poetry

going places, are you coming?

poetry

shocked again at your absolute
lack of direction and call
slugging through life
as though near drowning
flailing and gasping for air
hoping to hold on just long enough
for one more breath
then descent
to the deepdark
only to quit and look elsewhere

by 18 lebron was making millions
and all you have to show
is a hiccup of a resume
and a hickey from the last ‘friend’

but more than that
i simply cant understand how a tree
can be so lost

of bullies, cronies, slaves, and friends

poetry

You are tough and strong
and possibly unbeatable,
and I might just hate you
despite my best efforts
and my best misgivings.

I’ve heard it said
that hate is just
the inverse of love
and while I’m drawn to
tear down misconceptions,
I tend to agree because I’ve
seen Smallville and Unbreakable.

And now, through thinking
analogously, I come
to the point and to the question:
Do I love you? (or) Do I hate you?
For there can be no in-between.
And while some may label my logic
a fallacious, false dilemma, I,
respectfully, disagree.

Returning to the analogues, you
are Ender, ripe with potential,
potentially holding the future
in your young but growing hands;
the strong respond in loving
confidence; the weak in fearful
violence, attempting to crush
before being crushed themselves,
yet Ender only crushed in self-defense.

So without the crushing weakness the
prospect of crushing destruction disappears;
if only I can be strong enough
to allow you to be strong, strong
enough to choose love, rejecting
the weakness of hate, responding
to you as a friend and not a foe.

because without the possibility of being arrested you lose some of the adventure

poetry

when i was younger
i dreamed dreams of bigger things
and wilder places

but today (though my dreams were small)

i rode through mud, poop, and tarmac
around a prison
and was nearly bit by a sketchy dog
i stood 100 feet from a jet airplane
and no one knew i was there

fearing being arrested i returned home

when i was younger
the dreams i dreamed
were so much smaller than the
dos i do

because sometimes for no good reason it feels like you’re alone, but you never really are

poetry

sometimes things happen to me
as if i had not chosen them
which in itself is a lie to be ignored
and redeemed
but i do them anyhow and i find myself
at a loss for words
and thoughts
trying to justify it to myself
knowing paul had a beautiful discourse on
the things he wish he did not do but did the same anyhoo

so i feel that way at times when
i’m not alone but feel that way

just like when years ago i would feel
alone though surrounded by my many friends
and take a stroll
i passed by astroturf set juxtaposed
to cement and the shiny blades i mistook
for real grass with rain dew spread anew
and knew

i really was alone

My Father and the Reaper

poetry

Part I: My father shot me, bang bang

I was created a girl, you see, and
wantin’ to be genderless was my sin,
“My daughter, I’m send you back to your maker.
Only he can make you whole for you’re unnatural.”
Steadfast was his resolve as he pointed the gun at me,
I didn’t wish to be a boy, you see,
but he shot me before I could tell him;
I wanted to be genderless.

I was the garbage can
rolling empty on the side of the street
one shot through my wasted heart,
nothin’ but pungent darkness.

Tell my father, he fostered and killed an empty vessel.
Tell him,
Tell him,
Tell him, I had yet to be born.

My father is not an evil man, you see
he is a simple man with ordinary values
uprooting all he doesn’t understand.

I wanted grace
a heart, not bruised or calloused
a mind, pristine and free
and eyes, innocent and clear.

So that I could feel like it wasn’t too late,
So that the day I’d finally be born and alive, I could say :
I am not my mother
I am not my father
I am not a girl
I am not a boy
I am human

***
Part II: The Reaper

Dark
Dark
Father, it is so dark.

Ah, 17 years old…
life had the promise of a bebop dance at the neon lights.
I thought there would be more days
Days when I’d breathe stardust till the break of dawn,
Days when freedom would cost 10 cents a piece at the farmer’s market
Days when I would needn’t stop for the rain or wait for love.

Fly me away
Fly me away from my own mind
Father, it is so silent.

my beautiful mom took the night train,
she promised to come back,
when the night is beautiful again
when the passing wind needn’t flirt with the outside, with damaged stars,
and plastic bags that always float one step further.

The reaper came from the bullet
and into darkness it took me,
to the place of the unwanted children-
dark and desolated.

The fabric of life and death is too coarse against my soul,
it rubs the good stuff away,
and soon I will fade into darkness.

Wish me back
Have Mercy, Father
wish me back
alive and well
So I can finally rest in peace.