B boy May 12, 2012

They send you in again. 

No call from mom, 

No doctor’s excuse, 

No reason to skip third grade gym. 

you say dodgeball is like walking home from school 

And you only want to walk home once a day. 

 

You walk past the roller rink that’s been grey and empty since you were born,

Cross to the other side

Cause you know who stays there now.

It’s not the laughing kids with tokens and pink and orange blades;

It’s the ones with hard metal blades and hard metal eyes. 

You have no happening bowling alley here, 

No carpeted library with tall ceilings and quiet walls. 

No movie theater with popcorn and 3D glasses. 

The community center’s for banging dope,

The corner’s for dealing, 

The alley’s for walking

And at night it’s for dodging bullets. 

 

You have broken blinds to peak out,

You have pushers pissing in the front hall,

you have television

And sometimes you see your complex on the 10 o clock or the crime watch. 

You have dejection and submission to an accepted monster, 

The hate child of the oppressor and the oppressed. 

You have neighbors with transitory glory and local blood diamonds.  

You have your own children’s army here. 

But you won’t get kidnapped with a gun to your head; 

Physical force isn’t your problem yet. 

The force of non-options is strongest here, at your young age. 

You were never born innocent here. 

 

You were born with a rape whistle in your brain, 

Fight or flight written on your kicks,

The tensest fear under your surface,

Hard straight stare and low lid.

Maybe you were a crack baby or maybe

Your mom never touched the stuff, 

Tries not to let you touch 

the thin walls of your one bedroom for five,

Barely holding back the weight of the monster, 

Barely dodging the constant pounding balls.  

 

you’ve been sitting here 20 minutes

And you finally open your mouth 

When I ask what you like doing the best. 

You say “I’m a b boy” 

Cross your skinny arms

And I look at 60 pound little boy you

And I don’t doubt it for a second.

 

 

This one was partly inspired by an event I went to where Crazy Legs was talking about breakdancing for positive social change. If anyone has a chance to watch, I highly recommend the “Bouncing Cats” film that documents the b boy movement in Uganda. 

Singular revolution April 26, 2012

You say the revolution won’t be televised,

But tell me, brother, why then are these steepled people

On my TV, preaching, teaching, screeching through the screen,

Histrionics in the pews, convulsions on the concrete and

Instant indulgences in priests’ pockets

Being spent on suicidal mission rockets

To outer-spaced, inner limit win it in a minute

Money mugged from people picking other people’s pockets.

 

The revolution may be live but

Instantly reassembled pixel resolution is

A living revolution to the bouncing babies in my brain,

Internal entities developing exponentially into the brightest of brain children

Minding their manners in a mind over matter counter intuitive inquiry,

My blood brain barrier pushing pressure points from the progression,

Exchanging the pain for rapid red-light recession,

Leaving the car on the road so the kids will get towed

To foster minds, winding away from economic downfall,

Robbing Peter and ignoring Paul.

 

If this is the live revolution, brother,

Then what do you call the history of a convoluted collective conscience,

Striving against balls and chains on the ankles only to ball and chain the mind?

What do you call the mashed up misanthropic melodies of fear itself and

The wealth of learning summarily thrown out with the dishwater and

The remaining straggling scraps of the past

Served up with a silver spoon on a contemporary platinum plate,

Not even holding their own weight

Against the forces of fate, fortune, forever twining lies

Around the lidless eyes of the foster children, once mine but now.

Now don’t hold me wrongly responsible for their constant cataract

Counterfacts, competing to augment their reality through contact technicality.

It’s for them to claim the constantly alternating alternative to 3D life and

This is their singular revolution, an evolution into unbiased, unraced, rational states

Of mind melding, electroflesh welding interface.

 

Now I know why the revolution will not be televised, brother:

The television will be entrancingly intrinsic,

Impulses frantically fed to and from the head,

History live that once was dead,

Mental mind communion instead

Of misunderstanding.

We’re all moonwalkers, landing,

All wheelchair bound, standing,

All dictators of the world, uniformly commanding,

All the universe, infinitely expanding.

All image vendors, handing

Out mind passes to see antiquated prototypes of

Televisions, in the days when our predecessors couldn’t see for themselves.

In the days when humans passively viewed television revolution,

Unwisely revolted by the thought of active solution.

Philosophy Tuesday April 24, 2012

We may have been creatures to love and be loved,
Situationally, temporarily, non inherently.

We might have spawned an army of 7 billion without love,
A lustily subjunctive possibility.

Ought we self sacrifice primordial urges and
Confine ourselves to supererogatory purgatory?

Even if we don’t engender lust, our primeval ancestors surely did
Justice to conceiving inter and intra species progeny.

If we hadn’t  engendered love, our now extinct parallel species would have
Bred mutations into being, a metaphysical  possibility.

If we didn’t engender the wrath of social darwinism, other primates did
Designate unnecessary human death as epistemic necessity.
.
.
.
Who can judge the misfortune of death?

Who is advanced enough in age
To be deemed appropriate to die ripe and old?
To be laid to rest with tears of a life celebrated,
To have a life’s story summarily told.

Is it the 40 year old patriarch of a central African village,
Already the eldest member and the achiever of tribal dreams?
Is is the Japanese centenarian, slipping to the pond by night,
Watering wishes with mind’s still sharp gleam in the light of moonbeams?

Is is the depressed teen girl with only conditional desires
Who threatens suicide without the promise of a rape free future and nightmare erased past?
Is it granny who died peacefully in her sleep or car crash dad driving drunk again?
Is it the homeless boy beat dead in the streets, the thousands in death camps being gassed?
The vet whose insurance ran out before dialysis did, sister stoned for uncovering her head,
Suicide bomber dying for just causes, the loser of life’s deadly race coming in last?
.
.
.
Contemporary Fountains of Youth

They say the end of one’s days
Are a mental stagnation,
The loss of one’s members,
The body’s summation.

Scientific advances
Combat resignation.
Cryonics, bionics,
Our social salvation.

Life supports yielding
Carnal transformation
Will strengthen the life force or
Maintain vegetation.

Categorical goals,
Through life education
Prevent brains from knowing
Mental starvation.

Transforming death with
Mental remotivation,
Psychological life
Is death’s imagination.
.
.
.
A Riddle

It’s only awake when sleeping,
Stagnantly keeping imaginary mobility.
It’s only tasting life while fasting,
Nectar of gods feeds deluded instability.
Only hating its only lover,
Loving the emotional lability.

Living extra extrinsically,
Riding the fastest shadows.
Living unvapidly vicariously,
On metropolitan Thoreaus.

Emotional production parasite,
Vomiting experience summarily,
Or burning off the manic excess
With mental vivacity, voluntarily.

Cynic of metaphysical materialism,
Defying known senses, sneering,
Self declared dystonic iconoclast,
Writhing when forensic fogs start clearing.

Indifference April 22, 2012

You fervently beg off and hope

That it echoes back an iota of feeling

So you’re not sent wheeling home

But it doesn’t give you one reason to stay here;

Waves you on with a five second benediction

And a lazy stretch of the arms.

 

It doesn’t pry;

Won’t push you to look at yourself in the mirror,

Re-evaluate your misguided cure,

Reverse course.

If you want someone spreading your gossip,

Head over to the housewife brunch.

If you need an ear,

It has one detachedly deaf.

Could you use a pick me up? Need a light?

Nothing sparks a light in its distant eye.

 

It might have sex with you

If you’re on top doing all the work.

It won’t say no to free money

Unless it has to leave its comfy armchair.

 

It won’t drag you down.

It doesn’t care if you sing the bluest blues,

Or paint the town red while it stays at home

Or leave it alone with your nightmares in the dark.

It won’t be any kind of ball and chain

Even if you beg it to ground you.

 

According to experts, the expansion of IT

Is the great tragedy of our times

And according to mothers,

IT is no dandelion bouquet in May,

No warm hug and no flush of her cheek

And no good reason to not see you.

 

You treat it like an innocuous gas but

IT is responsible for

Replies unsaid and check lists undone,

Your miserable, failed love life,

America’s diabetes and soon to be dialysis,

Lonely elders in your nursing home next door,

The shift of your old neighborhood into survival crime,

The clockwork of oil spills, factory explosions, exploding corruption,

The stagnant unrest of democracy gone apathetic,

Hungry, hopeless children in Ukraine prostituting for food,

Conflict diamond slavery and slaughter in Africa,

Unchecked genocide across your globe,

Colossal fucking holes in your atmosphere,

And everyone vaguely knowing and no one frankly caring.

For my lil sis April 15, 2012

Here’s a pic I painted for my little sis. Also, for kicks, here’s a poem I wrote her on her 16th bday.

We became sisters when you were thirteen

And your hair and your mood swings were uber extreme.

You’re kool and spontaneous, kindof between

The age when you learn what’s real life and a dream.

It’s cliche, but I’ll say it, I have to admit

I’m proud of your progress, your brainy quick wit.

You’re empowered and strong and you never give up

Don’t ever be scared to tell it straight up.

You’ve got lots of brain waves up there in your head

So don’t start to think with your ego instead.

You’re flyy and you’re funky with jazzy good looks,

Don’t let fugly boys steal you like crooks.

You’re inspired and hardcore with mad street smart skills

Swag up in life and you’ll pay all the bills.

If life gets between us, I’ll really be pissed.

We’ve had some good times and I’m psyched you’re my sis.

Poemas de forma April 10, 2012

Algo Salvaje

Una

Gran

Montaña

Nos ha dividido,

Nos  ha separado,

Nos  ha abandonado

A  vagar en sus  bosques

De desesperación y perdición

Donde  están  cazando  los  lobos

Y  encontrando  casi  nada aparte de

Las  almas  de los  perdidos,  buscando

Algo salvaje, algo elemental, algo terrenal

Con dientes afilados que matan sentimientos.

Con  bordes  ásperos,  pieles  en  bruto,  y garras.

Que quitan la humanidad y todas sus fallas y defectos.

Las almas buscan los lobos para olvidar lo que perdieron.

.

.

.

Tu

ya

no

eres.

Tu eres mi sol

Que ahora brilla más;

Ahora que ya no te tengo .

O por lo menos creo que brillas mas.

Es difisil saber que brilla y que refleja la luz

Cuando te quedas en  una casa de iluminación fluorescente

Cuando no sales de la casa de luz durante el invierno oscuro.

Pero tus rayos traen algo sutil que no traen los rayos artificiales.

p

o

r

e

s

o

yo

se

que

tu eres

la luna

llena

.

.

.

El Trompo Flojo

ahora

te   sientas   al   lado

del     trompo            flojo.

sin          motivación        y       sin       saber

si      tienes      ganas        de         vivir       otro        día.

tu   mamá    te     ha     dicho   que   hay  mucho   que    hacer

en               este               gran              mundo                   y

tu          papa           asienta         con      la       cabeza,

con                     aprobación                       infinita.

y          tu        no           piensas      nada

porque   tus     días      de    pensar

ya pasaron de tu moda.

Y  el  trompo;

Ahora

ves

que

no

se

m

u

e

v

e

.

.

.

Mi

Sombrilla redonda

Es tu paraguas de prevención.

Me gusta  llevarla  en  frente de mi

Para sentir la lluvia  fría en la piel seca;

El sol caliente en los párpados de los ojos.

Tu  prefieres bloquear los elementos para que

No  toquen tu  fachada  de  pretensión  perfecta;

Y eres protejido de todo lo malo del mundo y de

t

o

d

o

l

o

      b    o

     u   n

    e

Circusymmetry April 8, 2012

Walking with you at the circus.

Holding your hand cause

I’m afraid you’ll wander and

Get sat on by the giant elephant

Or tricked by the mean clown.

Holding your hand cause

The two headed snake makes me shiver

And the bearded lady’s mournful gaze

Is a little too much like mine.

The fire breathing tiger compels you

To lean in and touch it’s life-force.

Good thing I’m holding your hand cause

I yank you away in time

Reprobation.

What would I do with

A one armed, tiger-burned you?

You say you’re going for a pony ride;

You won’t be back for a while.

And I say fine, go.

I let go your hand and

Imagine the worst

Because the circus is the place

Where imbecilic imagination breeds.

I wander the circus for weeks

Sick of cotton candy sweet,

Sick of collision of glitter and manure,

Sick of sleeping cold alone under the bleachers.

And then you’re back,

Thoroughly inside yourself.

That show pony took you to the saddest funeral and

You need the tiger’s energy now.

So I pull you to the cage but

You no longer want to seize the fire.

I turn back to persuade you,

Tug at your hand.

Where is your hand?

I’m holding the lock to the cage

And I hear the crowd gasp.

I look up and see a demigod in gold

Leaping from tightrope to pinhead,

Confident flight,

Resolute balance.

The crowd gasps

And I in unison,

Lift my hands to the bright flying jumper

And I feel the torrid breath on my neck.

I’m burning here,

Locked in this tiger cage without

My imaginary friend.

Everyday singer April 5, 2012

She quietly commiserates with your moodiness

And the low hum of commiseration carries into melancholic song

When she briefly sneaks out of your house of rage.

 

She listens, nods, and sighs

In tandem with your miseries

That are drowned out by a chorus of crickets in her head.

And she holds the tune

So she has something nice

For the hours she’ll spend locked in the bedroom.

 

She’s singing an old french ditty

When you come home drunk and angry with an itch to fight.

And she still mouths the whimsical words

When you punch her in the mouth

And scream at her to shut the fuck up!

 

She exhales the melody

Of the slam of the door as you leave,

Inhales your fist through the drywall when you return,

Carols to the gurgle of your first beer

And the malicious chortle of your tenth.

But those tunes slip away from her later

When you murmur, “I’m sorry, I love you.”

 

She knows why the caged bird sings

But at those pivotal moments,

She doesn’t want freedom from you.

 

She wonders why you’re like the radio

Playing rainy songs on rainy days.

She wonders when you’re going to play

Those three minutes of sunshine

Cause every day’s a rainy day with you.

Papercut Composition March 30, 2012

Enduring tangibles with no complaint,

Tolerating cuts, bruises, smacks upside the head.

Even inflicting scars of your own

For patent visibility.

You rate them a 1 out of 10,

Rate them a smiley face.

“See how I tolerate sticks and stones?”

 

But smiley face doesn’t rate

When you’re hit by stupid people shit.

You practically beg to be dragged into their shit holes,

You consciously leave your safe space and head over to the pity party,

You refuse to turn that frown upside down.

 

You’re the living martyr,

The unscathed freedom fighter,

The self-celebrated veteran of future wars.

Ode to self deception March 28, 2012

Did you know about the take and give

The give and take,

The forget and forgive,

The live and let live?

Cause I’m living and you’re letting die.

 

Now I’m trying so hard to work it

And working so hard to try

To find the hole you intentionally tripped into

While I was running heedless ahead

Flying our thousand-colored kite.

 

And I refuse to seek attention

So now I’m attention seeking

But your attention is time limited,

Space limited

Goal limited

To a goal that wasn’t me

In a time of confusion and

A space reserved for solitude.

For interrelational reservation.

 

Too bad so sad that

I don’t endure iron clad oblivious.

Self deception has pickable locks and

I have hidden picks in my pockets;

I have a new question.

Why did I think I was a goal of yours?

Your ego is your goal

And I can’t judge that.

But if carniverous vampire bats are altruistic enough

To vomit up warm blood for the unlucky hunters,

Can’t you vomit up a little empathy

For someone who needs a few minutes of help?