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.
30 March, 2016
27 March, 2016
#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.
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.
19 March, 2016
#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.
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.
14 March, 2016
#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.
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.
11 March, 2016
#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.
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.
10 March, 2016
#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.
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.
I should remember that each hard step uphill now
is an easy step downhill later.
But sometimes,
it seems like the uphill never ends.
09 March, 2016
#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.
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.
08 March, 2016
#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.
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.
07 March, 2016
06 March, 2016
#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.
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.
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.