“If you write poetry, dare to change the world.”

:

Stop what you are doing.

Think about what you are doing.

Decide if that is exactly what you wish to be doing.

Speak out what you truly wish.

Take only one step towards that.

Acknowledge that step.

Force yourself to smile.

Think about what you are doing.

Keep repeating.

af

(written with pen on paper)

No No No…I can’t go down that road
I’m a poet, man.
Life’s got all tripped out on money
but I can’t get busy with that.
I got poems to write.
There’s a reason I’m itinerant
can’t get drabbed down weighed down

white folk being all serious and cliche with their conversation
on this train
black folk laughing
yea…I see you looking…gotta write this poem

I’m telling ya
these commitments
locked up career
locked up love
locked up goals
i gotta fly
I’m making poetry spreading my arms
spinning around my room.
Got my bag of bud in a box in my pocket
gotta glide along the nightline high

I live on a road unseen by anybody
it’s on the other side of here
I live on a tuning fork

af

(written with pen on paper)

Perhaps it all does mean something
that although the acts in and among themselves
might not be right
the observation of the existence of them
is important for self
that it is necessary not to change anything
but to find reason to only
let anything change itself
to accept simply
that they are all still there none-the-less
that I should find nothing in them, beauty or judgement,
only acknowledge the existence of them as a part of my life

Perhaps I would be more apt to understanding myself
if I didn’t allow myself to be judged
by allowing myself to not judge

Perhaps life really is about
not worrying about life
and not fearing my own.

af

9written with pen on paper)

Smokin’ lawn on this grass
sand scraping out under my nails
mind in the city in the coast in oz
water washing away when it used to tide in trash
pen blotching pages bleeding trees
busted blaring in the begins of shiny never
drinkin’ a bar on the bourbon barrel
soft tunes in the stomach fattening livers
roads only traveled lead to no where
trees wood in the Fall to burn in the Winter
obsessed counting tick-tocks trimmings teathered to panic
no cares inside the funky licks

take a seat fly choo-choo;
factualize this moment in this morning

af

(written with pen on paper)

a poet
should try to strive for
finding this morning of dreams
sarcasm cannot afford not to be listened to
good shit
pretty good
chicken or the egg
realizing
the words breed the words
the egg
evolved
into
the chicken

i want to feel more life

af

(choice pickings from a free-write)

I heard once that the things on this world
are not where we thought they are
and not the sizes we have known them to be

All along, we have been looking at this planet
upside down, underneath all we have
shit on since this nation’s creation

What goes up must come down

It makes me think…
Why would it ever occur to me to ask if
the world as I was taught is not in fact real, true?

If I am in fact south of the equator right now
then that might mean I could also be no where
close to the time in existence I think I am in as well

Living this whole time ass above head
spinning in an unknown time of existence

Is this true chaos?
Is this evolution?

Time, space…I suppose matter is also a complete misperception

and matter is me…

 
af

(written with pen on paper)

a muse is a moment in life
washing over, cleansing my hesitations
draining all the love and creativity
out of me onto the paper

helps me give and strive and give

the muse keeps me curious
allows my sexual urges
arouses my art
encourages me to lie in lust
accepting no negotiation for my passions

my muse makes me want more
gives a purpose to the game of time
relaxes me so I can listen to the music
to be swept away, overcome

a muse is the only reason to keep on living, learning
to keep on trying…

af

(written in little notebook)