i. I could tell she was an old soul, I counted the rings in her words, she said everything and everyone was made of matchsticks, that the sulfur tips were in odd places — you have to strike differently.
ii. rebirth feels like dying, artists know, hold dear what you think about at 2 am; I stand an invisible elephant man in a shirt, pink like panthers — like the cartoons used to discredit the black panther’s answers for the oppression technique, so transparent I’m oblique.
iii. singin; slinging slang, metaphor terrorists tearin shit, party animal Hannibal cannabis cannibals, green, greener than vegan teeth, preach, preach, from your liquor temples with a gun to your temple — eat the night.
iv. rocket propelled hero narratives, whiter than 1904, bust through the door of every black american and down the steps to the core, it highlights the social more, the sore on uncle sam’s lip, the blip, the las vegas strip so casino night bright; it invites the flash, the innervating bulb that blasts, that blinds history, patching the rage hysterectomy of the brother and sister next to me — what’s next for me?
v. gold diggers, break-up artists, soul’d diggers with shovels bigger than double d’s, they squeeze, they squeeze the sun down their dress and hold it hostage, funneling tunnels, they make it shine out they ass; streetwalkers, they the brightest at night, no wonder they stole the day — they are the square master minds, they step and fetch then catch and release the real from dreams, they add the s, they make their cream from screams.
vi. stranded by the old dimension, in my lungs is the only way I can carry you as I wander, spreading you name and stories with my shaking voice and cracking lips, I do miss you peace, but I know and fear that you are in a better place, I am still here, in war, in a jungle dark; where the trees are so dense I can no longer see the sun, but I see my path more clearly — a new hope springs from each step, I am no longer dazzled by the smoke screen of blood, glory, and deathsex.
vii. you are unfinished, a bed of seeds in soil, not yet bloomed; untrammeled by beauty or the purpose of beauty; like a boxer rolling into the punch, you start your day by openly fencing the words (worlds) in your head dictating the paranoia, almost harmonious with the other voices of your upstairs roommates (you’re schizophrenic) you always seem surprised or saddened that you are writing this to yourself as you speak, but let me assure you, the words are happy on this page and in this poem, there is nowhere else they’d rather be, where else could they go? — note to self.
viii. in the pantheon of knowledge, it’s the sharpest spear and unclean poets that clamor pearls, story telling stars orbit the moon that orbits earth like a bodice, peace exotic; hungry caterpillars eat dead butterflies while they smile, the apex of sweet, hulking hunters with their prey’s bones in their teeth — peace flags turned bar rags, clean up the vomit of old rebels, thirsty not thinking, not alone, but sharing a drink with an odd god, propped up by 4 rods and a pedestal (bar stool) sad, sad they only have one death to give.
ix. life is a evil-dangerous fucking wonderful playground, it should feel bad not to swing on the monkey bars; you should feel cheap if you don’t ride the slide all the way down with both your hands up in the air and your eyes wide open — singing every curse word your mom taught you not say with the most bestial wrath you can muster.
x. I’ve always thought that jack and the bean stalk was an allegory for art, or the existence of purpose therein; reading this story you look at this young man forced to sell a cow, his last giver of sustenance or maybe his last herald of innocence, in order to obtain money, but instead of money he gets a number of magic beans (drugs? inspiration? delusions of clarity? self awareness?) which pisses his wife off to no end — so the next day there is a giant stalk where he left his beans and he climbs it (gets high? achieves personal enlightenment?) and finds that goose who lays golden eggs (influx of genuine ideas? creative existence? freedom from earthly bounds?) and battles a giant (himself? society’s expectations?) after he tumbles down a better, happier man — I need some god damn magic beans.
i. I was in awe with how she mixed her soul with the air, she kept her healing springs underground, but you could see the unorthodox vapors escape from her mouth unforgivably — she’s the baddest laser at the light show.
ii. on this street corner, stood a man with no country; bathed in a gown of light, a middle finger gunslinger, a quarter of a man with a dark half and an empty third, he had his existential bucking set to a sterling anthem, the shards of his hours where worth the cuts on his hands — he was hurting everywhere but he was happy, uniquely, before the drugs kicked in.
iii. a bubblegum moment, everything it seemed, to expand until it popped, enter the sanguine, enter the rouge, death loves all, it hugs and never lets go — it’s kiss lasts forever.
iv. sometimes finding out who you are is as easy as finding out who you’re not — the soft belly of freedom permits thinking that the hamster in the cage is free because it’s permitted a wheel to run.
v. think aloud — it keeps the monsters away.
vi. paradise ain’t lost — it’s hiding, well, somewhere between your black skin and your red heart.
vii. the science of jackknifing words from imagination is no small task — either you die a lover or live long enough to see yourself become a poet.
viii. astronomical defiance, astro-def, live thin; die fat, twist logic, what a wild world, don’t worry baby — this is just the first layer of lonely, and honey, a prayer circle ain’t movement — and honey, careful when robbing the cradle of life, it ain’t just children in there.
ix. the only reason speech is free is because you have to pay attention, who has time for that shit? who — who has the energy to stop every hungry heart that walks by?
x. as I laid on the ground, for the first time without concrete, reading mother nature’s palm, I felt a slow quiver, I realized — the snake bit with no venom, cupid’s arrow missed, love, knowledge, and equality are poor means of survival, I realized, poor means survival.
i. it’s too still for the violet beggars bartering love for hope on the subway platform (the marketplace of anti-shine) they plan to let the storm rage on, they are like nuns with sneakers, tomboys with saliva anti-venom in trees kissing spiders — striders with a plane too long to split.
ii. souls are better without pants, I have this dimebag rage that nests on the sharpness of my gems, my words, my only treasure — the only thing I have worth burying.
iii. a wise flavor says the sage so delicious, life is barking from the inside of a predator’s stomach, flowing like samurai hip hop with comet like kicks, sinless queens and cheap thrills — who says disaster ain’t fun.
iv. knowledge collages like the electric lanes that manifest with an odd physic, like magnetic storms, or giant tingles on a small neck — I take little lava pills, they are so good about burning, fight fire with fire right? sometimes you need to break your finger when you’re shot in the gut.
v. space projects (protects) the moon, the Saturn voyager, who comes from a place where dust is like music and time has no bones, where time is just a faint cologne that lingers a bit after it has bitten and left; I am grounded, unabridged from space, in an alley trying to use the holes between the iron rungs of a fire escape as a telescope — there is no chariot for the eyes where the money hides, there is no chariot for the eyes where money hides.
vi. music is a right, not a gift, I’m convinced vinyl has a soul, I am told DJs create more that a god on Tuesday, I’m told singers have the same modern romance that rain has with sunshine, I know that rappers try to break sound, that each bar is a requiem if not met with a clashing wave of battle — I’m told the static inbetween radio stations has a ring to it — when driving somewhere off a cliff.
vii. what babe doesn’t have the power? since when is history not set to the distant banging of a war drum distilled by an american lyric? so gone is spirit, so gone is womanhood, so gone is us, bound in a battle of smiles with soft pouty lips and crocodile teeth, beneath a glass ceiling of almost feelings and a wandering purpose drying up in the sun like a dream deferred — along comes a spider in a skirt, so hurt, so disfigured by beauty it mutes the tingle of originality between it’s legs and begs to virgin gods for the currency of the realm — the perspective of innocence (read: ignorance).
viii. have a seat, a wooden chair for an oaken soul, have a seat, on this bench, open up your brown paper bag unhinge the dragon and practice breathing fire, your eyes will thank you, so will the passers by, it’s winter, and what is a fire in winter but a reprieve from cold excellence, a lampost for the weary, a passage for the blind, drink, the blood of your ancestors, drink, the black milk of death — drink for thirsty men don’t ask why they’re thirsty, they ask what’s on tap.
ix. they don’t make umbrellas nearly big enough, they don’t do a good job of rewinding the water renegade drops that plop, they do tell you not to get wet, that water somehow doesn’t save — that the thin line between rejuvenation and drowning is a few drops wide.
x. you can’t put makeup on happy; you can’t put makeup on sad; you can’t put makeup on good and right; you can’t put make up on bad; you can’t put make up on funny; you can’t put make up on tears; you can’t put make up on something brave — but you can put make up on fears.
i. there is a coffin in my chest unfairly labeled my heart, it’s buried 6 feet deep and nailed shut from the outside — never high from recreational hugs.
ii. her eyes were a blue mile, blue, like a Paris morning odyssey, like the type of sky that looks like you could dive in — blue.
iii. pressed flowers always seem to have the same expression — help me.
iv. head and shoulders above them other boy moving flakes — like head and shoulders; beautiful beholders, filing X like moulder, dodging boulders like indy jones — living chains with oracle eyes, looking for what’s golden.
v. I love the watching walking venn-diagrams with diaphragms, screaming mouths shut; the entrophic entities that multiply inside like parenthesis but always equal 0 — I only watch because how can I speak to my heroes so cool? I mean cool til cold, colder than mama bears porridge.
vi. writing pretty words is like putting lingerie on death, Icarus ubiquitous, fly away til nothing’s left, look down at the ether creatures waiting for their great sign — waiting, waiting, for their once upon a time.
vii. how arrogant is it to think that if a computer, if given enough computing power, would want to eventually be human? would a human with enough information want to be a machine? — I think enlightenment is mostly about walking through the dark, life is about how good you are at staving off your boogeyman.
viii. your life boils down to what the hyenas whisper about you after you’re gone, history isn’t a home or a library, it’s a bridge, its the bonfire which smart animals run from and promptly erase from their memory.
ix. intergalactic bombastic automatic scholastic matchsticks scratch quick — boom, life ain’t a story, it’s an onomatopoeia, not hiding from your demons, not looking for your halo in others and some pseudo divine purpose — like toothpaste, its always better to squeeze from the bottom.
x. I’m a lucky requiem for a misplaced trumpet seraphic — I wander these measured lines with a blinking cursor and a dark air; I’m smoking a peace pipe with that jet corner, in a jumanji daguerreotype with apes and snakes and grapes of something worst than wrath, I crash and smash and slash the throats of hopeful things hoping — I am a renaissance of fuckery darling, I am the worst kind of interesting, the persona of a tree dying loudly.
i. shady, steady saying hoes down cups up; malice in a chalice; deep pockets, no fucks; old school mississippi pimp, mr. peanut redux; we goose steppin, who’s stressin? no dice is the only safe bet — but they squeezed our soul into their tape decks — rewind.
ii. washer and dryer white messiahs caught thinking david is golaith;
born to riot but taught stay quiet; everything about them on diet, their mind their heart, their flourish, their art — they just dog walking.
iii. turn up? who turned us out the furnace, learned us, earned us — bust out the fine china wined us, dined us — the royal penis is clean your highness.
iv. her scars were like cracks in porcelain, she was running from yesterday by hiding from tomorrow, orbiting her own moon, swallowing swords of silence — walled by violence inside, take a picture, you’re only innocent once.
v. big dreamers and gold diggers potpourri the streets speaking in ones and zeros for deniro, ash gold fronts and tuxedo black eyes, wearing crystalline victory around their necks and wrists, trying to hold their blood in with something fancy — trying to weigh beauty, trying to catch time.
vi. things past strangely when weight by meaning, like the sound of passing car, they speed up and slow down at the same time — the doppler effect I think.
vii. life needs a lot more “you are here” signs that clearly depict where you are and what you’re doing — but still I feel like were here to hear, see, and speak at least a little evil so maybe not to many.
viii. you lie so honestly you know? like, you can create memories with that shit, you create a ripple that just goes out touching like a toddler in a museum who gets their fingerprints on everything — you lie like a child, that’s what I like about you.
xi. I feel it all around, like I’m caught in the jaws of yesterday, witnessing something, like the fuzzy dice hanging from a higher power’s rearview — hanging.
x. most peoples inner clockworks read like a religious diary — floods and monsters, purging fire and perceptions intercepted, there is a baptism that happens, there is a commanded cool — there is more than “Hi”
i. history’s lessons are six feet deep; words written in blood can only be washed away in blood — that and bacon, that’s humanity’s legacy.
ii. don’t rush out into the night, it’s a circus out there where no one wants to be the clown, lipsticked dogs from hell run liquor and try to sell you love — there is no beacon, no light house, just a floundering sense of self crashing, wrecked among the jagged cliffs of a city lost.
iii. I have never met a rich hero, oddly, the size of your wallet is not linked to the size of your heart — change ain’t nothing new, magic ain’t magic, and happily ever after doesn’t happen after six.
iv. most people slam their century like a shot of cheap whiskey; they take the shortest distance between two points and zig-zag it, twirl, fill in the spaces with baseball or sex or money — leaving their baggage unclaimed.
v. the desire to dream is more important than the ability, dull is dangerous — like broken ennui or a facetious moral core.
vi. at 2 am the blinking neon lights did well to fragment my moment of great peace — to a point good byes sounded like suicide and all the bridges I burned seem to light the way to something less sinister than fights with laughing walls and paths so worn they were frictionless — so much for nightmares, so much for brevity.
vii. creating a world is as easy as blowing one up, as easy as being that slave digging right into common ground; mother earth’s ribcage to light a candle, as easy as regurgitating oblivion — the death clouds overhead overheard our absurd laughing, laughing because there is more than this but less than nothing.
viii. it’s a long drive to barely alive, it’s so hard to float when life calls for floating (which is often) struggle is strength, pain is beauty, war is love, war is the Rosetta stone — everyone cries in the same language.
ix. when you learn to love the bullshit life ceases being a lie, forbidden fruit juice turns to tang and you smile real wide, kool-aid wide and your scars slowly change to birthmarks — people, like this planet, don’t feel themselves spinning.
x. welcome to Dr. Strange’s play pen, we have goals and toilet paper, everything you need to fight fate’s war; the department stores are on the right, soft drinks on the left, guilt straight ahead for miles; this is American bio-consumerism ladies and gentlemen, please stay alive just long enough to die, drink your beer and hate what we tell you; smell clean, men, fear is the best cologne, ladies, please smile at your aggressors, allow them to rape your beauty in an orderly fashion, you virgin whores; (illegal) alien invaders will arrive at noon, lunch is served shortly thereafter, and yes, every happy meal comes with a gun; please form a single file line and step through the soul detectors one at a time, those found in possession of a soul will be subject to a cavity search and sentenced to church, once through the adolescence check point please feel free to stare holes through the wall paper or look at your phone — just not at each other; remember everyone, break where you’re strong, bend where you’re not — last but not least people, high school never ends, there is always someone to impress and they ARE always watching, have fun :)