WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING

I STARTED WRITING A BOOK...YEAH...WTF IS ROLLING THROUGH MY HEAD?

I deleted a poem...

Edit after edit I sharpen my blade, dagger raised, ready to plunge into the heart of literary history and leave a scar the shape of my name. I stroll, final draft in hand to show those whose minds will be blown when line after line reaches their ears like the first music, like rain through trees. Rain through trees smears my ink and lines are crossed and my sentences run. I run through the downpour and watch my world crumble as the sodden piece of paper drips black tears to the ground which laps up my poem like the ears it was meant for.

Every Class

There is one in every class.  One in every job, train, elevator or group of people.  What is so seductive about a person's voice that their ears have to hear it all the time?  What is this love affair ones ears have for their own voice that makes talking more important than saying anything.  When do these people realize that silence is pivotal and necessary to learn and grow.  It is like they have this fear of losing their voice and they constantly remind themselves that they have one.  My ears cry when they are around these people.  The beauty that they think they are creating is physically painful to me.  I find myself trying to find ways out.  To find ways to beat them to the punch so my ears wont be bleeding by the end of class.  I have respect for these old hands at teaching that work through it and ignore little quips and questions like mothers to a child's wails or the family that lives by the tracks who can't hear the trains anymore.  I just want to stand on my chair and scream, "If you say one more fucking word my head will explode!"  But i don't. I sit, take notes, smile and listen to the nails on the chalkboard.

Karate (RD)

I am learning oratory karate from a tongue-tied dojo.  Arguments land like blows unblocked to my diaphragm knocking out wind and words, leaving me in silent pain, gasping for air to retort, but I am swinging with my eyes closed and I fail to make contact.  Self-defense turns into self-demise.  Lines and stanzas once like a Cobra’s bite dripping with venom and lethal die in my throat when facing a stacked deck favoring the mongoose.  Knowing the odds I spit my poison and battle against an unbeatable foe.

Diploma Poema (RD)

I am a light being turned on in the day.  No hand is raised to shield blind eyes.  I have a piece of paper worth more than the words written on it.  I scream poetry to deaf ears and show my art to the blind.  I have jumped through hoops like a circus act and still the crowd thins.  We are picked through and discarded like livestock for the perfect herd.  Do not stick out, the survival of the fattest wallet is how this world runs and ideas wont pay the bills.  I am a light turned off at night.  I fade, like a lamp losing oil in its fight against the drowning black.  

Stir Crazy

My fingers ache and sweat at a thought, mountains and routes clutter my mind.  I want ropes and draws instead of desks and work.  Always flirting with the idea of just calling in dead, dropping off the face of the earth with those chosen few and climbing my way out of the depression of taking orders and serving food.  To sell everything but the necessities and set out into the wilderness with those I love to partake in this glorious world God has given us is my desire.  My bags are packed… Are you ready to go?

Ah Dreams

we walk through the night

a lion bounds from the darkness roaring, savage

he bites my hand. begins to eat me

I do not give in, I eat the lion