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A barista’s coffee curlies beam in morning bright,

Like a western coast wave swallows a surfer.

I’ve lost my board, um,

I feel my heart flutter beneath my abdomen,

Like my fisherman’s dinghy sailed into the maelstrom of Saltstraumen.

And I’ve been pummeled to Mariana’s trench,

In a lonely submarine peering through glass.

And I have drank to dry roasted breath at this hostel,

Blessed by the bustling breadth of stories,

And words, and laughter, like a Sunday matinee.

I write my inklings, my storylines,

college essays, prompts, and my titles.

Still I draw closer to the beach,

expressing novels in rhythm,

like modern street Poet’s,

Put their souls in Hip hop.

Every one’s poetry vibrates its way to my inner ears and floats silently in brain fluids. When locomotives of thought collide, a poem bounces with buoyancy as a beautiful projection. Light flickers upon a projector screen before the path blackens again. Every moment I sift through this sea of letters I become more Sisyphean and this struggle never ends. I borderline obsess over sentences strung elegantly between imaginary pink and blue lines, but when I am here I feel I am right where I belong.

Unplugged

We are prisoners of conscious.
I need to be awake on my own.
Let us burrow into our minds.
We have roots.
And we can plant seeds.
Let us create ourselves.

Shut off our toys for the day.
No Facebooking.
No tweets.
No Tumblr.
No texting.
No game apps.

No Droid.
No Instagram.
We have enough picayune things.
I will carry a Polaroid.
I want to move you with painted words.
Though they stand still.

Delete that keyboard entry in your text space.
I want you here to talk with me.
Your hand gestures and interpretations inspire me.
I need your touching eyes,
Pressing on me like wet violets.
I need to live, so I don’t forget how.

I want to be lost in the woods,
Basking in the light shimmering off leaves,
Drinking from a sacred tree trunk of Methuselah,
To ingest the sap that leaves the air behind me clear.
And gasp in the breath of beholden beauty,
Latched in a skeleton-keyhole chest.

Funny, I publish posts in a blogosphere.
I love the idea,
Of ideas lying nimble on this nimbus.
I write my heart on paper as thoughts strike me in the head.
I express them here because I struggle to bottle the words,
Though I carry hundreds of hidden pages by the spine.

I write below trees until my wrist is writhing.
Unplugged from wires I find my equilibrium.
I can’t maneuver from being this man.
I need to disconnect to begin being connected.
I remember that I am dust and water,
And I bathe exquisitely in the dirty recess of my mind.

A Pessimist’s Butterfly Story

A second chance,
Butterflies are God’s proof,
The universe has its hand killing us again,
Clipping wing after wing. 
Wings, witches can cast aflame any moment.
Douse us until we’re cauldron stew.
Watch the liner in the air nose dive.
If our backs even grow wings.
If we even moult from the larva.
They want us to cater to the pillars of the black book.
It can swallow the cocoon whole before you fly to the sun.
We become Imago.


Our second death,
Memories are God’s proof,
The darkness has its hand at clasping our souls again,
Spiraling minute after minute.
Minutes that clocks can stop dead any moment.
Age us until we’re brittle boned,
Celebrating the day of the dead when millions fly.
If our backs even grow wings.
If we even moult from the larva.
They want us to flutter with the rabble of the signature kaleidoscope,
Until the year the Monarch doesn’t appear again.
We become imagination.

Thought Verse 3

Time to grow forth the flowering plant from my soul.

An underground bulb, I am the orchids of the garden.

I am the balls, pardon my Greek reference.

I forgot to speak American jargon.

Here I go blabbing like jagged garb on lines barbed,

Building empires of the Word.

Take them to church and ignite a fire in their heart,

Like a pastor in a parsonage,

Guilty of spiritual arson,  I’m carcinogenic.

This flame has the opposite effect of formaldehyde,

But is still like cancer from popcorn and French fries.

Big Pharma cutting deals with fast food. Can you ask them why?

They won’t answer so I will slash their safety net,

And write with my pen like it is a sword.

And when I stab I pray, the meaning of my words pour,

From your pores and into the masses’ thoughts, until again ignored.

Before a plumber comes through and corks the whole story.

And lips become sealed by force.

These are the things I dream,

If and when I can change the world with metaphor.


You’re sad just teeming to get more of that ore kid,

More of that fool’s gold, that cold ice.

You’re lame with your chain, I spit rhymes nice.

I write so many sick lines, I should get paid per verse.

Claim my own King’s crown, lyric attack like an Irish usurp.

I am prime, like Optimus.

Numero Uno, and Time combined.

Rewind, I am the best in my own right,

And I don’t care about anyone’s bite.

I’ll just eat your brain and leave you zombified,

Ostracized like the Jews did with the blood of Christ.

I let that blood cover me, save me from my sinful flesh.

We only get one life, I’ve seen family, friends, and enemies die,

And I’ve felt my heart chill.

I think about George MacArthur killed, my friend shot in the head.

24 years old, and because bullets tore through an innocent, he met his end.

I am praying to be a good daddy.

I’ll be there when he is born,

He’ll be there when I’m buried.

It’s scary to think about be or dead.

The laws of physics become lost.

Pause at wisdom to keep integrity at every cost.

Don’t hesitate to say I heard it from my poet Nas.

This is why I keep it written on my heart in blood-lettered clause.

I remember us driving through Klondike Rd.

In the purple tracker Suzie Q.

That traveling goddess of flight.

Winding under those blowing trees.

Underneath those cryptic speaking trees.

I want to feel the goosebumps again,

And the way the leaves shaded us from blue,

And the sound above as Suzie Q carried us.

The greatest sound we ever heard.

A sound that surrounded the Universe,

In that tiniest pocket of existence.

The quartz grains of clock dust we held for a fraction.

Though we can’t have a moment back,

We tap jitter bug,

To grasp a smidgeon every once in awhile,

Because the moments are still enormous,

But frozen like an iceberg discovered 200 miles off the Greenland coast.

An iceberg eight times the size a metropolis of madness.

Like Manhattan being crushed with a block of ice.

And a tongue taking eight swallows to engulf the whole thing.

God Blessed Me with Posteritus

Pages upon pages,

Thumbing post-it,

Reflections inked on yellow.

Silent souvenirs I possess.

Hunch thoughts like mystics and outlaws.

The living of a cathartic man.

When debonair curiosity speaks,

Delicate syllables are uttered,

like lips balancing,

Upon the curvature of her hips.

Ecstasy insoluble from tongue to buds.

Marveling the grand machine,

Ticking and shifting ominous gears.

Time is an obdurate mess.

And I am a vandal,

Scribbling on mustard wallpaper,

Releasing birdcaged fowls,

To dip their wings,

In the lemon sun.

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