soft like silken honey.
Your words ever venomous,
glimmer like sugar,
itty bitty sugar crystals,
bending light as they
pass between your lips.
Colored Man Chapter One: My ChildrenA sudden tap at his bedroom door brought John back to the present. He had been staring at a little hand painted portrait of a dog sitting in the middle of a lawn. Again the tap on his door came slow and deliberate.
“One moment,” he said setting the piece down. “I'll be right there.”
He straightened his blue collar and brown belt then walked over to the front door. Peeping through the peep hole he saw them. The men in the black suits came to collect him. They appeared as if someone had cut and pasted the same person ten times over in his hallway.
“What can I do for you fine gentleman?” He called through the door.
“Mr. Carlon we're here to take you into custody. You are accused of a color violation and as such must be immediately taken to the House of Eyes. Please do not refuse or we will use force.”
John unlocked the door and presented his wrists. The men in suits restrained him and proceeded to lead him away. Another group of men walked p
Working ReflectionsFrom a commuter bus window, I watch
the world. All these cars, meant to go
over rushing streams and dirt roads,
over long paved roads and dimly
lit tunnels, could drive a thousand miles
on this island, but never get anywhere.
From this window I can see people
rushing to be where the buildings stand
like giant stone idols to paper vomiting
gods, or memorials to human decency.
There in masses, knelt prostrate
in leather thongs and chains, praying
for a dream that never comes. From
this great wide bus window I see
my reflection pondering every word
I write in memoriam of the dream
I'm told must die.I refuse to put down
my pen, to cease my scribbling on
the empty spaces between humanity
and the blank page. I do it not
for immortality or the glory of a coin,
but for the memorial of the human being
I watch slowly die. From my miniscule
window on this bus going nowhere,
Empire of DustCan you dream it? Can you build the sky?
Will you take the clay and help the world mend?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
Hear the sound of the crumbling stones nearby,
and feel the parched earth tremble to our end.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
You broke the seal and let your arrow fly
which made the rain twist and rend all the men.
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
We built our towers to touch the high
and whispered irreverent in our sin:
“Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?”
When all was pleasing to the greedy eye
you found the hunger and asked it, though blind,
“When all is dust, will you refuse to die?”
There is no one left to weep, none to cry,
or even miss our empire or mind.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
The Desert in MeSomething in me feels of sand. Of flesh slowly
rubbed against the grain of the sort used
to strip the surface of wood. Each minute
of everyday, though I walk with my back straight
and eyes forward, I feel it scrape. Every organ
and bone in the center of my body is felt slowly
worn by the movement of being. In being alive
I feel the sand like coarse salt in freshly cut
meat press into my gut, into the imagined hollow
where the soul is supposed to be. Though I am used
to the sensation of the sand in my ever present wounds,
I can never get used to the sand filling every vein
and spilling over the breach of my waking mind.
The sand grinds in more than just my gut,
but in the corners of my eyes, in the corners
of my lips. It grinds in between my teeth
and pours out of my mouth in obscenities.
Work in Progress: Matchlock PoetStand the gun with its barrel up and remove
the cap from the powder horn. Tip a little
of the powder down the barrel. Ram the shot
and a paper wad with the rod until you hear
the packet sink to the bottom.
She sits all alone eyeing the letter in her hands
curiously as if the letter would talk. Her fingers
move as if trained to do so, shaking as if it is
the first time she traced a line. Her lips purse
as if to kiss an unseen person before the utterance
of a word. Issued from her lips, she reads out loud.
Thumb open the cold lip of the breach cover
to expose the pan. Pour a little powder into
the small bowl and close the cover shut.
Take the match cord in your hands and blow
until the cherry glows. Pin the match
to the firing arm, and lift the gun to your shoulder.
Her lips tremble as she issues each word in a voice
reserved for the quiet corner of a library. The tip
of her tongue dances around the curve of every vowel
and consonant. Gingerly the tongue meets teeth
and the teeth meets l
Valentines Day ChallengeThere are no songs that I could sing
above a whisper's pitch,
no tone or sound to match
the humming bird flutter of your breathing.
The feather of your sleep, dances on your lashes;
the soft smile
warmer than down across my chest. I place
a single kiss, upon your sleeping breast. I watch
your lips part at my affectionate intrusion.
In silence like a dreaming bird, I listen.
SorrowI feel it. Water, salty to the tongue, fills up the cup
cut into the space in the hollow below my sternum.
It fills to the brim, flowing from nowhere, and overflowing
it spills into and over my veins. In waves that ebb and thrust
in the canals of my nerves, the water rises to my brain. It
sinks down into my legs, buckling my knees in the force
of its weight. The tide is rising, and I am made an ocean
in the form of a man. The water trickles down from the corners
of my eyes becoming a channel for the ships of my grief
to sail out into the world that does not recognize the man
I am. An entire ocean bubbles and rolls behind my face.
A slow steady wave becomes a beast that cracks the green
glass surface of my sea. In the wash that sweeps
my sandy skin, in the sheen that shows where water once
rose, the man is lost in the wake. I break.
GnatsMy mind is buzzing like a million gnats
swarming over the fruit of my thoughts.
Though the mouth of one gnat is small,
together they feast on the flesh like the fangs
of a salivating maw. Obscuring the luscious
globe of imaginings, the zipping and zigging
waves of annoyance that no amount of
swatting at nothing, or nervously rocking
eat at me.
PebblesLittle by little the flint-stone of my soul is worn away into whatever time will make of me. Am I destined to be another pebble in a shallow stream, or a blade like those of ancient dark eyed people? Am I destined to weep at the loss of my being, or will I be honed, sharpened, a thing with a purpose? One more stone is skipped across the pond, but in the depth of the pool I find myself sinking.
ShadesI'll lay you down upon this bed,
Eyes blinded with a strip of black cloth.
I'll take my time to circle around you.
Enjoying the light aroma of fear and sweat;
Mixed with just a hint of excitement.
I'll see your legs pushed together,
Perhaps in anticipation.
Or would it be the butterflies;
That dance a shade of scarlet upon your cheeks.
I'll take my time to run these fingers
Along your soft milky white skin.
And even before you part your lips to confirm it,
I'll already know that you belong to me.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
RainShe was bloated, swollen in her
Own melancholy moisture
Threadbare at her contours
Unravelled into gray woolen
Strings, too loose for her skin
And they drained off her shoulders
To pool in a waxy heap by her
She was rounded by opaque
Moons, liquid apricity. The life
In her womb churned, awakening
From quiescence. Her being
Shuddered from the maelstrom within
And in a great wailing cry of woe
Her waters burst in a ferocious
She roiled under each contraction
As unearthly poetry thundered from her
Throat, emblazoned with lightning. Her
Child is birthed, swaddled in her failing
Body, decrescendo heartbeat.
And as the babe breathed, the wind
Abandoned her shallow lungs,
The Night VisitShe arrives on time each night,
With a flurry of quick footsteps,
Followed by a timid knock at my door.
The reply I give her is often curt,
'Enter,' I'll say
And she does.
I spend a moment taking stock of her appearance:
Noticing bare skin beneath a heavy brown coat.
A few droplets of sweat run down her neck,
And she swallows nervously as she awaits my instruction.
I approach her slowly;
Enjoying this moment where the distance closes.
My eyes take their time to pull her into focus,
And like a bolt of awareness she becomes vivid;
Her lips a sparkling red and utterly lush for a kiss...
Her eyes are doe-eyed and completely tame;
Her makeup is perfect, as I've always liked.
But I can tell, beneath that flawless surface,
That it was rushed under a dim streetlight.
At this point our lips are separated by a bare inch,
I like to leave this distance as I stare into her eyes.
I enjoy the way her breath quickens as I ask her the question,
The question that beg
The Death that is Left BehindI.
the layers laid,
alone is a man who scrapes
outward. He is
like the child fallen
down a deep well, who
sees the way is up and yet
scratches stone walls
instead--the flesh of
fingers giving way, symbolizing
a waning vivacity sealed
in the center of his diamond-hard
Sound is a physic; music, a friction--
white hot motion to motionless
souls. It is pain and heat, terrible
and beautiful, healing, and the death
that is left behind.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the news
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair:
it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
and now the crack,
and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
AnimeAs soon as i saw Anime on Tv I was happy to see it played,
I Like inuyasha, FMA, Naruto and many others but why?
At 34 years old loving anime, isn't this strange?
Loving Anime is loving someone
You cherish it forever
Until You die but Anime is Amazing what they can do today..
Its in 2-D, 3-D and CG's But no matter what,
Anime to me will always cherish me into my heart and soul
When i was younger Anime never existed,Why?
Anime will stay into the younger kids today,
Anime will rule the world maybe someday?
What can you do not without a pencil today?
You Can draw Anime,
You Can always give you're best shot to draw even if you're not good enough,
True isn't it?
You can put Anime on Tv, on a website about everything,Anime Kick Butt.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno