R.I.P.

She walked like it was just her 
and a mirror alone in a room. 
Like a model rehearsing to rip 
a runway.

((The rip stands for 
remembered in poems))

A wise man once told me 
whenever you watch a 
woman’s hips move like a 
pendulum is trapped inside 
of them, you should already 
know what time it is.

How many steps it takes 
for a belle to leave footprints 
on your heart. I heard that happens, 
so that if they ever want to return 
there will always be a trail leading 
them back to you.

And the pieces of people you 
take without asking will one day 
become a whole person. 
Its called a soul mate.

Or at least thats what he said 
and thats what I hope is true.

Sham Veneer

There’s nothing like the muzak
of a waterfall to drown out the world. 
The whistle of the winds breeze 
to snake-charm my electric heartbeat. 
People are not as alluring as nature is 
with her daisy dukes on to keep 
my mouth agape, ready to howl 
like a wolf for a fox. 
For a reason to breathe in this 
fresh air and not feel like a thief. 
To look up at the sky and 
not feel inferior. 
To walk these blocks and 
not feel like a prisoner….
To live without the weight of a 
judgement there to hold me down.

This is why eye contact 
is hard to find most days.

The Game in a Shotgun Shell

Courage is not using
stereotypes as camouflage.
Tattoos as a way to scribble
over your uniqueness.

Filling in the blanks of your
soul with drugs will not spell
out happiness in your heart.

The world will tell you to go right
until all your left with is regret.
You listen, but wish you didn’t.

You wish you would have rubbed
the genie’s lamp of your dreams more,
but instead, they told you to
massage your demons.
“Because life is more about
lies and money than love and hope.”

And the truth is I may die a
fool in your eyes, but at least
I can say I never lived like one in mines.

No Filter A.M.

This is me at 12 A.M.
on a Friday night – Alive.
Dying to write love letters
to my dreams.

As a boy, you were there
holding my hand along the
crossroads where the oxygen
reeked of weed and Gun smoke.

My lungs gasping for hope.

That mountaintop stood head
in the clouds, and you stood
at the foot of it like a servant
even though King governed
your step every step of the way.

Way back when I was young
enough to believe in you and
old enough to make wedding
vow size promises and
not regret them…

We’ve come so far, you know.

Way too far to look back.

Awaiting Tomorrow

There are novels bookmarked 
in my fingertips that I haven’t read yet.

Chapters of poems I haven’t titled, 
but waves of ballads to take you on 
a joy ride in the middle of the ocean.

I can drown you in a library 
of rhymes if I wanted to.

You flip the bird on me, 
I flip a page on you as 
gracefully as gymnast 
do somersaults.

Summon art and hearts 
catch holy ghost like foul balls; 
speaking in tongue like french kisses.

This is what I do for a living 
if you wanted to know. 
If not, just know 
there are novels bookmarked 
in my fingertips that I haven’t read yet.

Chapters of poems I haven’t titled.

A future I haven’t claimed.

Walking with Ghost

This asphalt was once a
red carpet camouflaged in midnight.

Where two lovers wrapped themselves
in each others arms like dirt and skeleton,
or as if there was no tomorrow….

The irony is they both are ghost now.
No red carpet for her to sashay
or for him to stroll anymore.

Just a vast memory lane that I
amble down like a graveyard;
still hearing the whisper of
their kisses from years ago,
even though they feel centuries away.

I know it may sound crazy.

But the sun was shining today,
and all I could think of, was how beautiful
it is to window dress a smile sometimes.

When a Star dies...

Have you ever seen a star die?

Explode into a work of art
and portrait the wall of your
universe like a
masterpiece would,
or like a poster of
Jimi Hendrix hanging in
a teenage boys room does.

I suppose thats what an artist mind
looks like out of the inkwell of a pen;
dripping of everything that colors this
generation in with a stroke of genius.
Like it belongs inside of a museum
of murals, or maybe even your
soul mates eyes if they are sky
enough to coffin a stars corpse.

A beautiful death is a life well lived.

Now I understand.

These poems are...

These poem are,
the breath’s of fresh air
from mother natures lungs
that has carried sailboats overseas;
prisoners from the chokehold of their cellmates
and back to the arms of their soul mates.

Today,
they were the kind of music
that marionettes bodies and makes hips
slither like snakes on native soil.
Where just women with beautiful smiles
and spirits that glow in the dark belly dance…

While fire burns across the river.
The fire that keeps a pilgrim warm in the winter,
but lures bloodthirsty predators into your bivouac,
or your heart, whatever,
it seems like the both of them always
Ground Zero without cover anyway.

But thats what these poems are.
Thats what a writer is.
Mere souls that tread the path of their dreams
even when it is littered with land mines…

And still it seems like they always come true.

Sin your message to the world

The world will expo your sins. 
Boast about the blood dripping off 
of your fingers for years to come. 
For nights when tears shed like 
snake skin lies will slither in between 
the cracks of your heart and 
plant seeds of hate. 
They will sprout like weeds; 
the world will love you for this. 
They will even make an idol of you 
out of your scars like old slaves 
being whipped for seeing the world 
beyond the cotton field. 
The young will believe this is 
what it means to be human. 
To let your scars ruin you; 
to believe surrendering to sin 
should be as easy as taking a breath. 
In this world that may be true. 
But only if its your last.

Starving artist

A poet doesn’t need a mansion 
to feel at home in his own skin; 
A pocket full of money to spend 
every second with solitude as if it 
were a million dollar investment. 
Whoever said you needed a degree 
in mathematics to count blessings, 
clearly never inhaled a breath 
of fresh air before. 
Or a Master’s of Art’s to see beauty, 
clearly never looked up at a night sky 
or wrote a poem and marveled at it 
until the words almost brought 
tears to their eyes. 
This is not just writing love letters 
in a notebook, or talking shit, 
or a way to lure pretty 
women out of their panties. 
Even though all of these things 
make being a poet more interesting. 
This is spilling your heart 
on a canvas day in and day out 
for the universe to see and never being 
afraid to admit your afraid of being a POET. 
Because the world always challenges those 
that pose a threat to making the people 
realize how priceless their self-worth really is.

Lost girl

I’ve seen cute turn into slut
overnight when the lights go dim.
When the boys are perched nearby
watching like the moon.

Nowadays whenever you mix
innocence, music, and alcohol
you usually get a girl that will
twerk the morals out of her beauty
just to be the center of attention.

Now she’s just a rumor that
every boy in school wants to
wear on his reputation;
a mere trophy he wants to
brandish through the corridors.

They see her now and think of sex.
They saw her before and thought of art.
The life of a growing girl trying to
find love in the wrong places.

Bottom Line

Will your bottom line one day 
become a stanza for you to pen poems on? 
Or a tightrope draped slacked between 
two mountains with no safety harness 
to keep you from meeting your death – 
I guess even suicide can be hospitable 
sometimes you know. 
I seen some bottom lines drawn on arms. 
Carved in flesh; they looked like bad memories, 
but who am I to judge. 
Who am I to judge those that snort 
their bottom lines away. 
Honestly, who ever stares a disaster 
in the eyes and doesn’t blink at least once?

The Human in us

I want you to make me laugh so hard
that I forget what color your skin is.
Talk so much that secrets spill out of me
like waterfalls and write poems on your
memories like clay tablets.

When we hug I want our spirits to be
in harmony and our heartbeats on cue –
a wise man once told me thats what
love sounds like. I still don’t know if its
true, but I always wonder upon silence.

Maybe if I recognize people by the
smiles happiness plants on their face,
the world wouldn’t always feel like one
colossal graveyard with my name
written all over it.

Because we could all
breathe as one and feel the
fresh air cleanse our soul.
Live as one and welcome
friends with arms behold.

Smile

I’m still learning to use my smile
as a bandage for these open
wounds pouring the love out me.

Because every now and then
these pages are an empty water-pail
waiting to be nourished with new life,
but more often than not the words run over
and the ground below my feet
begins to crackle like wood burning at night,
but still my walk never staggers.

Never staggers like a soldier
that trudges a field of land mines
and his fears are enormous,
yet still pocket-sized compared to his
dream to make it home one day.

So whenever the battle seems to be too
troublesome or vexing, please remember,
some aren’t even able to fight anymore
– be thankful.

Voila

Today my tongue is tied

and the more I try to unlace it

into poems the tighter the knots become.

The more I feel like a prisoner dawdling

the units of a writers block with shackles

handcuffing the breath in his fingers.

So instead of using brute force,

like a younger, more savage,

inexperienced version of me would,

I write about how it feels to to watch

your world crumble before your eyes

and not be able to find the right words to save it.

The right bookmark to page it.

And I know it sounds feebleminded,

but if your reading this poem right now, than

it couldn’t have been all that bad, now could it?

The Tales of WBA

The sun is arising, the boxer's await.

A passion that drives them from home to be great.

The heart of a lion, the eyes of a tiger.

There's plenty of water for spirits on fire.

They jab with the left, they cross with the right,

you punch any harder we're gonna need ice.

She slips from thin air, he leans out of sight.

Who would've imagined magicians could fight.

The music uproars, its time to pay dues.

They dance like its meteors trapped in their shoes.

Now the sweat’s falling in heavy downpours.

They’re gasping for breath, but still they want more.

The count hasn’t started, but zero is coming.

“As soon as you’re finished you better be running.”

“...Coach help, you created some monsters!”

“You on your own champ, I’ll visit you at the doctor’s!”

The sun is arising, the boxer’s await.

A passion that drives them from home to be great.

A dark closet

For most people, 
solitude is that dark closet 
you were afraid to tiptoe into as a child, 
for fear that the boogeyman would be 
calmly waiting for you as a casket does its corpse – 
with pleasure and open arms. 
So ironically, 
the light becomes your salvation 
even before you’re able to reach it. 
And then, you grow older and light a 
cigarette to keep you company from 
the loneliness of your thoughts. 
Solitude is just a dark closet for most people, 
but for me its just another day. 
And sometimes I don’t know 
if thats a good thing or a bad thing.