Can’t seem to shake
the habit of who i have been raised as

The voice of my uprising
“you are not good enough…just good.”
“our blood is cursed, yours as well.”
“as good as it is is as bad as it will be.”
“loser, loner, liar.”

Blue blood collar choking me
chewing on my straight-jacket
lungs screaming up plasma and demons

I have shed many skins
been suffocating in this cocoon long enough

If I cannot evolve
then I will tear free
fly away.

af

I release you
this stone in my heart
this beast in my intestines
this clamp on my throat
this shroud in my head
this ominous coffin around my body

I get it
i understand how simple and how painful it is

it is not right to question love

so my integrity releases you
my humility
my character
my dreams
my passion
all release you

 
af

(written on computer listening to She’s Leaving The Bank by Ry Cooder from the show Traces)

when we create something
there is a simple luxury in having the ability
to stand before it, to take it in and
absorb the fact that your body
in some way or another
molded built or grew what, but a few moments before,
never existed

a legacy is easy to observe
in the first generation of its conception

but what will come of it
once it becomes something of its own;
when its life is not directly related to nor
in need of the fabrication of your hands?
when your child breeds a child
with blood passed down from your body
to another through another?

Brooklyn, the granddaughter of joy and light
the strength a mother’s mother could never foresee possible,
a glimpse of the child the first generation once was
the optimism of past present and future

Max, a man tearing out from a child’s shell
genuine wisdom not yet grown into the wise
with the strength and fortitude capable of ancestry’s pride
yet gentle enough to nurture the family name

Julian, the overflowing cup of heritage
a young boy encompassing the naivety of
a young man fearlessly curious about
a young world that once was so purely simple

The revelation of a grandparent is quite different from
the elation of the balance between the elderly and the infant,
it is a complex comprehension of the evolution of existence
a reliving of lifetimes seemingly so long ago
a daily gratuity of the gift of the present
and a knowing that we will always live on in this precious world we helped create

af

(written on computer)

All we really want to do is matter

Our lives are spent finding things to do
that give us purpose
either to ourselves, to others or to something higher

Sometimes,
we get so good at one thing
achieving what most do not
that people notice
they begin to look up to us
idolize
think that we are different, special,
somehow more evolved
and the better we become
and the more we separate from everyone else
in this one skill
eventually we become godly

How quickly we become divided from society for succeeding
How quickly society desires the distance

It is difficult not to judge
but those absorbed in the spotlight
to those hiding in the cracks of life
all only want to have their light noticed
if only just once
to know we exist

af

(written on computer)

I heard the news today, oh boy.
The American lottery is almost one billion dollars.
Six numbers.  Six random, inconsequential numbers
will turn a workin’ man into a quittin’ one
Six numbers will turn dreams into realities
suffering into bliss
Six numbers will change the world.
All I need, all any of us need, is a dollar and a dream
…or so it is said.

But I just overheard someone grumble behind me
“After that damn government has its way,
I’d only get half of that money, if that much”
and as I turn on my mental calculator
the hammer of this society is sledged by
this ignorant’s physical instigator’s next line
“Would be nice to win that billion,
but you’d only see three hundred or so million
when all is said and done.”
And then the punchline…
“How fucked up is that?”
I laugh to myself as I turn to these comedians
only, I do not see smiles on their faces,
only seething frowns of frustration and fury,
“Fucking bullshit if you ask me.”

I don’t move, I don’t breathe
I let these last few sentences settle like the dense
Savannah fog devouring the willow,
damp and heavy, weeping silently

Like a bad trip, like an atom bomb sucking all air and sound
from the earth the moment before thermal pulse;
Like the suction extracting the fibers from my ears,
it all goes mumbly silent around me.
I place down my pen and close my eyes and see
zero zero zero, zero zero zero, zero zero
then like a mutated double-mouthed pac-man,
I see that hovering “three” turn itself sideways,
landing gently on top of this expanse of 0s
and devour them, greedily,
up-righting itself then posturing there, alone;
its two bellies now bloated.
“The dollar ain’t what it used to be.”
It echos as I focus on this number, the number these
two lethargic defeatists focus on rather than the endless
abundance that follows it.
“Why.  Even.  Bother?”

I try to take in any air that is left as I cap my pen,
close my notebook and commence my funeral march for mankind.
As I open the door to leave, I notice a family
wrapped in themselves within a mountain of snow and filth,
their coughing trying to extract the poisoned blood in their
veins from malnourishment and dis-ease, clutching to
their worn-out square of cardboard that reads
One dollar might save the life of my child…
        Won’t you help?
How about three?, I ask as I empty my pocket for them.
“What a waste of money” I hear a ghost whisper as
it passes behind me on the sidewalk, shaking its head
while throwing a candy wrapper and cigarette butt on the
concrete, far too close to the only home this family has.

zero zero zero
    zero zero zero
        zero zero

I am shocked back to reality by the sound of crying, brick by brick,
as a small army of children
stand a block away watching their educational institution
collapse to rubble, their parents and teachers standing
among them understanding with melancholy that they
are now mere witnesses to futures that will never happen.

That is when the centrifugal force begins picking
up its pace, trying to keep down in my gut the disgust I
never realized was festering my dismal opinion of humanity.
I begin seeing the faces of homo sapiens peel away revealing
the avarice of the consuming suidae.
That is when the last chords of the beautiful hallelujah
suddenly become satirized in the mucus of the insatiable,
club and mace destroying the balance of the dancer,
realize nature has been painted rather than preserved,
begin gasping, choking violently on the words that have
now imbued the air of the capitalistic
conjuring of consumption as the holy word and blood of ultimate salvation;

and at that precise moment,
I hear the humble secret of the over-whelming avalanche of
mental incongruity and recalcitrance sear with white hot
agony and desperation, melting my mind to napalm and
conversely obliterating my soul that once believed in
goodness and refused to accept evil as a worldly entity:

“I Could, But I Won’t…Why Should I?”

and in the nothingness that followed, in the
zero zero zero, zero zero zero, zero zero of zero worth,
one last wisp from the pure and hallowed soul:
six numbers could change the world…
    but won’t
and all of existence vanished
as if it were never created.

That is the news of the world…
read all about it.

af

((written with pen on paper in response to the waste of the lottery)

of most we complain about, we are guilty of

the problems of humanity
so simple
so easy to solve

a splinter in his eye
vs
the plank in your own

doing little to change the ultimate
but
trying pushing refusing to settle

impulse or routine
regardless
fight forward
indulge, claw
head down
move forward

if it feels right
it is right
continue
if it feels wrong
it is wrong
stop

the problems of humanity
so simple
so easy to solve

af

(written with pen on paper)

an angel’s whisper
lyrics i could never write
your kiss, my poem

first time, needed warmth
weather will change your life, twice
two: ice, nawlin’s love

cherub snow angels
one-eyed snowman, hot cocoa
peace, beauty, omens

lack of sleep, bleeding
breathing heavy, pushing on
will never give up

oh hurt thespian
in the arms of the angel
sleep and bring god joy

af

(written on computer)