Stranger

A stranger in a
normal land,
where's everyone's strange
style is based on
color,
and somehow
I am the outcast, I-
the only one moving
toward the final
truth!
A stranger with a will
to be weird.

Kids on the Floor

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
made of saline and ashes
fopping on the cold tile,
dusty and dirty
sugar splotches
the blonde results of passion
golden hash
a mish-mash
of Betty Crocker brownie
batter with
dirt-flecked
charr granuals,
a fiery grave danced
upon in the gutters
of Southern cities, the
same as all the
rest,
blessed by some of the
best trivial pursuits
in our neurotic
conforming, regicidal
mediacrity,
wrapped in a nasty navy
leather exoskeleton,
open for interpretation,
by some lady in Iowa
that heard it from
her friend who
heard it on the
public airwaves.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
made of saline and ashes and clay,
secreting constantly
from the bottom and top
middle too, if they could,
with the mothers
listening close
by,
dad's at work,
so he says,
to bring home the bacon
from the Tyson plant
smelling more like a
paper mill than
birds, a
sign of the times here in the South,
so he can bring one more
disgusting imbecile
onto the world to be
controlled by a lord,
oh Lord,
and this vassal will continue
until he reaches Your
great golden plains
because we all have
plans to spend the
sands of our days,our
demands to match what we
stand for.
But that's not part of the absurdity.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
eyeing me with
magical indifference
as I wait for us to be
fed so they can grow
up to be
the people I
tolerate,
condemning lest they
be thrown out
into the sandpaper wind,
speaking the Jester's English,
me being the fool,
fool of the court.

26 children
20 white, 5 mulatto
one missing.

Good for Now (A Modern Freed Slave)

Stiff appendages
day to day
in my lightless hole
prison.
nobody knows
this is where I went.
Even if they did,
I couldn’t
go back to work
and mom,
and everyone
would throw me off
for being there
and staying
like I wanted it,
that I wouldn’t leave.

Is it kidnapping
when you're my age?

I didn’t mind the hands
on me.
More, please.
Black kept coming and
I wasn’t going to think
of their plans for
me since I was done for
from the start,

and I
escape
while they
use me
and I come to
with
burns
scratches
bruises,
whatever they were into,
and I never
like it,
but
it’s fine
it’s fine
fill another
keep this thing going.

You
are the
worst.
The worst I know.
Worst than I can imagine.
I wish you'd
shower first
at least.

This city’s lost its
fLAvor
since I moved here
six years ago, and

I'm sick enough to die.
Load the rig
if you want me,
poor little me.

What were they
paying
for me?
The shipping must
be outrageous.

You’ll find other girls
in town
since we’re dying
to make it big and
send money home like

exploited immigrants,
trying to win
but we settle
for consolations
that don’t console.

Do not eat.
Do not pass GO.
Do not call an ambulance.

Mom found me
at the hospital
this time.
She brings me
back.

I'm sitting up in bed
gasping,
not knowing
how long this will last
how long until they find me
again.

Has anyone been through this?
When do things get
normal?

Can't go to court
or they'll arrest
me
but I need to
lose this record
so fuck
now what
I can’t do jail
again

fucking D.A.,
sucking Paul’s dick
sycophants

I've got friends
and family
a job
a place
I’m good
for now

America:
pedophiles
are protected by
cops
and victims
are served

Loss

You had it all
and lost it:
broke your back
then lost your job
then your place
then lost your girl
then finally
you died.

You said you
lost it all,
but I never left.

Two Addicts

A junkie and an addict
died the other day.
One lived,
the other disintegrated
quickly.
I felt the same for them moreover.
I didn't lose anything;
they had served their purpose.
Can't say it's not weird,
but it only feels like that.
Two dope fiends
headed for the grave.

Bitter

In my peace,
I place rancours to displace
rejection,
tucked away in my shell,
but my shell has holes,
lesions that become
infected with other's
generosity.

Anything I feel is
like an arrow,
whether it be from Cupid
or Envy.

If I wasn't moody
transferring synaptic chemicals,
I'd engineer jet propulsion systems
or frame a killer.

Admonished by my peers,
as if what I know
is inapplicable,
even offensive,
as if I bled into
them.

I'd confess that
I'm bitter, but
I already told you that.

The Call

You called,
and I ignored,
how much I have changed.
Don't need you,
not to say I don't need anyone,
but you were never
a friend
or family to me.
You didn't leave a message,
so I guess you
didn't need me.
As children,
friendly abuse
was the result of
feeling stuck together,
both scared to
be alone.
I changed,
stopped.
At least
I got away
before we killed each other.

The Sun

I see the sun
hiding from us
on some days,
ashamed of our
pitiless destruction.
When I was a child,
I thought
the Sun
was afraid,
but that was
narcissistic
Geo-centrism.
Now I avoid anything
more than conjecture
about flaming,
gaseous masses
that would blind you
just for looking at them.

When I fear
the Sun,
I fear God
and how much influence
there may
be, more than
giving to chloroplasts.

And we all know
the Sun's
going to explode, and
we push that
thought away like
all the times we
lost motivation
to live.

I see the Sun,
and the Sun sees me.
Praise the Sun.

Dad Mad

Dad always had
a reason to be mad.

Back in the day,
I shot mom
with a water gun
(even though
she said I could).

Once,
I had some cheese
when he told me not to
(even though
I ate dinner still).

Another,
I went to my
friend's house
on a school night
(even though
I had done my homework).

At dinner,
I cried over mom
when we had company
and embarassed him
(even though
they were family).

One morning,
he saw I scratched
his car
(even though
I had really forgotten).

But probably the worst he reacted
was when I had to leave school
again.

My dad got mad at me
a lot,
but I guess
he had his reasons.

One of Those Days

I'm writing again,
so it's depression
or joy or
anger.
Hatred fills my
lungs and
makes it hard to
breathe.
Joy feels somehow
vacant
and depression
feeds on its own
excrement.

Some days
it's hard to say
anything.

Between States

R.E.M. hands,
pale
mortis,
dark hair tousled
in an uncontrolled
fashion with
all the crazy thoughts.
Occasional sounds &
flinches that I
cause
because
certainly you're
still alive
and not a dream.
God,
that smile makes me weak,
the first of the day,
and I don't know if I
should trust
those eyes that could
easily mislead me.
But I do,
I trust your face:
skin of an angel,
lips of a cherub,
mind of a mortal.

Peace

my consistent enemy,
thriving in the
muck of displeasure whenever
I sweep a pen
to make fake
rambling nonsense or
a strange message from
divulged subconscious,
the magick of writing,
lies coalescing transiently
into description and
wandering freely,
honestly,
and honestly,
it comes and goes.

Blue

Around my neck

This scarf,

Bluer than your eyes,

Keeps me warm

When I’m pitifully

Alone and vindictive,

This water-grooved

Clown,

Telling a joke to

Pass the time.

We who

Are unlike others

Find something more to

The balloon in the trash

Or the smell of industry.

I’m the clown in

An empty house.

You’re the clown with
a degree in whatever,
confirming your faith.

I love this scarf,

How it fits but doesn’t.

It’s too long,

And I don’t know

How to cinch it,

Makes me think

Of your hands around

My neck,

Loose

For me to breathe.

I could throw you about

And wrap you both around me;

The scarf was free

Graffiti Night Fever

Nothing like
being alone
4 stories up,
looking down
on your subjects
breathing coloured fumes,
hiding from the light,
from police
in the night.
I've tried women
and drinking,
but nothing
quells that
graffiti night fever.