would always find is scraps
and garner water from a bowl,
she'd fear her iron will's collapse
and guard 'gainst water from a hose.

They're both dark-skinned mammalians,
but one is nursed and one is marred.
They both have limbs - one paws, one hands,
but one has fur and one has scars.

#0006 - Thought 2

I was once told that if I'm struggling uphill,
I should remember that each hard step uphill now
is an easy step downhill later.

But sometimes,
it seems like the uphill never ends.

#0005 - "Where is your love"

Where is your love when you're staring down death?

Where is it when you're sick?
When you're hurt?
When you're lost?

Does your love keep you afloat when the dam breaks and the city drowns;
when the water flows above your legs, above your neck, above your head and
   flailing arms?
Does it save you then?
Does it bring air to your lungs when the concrete keeps you down?

Does your love keep you sane when your voices speak and scream;
when you look but cannot see, and when you scream but your voice you can't
     perceive?
Does it save you then?
Does it tame your thoughts when they run like rabid dogs across the landscape
     of your mind?

Does your love keep you alive when you're laying in your bed;
white tape and casts on arms and legs, your bones aching and your muscles dead?
Does it save you then?
Does it get you out of bed when your heart refuses to produce the beat
     that proves that you're alive?

Yes, it does.

The dam may break and the city may drown,
but even if I cannot keep from going under,
my love will be the reason I can disappear into the murky blue with a smile on my face.

The voices may speak and scream and sing and yell,
but even if I cannot keep them silent,
my love will be the reason I can still hear her voice when all I hear is noise.

The bones may shatter and muscles tear,
but even if my bed becomes my home,
my love will be the reason I can lay there still without a need or want to move.

My love may not save me like foreign blood and sturdy splints,
it may not dull my mind like Aspirin and Clozaril,
it may not keep me breathing air like rubber mask and metal tank,

But it can make the broken bones go away,
it can make the voices silent,
and it can make me lose the need for lungs.

My love won't solve my problems,
but it will make them go away
in the same way that my soul is taken away
when she grips my hand and holds me close.

#0004 - "Syllables flowing like translucent water"

Syllables flowing like translucent water;
Line follows phrase follows word follows letter.
Ink moves along like a dance 'cross the page;
Perfect: a poet, an artist, a sage.

Until I will come to a word I can't rhyme,
And I lift my hand weary; mo-
-mentum is gone, and my thoughts
spiral down to a
misanthropic
travesty -
useless
Wreck.

#0003 - Thought 1

I think I'll go home now.
or,
I would
if I knew where home was,
or is.

#0002 - "In the 1970s"

In the 1970s,
a song was released where the chorus asks
"war, what is it good for?"
and the singer responds with
"absolutely nothing."

There's this reggae band that I like
because I like the way they align their notes
and in one of their songs
a man sings,
"world leaders, what are your priorities?
So many wars, and yet none end world poverty."

Over the past thousand years,
and the past million years,
and the past billion years,

fish have learned to swim together,
birds have learned to soar together,
bison have learned to run together,
but humans still haven't learned to exist together.

And take note of that word that I chose to use:
Exist.
To be.

I'm not citing the Bible and saying that one must love thy neighbor.
I'm not saying that you should give a hug and kiss
to every stranger that you meet.
I'm not saying that everyone should throw their stuff out on the street in order to
help out those in need
- that comes next -
what I'm simply asking for is that everyone be
in the same place, at the same time, peacefully.

Why is it
that when we fly our million-dollar planes over Afghanistan
we're dropping bombs instead of food?

Why is it
that when the 1000-ton chains of institutionalized social injustice finally fell to the ground,
the Blacks,
the gays,
the poor,
the queer
only had a moment of relief
- only a breath of relief -
before they realized that even if fists didn't shower them with hits and bruises
and signs no longer told them where they could and could not go,
eyes still stared at them with the sharp edge of a knife
coated in venom that burns your soul even if it doesn't burn your skin?

Why is it that just because I'm a straight,
white
male,
for every dollar that I make a Hispanic woman will make forty-six cents less?

And I wonder if you wonder why I switch from war to the home front.
It's because war is not just about borders.
War is about racism, and sexism, and economic success-ism.
War is not just about the people that live in the 195 countries
that aren't the one we're standing in right now;
war is about our friends and our neighbors.

The only problem being
that those that matter aren't always near,
because even though we say we're not segregated,
we live in White communities,
we live in Black communities,
and we live in Brown communities.

And although those three colors may exist on the easel of the painter,
until we can learn to paint something other than
White lines,
and Black lines,
and Brown lines,
the canvas may not be blank, but it is most definitely up to par.

We have easels and brushes and painters ready to use them;
The only phrase they're waiting for is "ready, set, go"
as opposed to "ready, set, wait, let's see how this affects our budget."

I'm talking to you now, men up top -
men in suits
and men in ties.

You're shifting digits and you're pushing numbers,
but even numbers have limits,
and although you're holding the sands of unrest in a tight grip,
the sand is still falling through the cracks in your fingers.
You've been holding the sands for a long time,
and although all you're holding is little yellow grains,
the grains are adding up.

Every Black man shot in city streets just for being Black,
every Hispanic woman that has to work 3 jobs to feed her 3 starving children,
every White man that makes 3
million dollars just for the color of the melanin in his skin
is another grain of sand
- another reason -
to take the sword that you won't brandish
and wage the war that you won't declare -

a war that ends not with cities and borders burned,
but with a White kid,
a Black kid,
and a Brown kid
playing and talking together
because they realize that what you think and what you feel
is more important than the color of your skin,
or,
speaking of color,
how much green your parents make.

#0001 - "Sledgehammers shatter marble floors"

Sledgehammers shatter marble floors.
The house is on fire,
and yet you can’t resist the urge to come inside and decimate it even more,
because you can’t wait!

You can’t hold your impatience,
You can’t hold your anticipation,
to watch the structure fall apart,
to watch the foundation crack apart,
to watch the doors slam, but not on their hinges but onto the floor,
to let the windows let in fresh air but not because they’re open but because their glass is shattered and on the floor.

You look outside through the hole in the wall that you left behind and you see the verdure:
the trees are colored orange but it’s not Autumn,
the flowers colored red but it’s not spring;
the colors that surround you are the colors of your shallow, rancorous anger and pain.
That which you’ve now expressed, fervent but blind.

And in ten minutes you’ll be finished, and you’ll leave without a second thought or glance behind.
And in ten hours you’ll be happy.
But in ten days you will look in the mirror and see that you’re contrite,
and in ten weeks I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep from your neck the knife;

the knife that lays on your bed,
bloodied red.
Bloodied red from the enemies you created in your head;
the enemies that are no more real
than the hatred that you feel for those that hold you dear.