for the past two weeks or so, I have carried a notebook and pencil on me at almost all times, here is what I have written, unedited, and in most cases, first time I have really actually read any of this. so here you are.
here dying eyes stare heavenward.
her bloody halo grows larger as her eyes grow darker.
the last words she heard ringing deathknells in her ears,
gang names and epithets echo briefly.
she hear the murderous pop...
her heart pumping lifeblood onto cracked sidewalks, a trickling sacrifice to the ghetto and the drug war.
her face is never seen beyond the obituary page, smiling 7th birthday she died in the worst way. never suspecting the creeping caddilac carrying mis labeled bullets, never expected to be unwitting human shield for the dealer on the corner.
she died alone, the car careening around a corner, the corner boys scurrying up appartment stairwells.
But she is not alone. She is among many innocents on a pyre of corpses dedicated to the government reinforced poverty cycle, feeding banks and prisons and funeral homes.
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a stairwell is a fine place to drink.
just don't sit at the bottom.
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What stories will you tell
bus floor pencil?
what have you seen?
what have you been?
is anyone sad when you are lost?
does anyone know you vanished?
Some sorry sad sack writer
lost poems no one to aid in marking
words to pages.
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Choice or chance?
Bus seat tension culture dictates silence, same subway car never to meet again. is this a regret in the making, or another awkward moment forgotten in the long list of memories, life they say. It seems sadly isolated when a hello is an invasion of privacy. Our eyes search each other, we need to know how you fit in the connection web network before introductions are important.
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Another blonde
Another day
Another bus ride
another island
with no ferry
and no bridge.
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I dream of neibhours.
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FUCK SKUMMILK
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Justin Beiber is forbes 3rd most powerful celebrity. At least we now can say, for a fact, that "baby baby baby" is a powerful statement.
What it empowers... I leave to you.
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Walkin like cattle
onto a streetcar slaughter
house, slow deliberate
hopeless, shuffle steps.
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Day Dream of Me. Your Night Dreams Are Too Horsey.
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crooked walk. beauty knows not herself.
Seeing only reflections in funhouse mirrors,
impossible images we all carry unacknowledged.
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Gentle unloved nipples
ask again for worship,
I will obey.
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I write poems in pencils cause stumbling words are impermanent.
I write poems fleeting in crooked scrawls.
thoughts are quick forgot.
Graphite maggots wrigge incomprehensible.
fly away when
they get old.
forgotten brief lives
flit by, by candlelight.
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