He never looks back.

He twists violently in his dreamy sleep
but no -

I don't think he ever dreams of me.

A Poem with a Trigger Warning

I have never felt so alive
       and so dead
simultaneously.
The fact that you still
             have this power
over me
        is sickening.
Muttering, breathing your
       heavy breath
into me
   you're next to me
  on top of me
  hitting me
and shoving me into book cases
your curling smile and curdled expressions
   sick heart, undeserved beating --
Bleating my pain at
     the hands of your insanity.
  You pause, only to snapshot
                     my own twisted face
       you quicken your pace
                 engrossed in your rage...
You needed your bleating, bleeding scapegoat
     your proverbial sacrificial lamb
        your personal whipping boy
As you hypocritically use your God
   to justify your beatings.
I'm so alone - I'm back there
                  in that disturbing place
trapped - is this what you wanted?
         Forever suffering at your maddened hands
    My heart can't take it,
            I am through.
Who now will take your shots
         since my delayed passing?
   Who will be there to stifle cries,
              catch tears in darkened corners,
 And still attempt to be perfect for you?
           All around you don't yet see through,
but I will always know your true
      festering insides
                     barely human
yet still so fragile.

untitled

Purple finger-beds against white finger-pads
Sensitive touch, blotchy hands --
the sickness has spread.

pressed roses

people handle their wallets in such a fashion:
coveting plastic representations of currency,
fondling their misconstrued conceptions of wealth,
feeling up their change while staying the same --
"i have a lot of borrowed time,
i'm living life by your proverbial coat-tails,
hanging on for my dear, confused existence."
i smile, knowing the futility
of handling wallets in such a way.

i finger the coin casket in my back pocket

it's still there, so i'm okay (alright).

the green-eyed monster

you were always so silently stealthy
behind book-cases and in hidden door ways -
within secrecy, malicious intent growing,
swelling into the open, actions with reactions,
yet you were always safe.
iago of my life, what went wrong?
have you awakened to find those ways
hold no merit or morality?
have you realized the ethical standpoint
to which i've always adhered?
your actions are now transparent
they see you for what you always were,
a vile verminous creature hidden
behind the guise of innocence.
you are no longer shielded by
your quick tongue and mind.

Mary Pattary

We were always trying to turn something into a profit,
we'd collect sticks in your yard
and I'd poke fun at the eggplants.

Your family introduced me to a more rustic way of life --
I never pictured myself to be the hiker or fisherwoman,
but you helpd me break out of my shell.
I remember collecting rocks with you and
trying to find the fossils within,
or trying to determine if they were special in some way but --
everything was special with you.

We'd go door to door selling our wares,
usually just bundles of sticks or dolls we made out of yarn and
your neighbors would always be kind and pass us a few singles
or spare change.

And we were rich.

Deflowered

I always made you the hero
in my one-page vignettes...
when in reality, you were the villain
who plagued my every breath.

I choked on locusts.

Bystander Effect

Two girls stood by and watched
as I pulled on the door handle
of the store with the "OPEN" sign.

The door did not give;
the girls just stared and shrugged.

"Couldn't you have said something?"

If you know, speak up.

Goodmason

I swear to God I just smelled Georgia...

Rustic waters and backyard streams,

leaves just fallen, campfires in the woods,

dumpy rooms, dirty dogs panting --

my hot breath on the morning air.

I've been writing, apparently

I barely remember, but I often write when I’m incredibly tired or half-asleep. So, here’s what I happened upon today. I kind of like it. I kind of hate it. Constructive feedback is always welcome.

I know a chick who knows a celebrity who once shared pleasantries with Obama. I guess that’s what they mean when they talk about degrees of separation. And somehow, I’m asking for information about the pleasantries from that chick I know. I can tell she’s pulling shit from her ass to impress me but I don’t really care — I just want to make conversation. I stir my honeyless tea and sit there, staring blankly. I never know how to talk to people… I feel so unrelatable. My life isn’t quite the stuff of stories or pleasant conversations. People try to escape lives like mine but their guts simply can’t tolerate that amount of liquor. To forget is a marvelous thing. To start anew is a completely different task.

I paused mid-thought. You should be home by now and I trick myself into hearing the door slam. You’re never on time, but you’re never this late, are you? How many times have I asked you to please, just tell me if you’re going to be late. I get anxious about such things. Breathing now. I honestly hear your heavy-footed walk walk pounding towards me, but you don’t come. You’re always almost on time, aren’t you? You won’t let me down, will you? I nervously stir in a tablespoon of honey to my tea. Tea — sweet tea — is always a pick-me-up on a hard day.

And it is a hard day. I’ve come to terms with a lot of things today, except your absence. I know that kids can be cruel and I know some adults have the worst intentions. But what I don’t understand is why? I accept that they are, were, and will always be… but that doesn’t make me stop questioning it. Like, why does hunger exist to the point of starvation? Why are these things needed in our lives? Why do people abuse even the smallest grain of power? Why do we fatigue? All these, and more, plague my mind. How many more hypothetical questions can be posed before I really feel uncomfortable?

Discomfort - now that is the stuff of my life. Discomfort fuels debates and philosophical conversations in the early morning hours between and among pseudo-intellectual badasses who fancy themselves to be doing something great and meaningful. How often have I asked these very questions of my self and others simply for the sake of conversation? I honestly struggle to find anything of value from others simply because of their skewed, tired bullshit that I’ve always heard. The black-and-white right-versus-wrong debates that fuel shouting matches and carpal tunnel from furious typing. But Internet debates are the best debates.

Unsupportiveness is one of the top three most unattractive qualities, second only behind hypocrisy but before poor grammar. How many times have I weaved my intricate tales to deaf ears or showcased my artwork to blind eyes - even the eyes and ears of my loved ones… With little to no response. How is that love? How is that “having [my] back?”

Dry

I feel bad because I'm dry -
I'm not like the rest
who live in the wet.
Floating in the ocean of
sameness, unity, ubiquity,
it seems
you all are and I'm without...
But is it really something
of which to be proud?
Maybe once or twice I've dabbled
(and dribbled), but
self- and sub-consciously,
I'm worried that it's not enough
and that it's not me.
And other times I feel
the inconceivable urge
to be ubiquitous,
and take a dip, too.

"Sebald," she whispered.

Somewhere, a bell was ringing.
I knew it was just telling time.
Winding down with my love,
watching birds chirp and play,
freely - like I want with you.
I dream about it always, always
dreaming about it - about forever.
Bejeweled bracelets glistening in
the sun, knocking against your wrist,
my knuckles grazing your knuckles,
fingers fondling the spaces between
us, baby, finger pads feeling
every inch. Smiling, sipping
sweet lemonade beside you —
sneaking kisses and nuzzling.
Whatever it is you wish,
it will be done.
We will travel the world,
just live and be.
Somewhere, a bell was ringing. 

Everybody's Tragic

Leaving the store with a flyer in one hand
and a bagged doll in the other,
I overheard a conversation.

"When did you get your first doll?"
"Well, I lost my family all those years ago
in an automobile accident."

I sharply turned to the right
with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Rushing through, head down,
I saw someone I knew to be dead
and he said,

"Oh man.. I almost said congratulations,"
and smiled sheepishly.

I didn't know what to say
as I stared in the face of Kurt Cobain...
Who wanted to tell me all about
the television programs he watches at night
or in the wee hours of the morning.

Sparkle

"Drink this," you said.

"What's in it?" I asked.

"Magic," you claimed.

Inhale, exhale. Mess with my spoon a little. Ponder. Plot. Plan. Next move.

I'm running to the bathroom with my glass,
You're like, "What's wrong?" and I just cup my hand over my mouth like I'm gonna be sick but instead I just pour it out, watching the magic flow down the drain.

I'm fifteen and I don't want to be here. I don't want to be like this but I know it'll make me friends. I don't want to feed into the teenage cliche but here I am, at a party in a loft thick with potsmoke, I'm choking, my eyes streaming. I'm done but I have no way out.

Found my way to the closet.

Locked myself in.

Stayed there all night.

So much for popularity.

Not Just Skin

My skin
Is not the best skin there is -
It's filled with
Bumps and dimples 
Moles and freckles
But
When you touch it,
It becomes flawless,
Glowing with each passing stroke
Eagerly awaiting 
Each gentle caress 
Or pass of the fingernail,
Sending chills throughout. 
Your touch makes my life
Meaningful. 
My heart swells 
When you gaze into my eyes,
Lovingly. 
Your soft-spoken sweetness
Makes me long for your
Tingling touch - 
I love you so much. 

NoDaddy.com : Masquerade, Performance, and the Female Body

The website GoDaddy.com released a series of tame television commercials, each with a warning label: “Web Content Unrated.” Inevitably feeling curious, I went to the main website to view their “Too Hot for TV” commercials, each with the label “Hot” with a fire icon tagged next to the title. The thumbnail commercial still previews are all of shots not previously aired on television. These shots are “sexy” sneak previews of what is to come in the full version of the commercials, each shot featuring a woman – a “GoDaddy Girl” – in a compromising, sexually suggestive or revealing position. Even the titles seem to be sexual innuendos when accompanied by these photos, with names like “Speeding,” “Baseball,”  “Genie,” “One More Thing,” and “Shower.” The commercials themselves are blatantly sexualized, with women stripping, pole dancing, baring their cleavage, making suggestive comments, and essentially selling their product with their bodies. In addition, women in the commercials vie for the attention of the Chairman of the company Bob Parsons, using their bodies to try to gain the “esteemed” title of “GoDaddy Girl.” In these commercials, the cameras use their gaze to focus on various aspects of the women’s bodies, zooming in slow motion on the tank tops with “GoDaddy.com” emblazoned across the breast, using different angles to best use the body to their advantage.  The commercials use society’s fascination with the woman’s body to sell their product and they, in essence, objectify the women in order to do it with the justification that they want to be a “GoDaddy Girl.”

            Upon opening the “Too Hot for TV” link, the first video that plays is entitled “Speeding.” It is by far the most racy and overtly sexual commercial of them all. A female police officer on a motorcycle pulls over a speeding convertible. The officer steps off the motorcycle and saunters as the camera follows her “walk and shake” her body as she moves. As she recognizes the speeding driver as a GoDaddy girl, her voices changes to a more recognized seductive way of speaking, her velvet voice cooing out the words, “I love GoDaddy.com domain names!” as she leans over toward the driver, a button on her blouse popping open. She proclaims she wants to be a GoDaddy Girl and rips off her vest. The camera lingers on her from afar as she tears off her pants, and it repeats this scene from several different angles as the music begins to boom. She is wearing a GoDaddy tank top, police belt complete with gun, fishnet stockings, and stiletto boots. She saunters toward the front of the car and, like a bad 80’s music video, she crawls onto the hood of the car, shaking her head and hips provocatively at the woman driver, now identified as Danica Patrick, an Indy race car driver and PlayBoy model. The GoDaddy hopeful caresses herself repeatedly as the camera changes angles, gazing up at her from below as she gazes down.  Danica tells her she has what it takes but the hopeful still writes her a ticket, cooing, “I do what I do – very well.” She strolls away and straddles her motorcycle as the GoDaddy.com billboard winks. This commercial uses the woman’s body to sell the product because the camera almost always remains set upon her chest adorned with the GoDaddy.com logo, exemplifying Brost’s argument on camera gaze. This also seems to suggest that the GoDaddy hopeful was using herself to perform or masquerade herself as what she thinks an ideal GoDaddy Girl should be.

            “Baseball” is another blatantly and almost embarrassingly sexualized commercial full of innuendos and over-exposed cleavage. The panel of judges, composed of the Chair people of the company, asks each GoDaddy Girl in turn whether or not they’ve “enhanced,” to which they all (except Danica) reply “no.” It is obvious that the women have had breast augmentations, and therefore have enhanced, but this play on words never had to do with breast enhancements, but enhancing their image with GoDaddy.com domain names. The camera gaze and use of the word “enhance” makes the viewer believe it is in fact about breast enhancements, and the judges are all astounded that the women reply that they are not enhanced. Danica explains that she’s used GoDaddy.com to enhance her image, and subsequently removes her jacket to reveal the GoDaddy.com tank top, and the other GoDaddy Girls follow. They shake their “non-enhanced” breasts at the judges, bombarding them with the GoDaddy logo; but they don’t seem to mind. They all have raised eyebrows and wide eyes, watching every movement. One judge even asks one of the girls, “Quien es tu papi?” or “Who is your daddy?” in Spanish. This play on words with a disguised sexual innuendo shows the inappropriate relationship between the judge and women, the judges’ gazes focused on their chests, not their eyes. They use the body as a marketing tool with some shock value to appeal to a certain type of people to persuade them to use their product.

            The next commercial, “Genie,” opens to two female golfers in skirts walking and talking along the green. One of them picks up a genie lamp and rubs it as a man in a lawn chair appears with two scantily clad women fanning him. The man, Bob Parsons, Chairman of GoDaddy.com, offers the woman three wishes. She wishes to never miss another putt and the genie snaps his fingers, granting a wish. The second woman is changed into a much more revealing GoDaddy tank top and the first complains, “I didn’t wish for that!” as Bob smugly grins as he lasciviously says, “That was my wish.” She continues with her next two wishes and asks if her friend could receive the same deal to which Bob suggestively replies, “She didn’t rub the bottle,” followed by a comedic drum roll. While this commercial is much tamer than “Speeding,” there are new problematic scenarios presented. For instance, the introduction of a dominant male to the scene alters the tension and purpose of the commercial. In “Speeding,” it is blatantly obviously aimed toward a male audience while this commercial is more subtly aimed toward a similar stereotype. The way that Bob is shown actually ogling the woman’s body is a factor that is absent from the previous commercial, although it is assumed that men are ogling her body because that is the purpose of the actions portrayed in the commercial. “Speeding” is a more voyeuristic view of women while in “Genie,” everything is experienced firsthand by the only male in the scene.

            In “One More Thing,” the female police officer from “Speeding” has apparently, through her “efforts,” become a GoDaddy Girl. She is seated with other GoDaddy Girls alongside Bob Parsons as they play poker. The GoDaddy Rookie, now identified as Vanessa Rousso, Team PokerStars Pro, comments on how easy it is to be a GoDaddy Girl. Bob Parsons retorts, smiling, “Well… There is one more thing…” his voice trailing as the music ascends, the camera turning to Danica Patrick as she begins removing her jacket. The camera turns to several other women stripping, revealing their chests and GoDaddy tank tops. All at once, the music stops and Danica comments, “You have to be willing to wear this tank top!” The poker dealer and Bob Parsons have been looking on, smiling and Parsons comments, “At GoDaddy.com we’re inexpensive, not cheap.” This is comical because the commercials in and of themselves utilize uncreative, cheap representations of women to sell domain names. In this particular commercial, the camera is again fixated on the women’s upper halves as they show off the GoDaddy logo on their tops. This commercial uses humor and sexual suggestiveness to gain the attention of the viewer, while capturing and holding their attention with the women stripping. The viewer is bombarded with the logo, associating the web site with sexy women. It is a clever rouse, but not an unfamiliar one; many commercials utilize the idea that “if you use our product, this could be yours.”    

            Following along with this idea of possession, the next commercial in the series, “Shower,” shows three teenage boys bragging about their new domain name and the power they have from getting said domain from the GoDaddy registrar. They are controlling Danica, making her shower for the fifth time that day as they watch intently. Danica comments that she doesn’t know why she is doing these things and doesn’t seem to know that the boys are voyeuristically watching her. They then add another woman to the shower and together the women figure out that someone is controlling them. In the next scene, the boys are beating themselves up as the two women are shown lying on a bed with a laptop, controlling them now with their new GoDaddy domain name.  The juxtaposition of control in this commercial is interesting; it begins with the males as dominant and ends with the females as dominant. This gives power to the GoDaddy Girl name, but they women are still being used as sexual objects to convey their message.

            This set of commercials is the newest line of misogynistic portrayals of women as presented by GoDaddy.com. The site describes the GoDaddy Girls as “sexy and seductive,” and next to each woman’s picture is a blurb as to why it’s “great” to be a GoDaddy Girl. These women are objectified consistently from every angle in the GoDaddy.com commercials. The women are fixated upon becoming the image of a GoDaddy Girl so they masquerade around, becoming that image through donning a mask. The camera lingers on different parts of their bodies from different angles to best capture the attention of the widest audience possible through the sexualization of women and shock value. The roles of males in these commercials differ, but for the most part the men are dominant with voyeuristic intent, watching the women from afar, controlling them. It complicates the aesthetic view of the body, making it purely sexual with little to no other value accompanying it. These commercials are obscene, crass, vulgar and offensive to women, and although the commercial creators try to justify their actions with, “They want to be a GoDaddy Girl!” they still portray a completely unnecessarily perverted view of the body with the hopes of profiting off it.

one hundred times

one hundred times
i type or pen or scratch
what i want to say,


and it ends up not being good enough.

for whom?

for whoever i'm trying to impress - but it's like,

WHO AM I TRYING TO IMPRESS?

i wish i could just be satisfied with something.

sometimes i am but most times i'm not.

don't believe me?

check my millions of saved drafts, begging to be revised

my fingers ache to type the sadness in the pit of my heart that i felt one night at the ~club~ 

but i can't find the words. 

  this has been a draft 

publish post.

com-FUCKING-passion

I took an empathy test and got a really high score. I feel everything.

I hate my mother.

I've come to terms with it.

"But she's your mother,

she will always be your

mother."

          Freud says I battle with her

                    to win the affection of my father...

              but she lost that all on her own.

"Have compassion"

                       I struggle:

can one hate whilst maintaining a

                                            compassionate lifestyle?

                  I feel everything.

                           Sometimes I feel her pain

                                 [the pain of losing her children] 

                               But, I also feel her 

                                                                                            narcissistic ego

        pulsating.

There is no room 

for com-fucking-passion 

there.

Red Jeep

You made me realize that even fat chicks
with huge guts and thighs and boobs
could be molested.
And now every time I see a red jeep
I cringe, thinking it's you coming back for me,
for more, for now -
I feel like you'll find me some day
and
wander back, look for the painting that you painted
on my wall, and realize that it's no longer there --
I blotted it out, like I blotted out your memories
except,
in my mind and heart, the paint has been chipped away.

I give you more power than you deserve,
I give you more power than you need.
How powerful do you feel there, up on top of the world
with all of that manliness in the palm of your hand?
That manliness with which you can dominate women
Does that make you special?
Does that make you proud and happy and satisfied
with your disgusting, loathsome life?

Why me?
she was my best friend and I trusted you
and I had to keep it a secret for almost a year

while it ate away inside of me.

"What will she think?"
"I could have stopped it..."
"I shouldn't have done that."
"I should have just left."

Well, I would-could-shoulda done something, anything
differently.. to prevent this from happening
but, it happened. And I didn't do much to stop it.
I was shocked,
frozen, not empowered, not mobile :
shaking, suddenly crazy
millions of miles of thoughts through my head
"It'll be over soon," I told myself.

Soon is not soon enough.

Cedar Box

I compiled all of (y)our memories
into a small cedar box.
The bracelet you gave me
for my fourteenth birthday --
the section of my dry-erase board
upon which you wrote,
that I would and could never erase,
the one photo we have together
from the dance [remember,
you fixed me to be the winner,
the princess.] I never felt so...
/angelic/...

My heart, in this box,
incessantly grieving, holding you close,
and closer, never having closure --
you're gone and dead,
no life is left [in the most beautiful
green eyes I've ever seen.]
And anyway, now you're gone [away]
you're simply ashes and dust
[and to dust we all return, right?]
No closure - no 'calling hours,'
nothing to solidify this feeling
and family sinking further into
the underground.

"Oh mercy me, god bless catastrophe,
there's no way in hell we'll ever live to
see through this so drive yourself insane
tonight, it's not that far away and I just
filled up your tank earlier today."

Complications

You always said it'd never be the case,
or you would say that it wouldn't be "you" and I
understood. I believed and agreed.
Don't turn around now and say something
is different now, because it never was.
Son, there are other things better to do -
go out, explore, have fun. Have a picnic
under the open-aired sky,
sun ablaze and perforating rays
transcending space, and shining down upon you.
More often than not when you speak, it's hard to believe
everything is different now, or is it?

Demasno

the first couple minutes after i woke up
were filled with blissful ignorance.
and then it hit me like the hand of my abuser :
it is march fifteenth. five years to the day.
today, like all march fifteenths,
is filled with that deep kind of emptiness..
that, "maybeicouldhavedonesomething,"
even though after five years of reflection,
i know nothing could have been done differently.
rest in peace, dennis.


.

HCDBoys Fansite | Myspace Video

And with all the reflection,
I notice that the lyrics that begin this song:
"Memories sharp as daggers, 
Pierce into the flesh of today"
Are absolutely telling.
Today, March 15th is known
As the Ides of March,
The day Caesar was assassinated.
And it is related to today
And Dennis, and forever will be. 
This song, this song.

...

I never want to be a pronoun,
I never want to be her...
I just always want to be your babygirl,
I want to be your Annie.
I want you to be proud of me,
I want you to be proud of you,
I want life to run smoothly...
And when the waters are rough,
I want to navigate the seas of life
With you. 
Anything can and will be gotten through
With you by my side, if your heart and mine
Will it to.
My heart is pure and willing.

"I've considered what I'd be like if the ocean poured in from both of the coasts, and we set sail to find out just where our boat would go... But I don't think that I'd want to know, cuz it would just make time so I could see your smile with our brand new life in tow."

42

Left my friends for sweet nothings,
But got literally nothing -
Well, not literally but almost....

Let's pedestalize those  who are already dead
And forget the type of lives they led
Because everyone knows you're a saint when you die.

And it's incredible that paintings come to life
When you read into them what you believe -
Resounding, heartfelt palpitations.

Shuffling through door, quickened pace,
No attention paid to lowly worms
Who are crushed beneath the pressure.






[i am really not happy with this post in any fashion. will probably edit at some point.]

I don't fit in with your new friends.

Methodologically entering information
password once, re-enter password for confirmation
(purposes)
birth date, birth month, birth year --
is this even me?
Blink once, party's over, but no end in sight
no flow, no scheme, no rhyme,
no attention, no retention.
Thoughts melodically escaping sensual paths,
sickly suspensions and trapped stalagmites
dropping crystalline nectar,
dripping waterford desires.
Longing for beauty and for simplicity,
one or the other, not both --
together, stand united
alone, trepidations unfold and multiply.

Your information is invalid,
your machine is obsolete.

Grandma's Rule

Butterfingers and Skittles used to coerce me into going to Church, into believing in God, into sitting still, into staying silent. Any squirm, question, outburst, trip to the bathroom, or heavy sigh would merit a warning: "We won't be going to Walgreen's after this if you don't shut up!" So I sat there, feet swinging, daring her to notice my internal emotions manifested in angry, subtly violent oppositions, punishing the kneeler for my oppression.
But then there was that morning that Dad looked older than usual, his eyes sunk deep with worry lines and discoloration... his expression was not the usual warm one with which we were greeted in the morning. He sat us down, sighing heavily like I would when I was forced to sit still or do something I didn't want, and told us, "Your mother and I... We, well... We are going to get a divorce."
The words hit me (us?) like a realistic nightmare, my (our?) stomach(s?) dropping, my (our?) heart(s?) stuck in my (our?) throat(s?)... And yet, we still had to trek to Church as a family. We got there and sat in the back. I sat on Dad's lap crying, Mom snapping at me to just shut up.



At that point, even Butterfingers and Skittles couldn't make me want to be there, couldn't make me believe in such a cruel God, couldn't make me sit still, couldn't make me muffle my desperate sobs.

Defeated -- Reinstated

It smells awful, like those times when you would be writing real dark in pencil and realize you've made a mistake, so you furiously rub at the spot with an eraser until the rubber is heating up from the friction and the shavings are flying everywhere and you realize it's fruitless because you've written so darkly that the imprint and smudged pencil will forever be in that very spot -- a testimonial to your wrongness. It smells like that: like sheer, utter, unrelenting, perpetual defeat.

And I should probably listen to the rain more often. Maybe I haven't sat in enough complete silence to really know the sound, because it's somewhat unrecognizable. I'm lying here listening, and it sounds like there is a rainstorm in the background, but amplified is the sound of singular raindrops hitting something, collecting somewhere. I don't know where, and I can't find the source of the sound. It's frustrating, not soothing - I'm lonely, not empowered, and I just want to be held. Maybe then the sounds would make sense, because I've certainly never heard them before when I was not alone.

The dripping comes and goes as do the high-force winds as do these thoughts as does the time and the people and the earth just spins. And the books on my bookshelves are tipping this-and-that-a-way, and I don't know what to do with myself. I picked up The Giver and put it down, and picked it up again. I want to write; I want to read... I want to create, I want to remain silent. I want to hold close these quiet moments so when they're not-so-quiet, I can truly cherish those times to the best of my ability.

"I celebrate the diversity in humanity, I celebrate the diversity in humanity, I celebrate the diversity in humanity," after a while, it becomes a monotonous mantra with meaning and melody ~ Melodic, symphonic words pregnant with possibilities if uttered -- but how often are they uttered? How often is ignorance spread in place of love and friendship? A Liberal Arts education is the way to go but all too often 'ignorance is bliss' and education is tossed aside and what then? What happens when education is put on the backburner? We see it in the faces of the homeless, the women struggling without proper healthcare, the neglected and confused children in the foster care system -- What if it wasn't? What if it all just wasn't?

What a wonderful, utopian world it would be.

Just A Little Guy

I asked you who Ziggy Stardust was
And you looked at me, incredulous -
"How do you not know who Ziggy Stardust is?"
"I just don't," I replied, shrugging.
"He's a famous guitarist," you said.

The Path Ahead ; The Road Behind

My footprints don't interrupt the virgin path ahead...

Yet, I know where they will go; I see them in the snow.

Although I have not creased the future, my heart knows the way,

And the road behind holds the memories of my beatings.

My heart bleeds razorblades and screams the names of failures

And sings the harmonious songs of love and friendship...

All the words that I have read -- and bled -- found there behind me.

Road of broken thoughts and insecurities breathing now,

Live organism encompassing identity,

Integrity utilized, glinting lights found ahead.

Path leads to one place alone - your heart is where I belong. 

silence

signing sympathies
seems so fake to me
apologies, apologize,
'you're in my thoughts
and prayers.'
can't express, loneliness.
choke, heart in throat
death of innocence,
death of words.

vigilante

snaking negative space
throughout blank page
pummeling back; lurching forward
teeth caked with grease
grime and grunge splattered
covering surface tension
lying by omission and -
breaking barriers down
decimating sound of silence
acrid acid awaiting
to come bubbling out
no life found here
not a breath on the wind
no wind, no life, reflections
floating freely in space
blood flow sans-life
non-existence and papercuts
ideal idiosyncresies
creasing binary timespans
stunning sceptres
piercing armored flesh
astounding violent tendencies
murderous maliciousness
intending impending doom
slowing to a stop
hold up in stronghold
warbling thespian
entertaining false crowd
coral-clad chorale
singing to perished masses
unified through nothing
singing for nothing
ought to sit this one out
disintegrating into pavement.

Shaking

Sweetness on the radio
I'm flying, and the gates go down
Wanting to run right through them
This train is fucking slow
I find myself breaking down
Thinking about what I would have lost
And not gained by being splattered
Other side of the tracks is where I belong
Where I call home, the love of my life
Lying sweetly in my bed where I left him

SOME SHIT

Shuffling out on a wintery Friday
I am here; cold - frozen, waiting
Class has not started, teacher is coming.
Glancing out the window, I long for Summer,
But I am greeted by the cold face of Winter
Staring me down.
I should be used to these Chicago Winters by now,
But my resiliency has transcended birth.
I shiver once, tightening my jacket around my frame,
Time is ticking and I am withering away.
The cold is a state of being - a state of mind
From which I cannot deliver myself.
I have been enveloped by the cold for far too long.

Us Reincarnated

I always want to awaken
with my glasses caressing yours
on our bedside table. 
And in the morning
when you're flailing about -
I'll hold them for you
because I know the first thing you'll whimper
is, "Gasses? Pease?"
And you'll whack me in the wrist
just trying to take hold of them -
you're blinded when you wake up,
and blinded at birth.
Reborn every morning with you
I will live my life, and you yours
but will always find myself
intertwined with you every evening.
And I couldn't ask for more.

drunken manifesto [sans-alcohol]

wip

It's like leaving an event through the gift shop
There are strings attached - you have to buy
[You can't just walk by]
Because, like a child with his nose glued to a window,
You want the rush of spending, of purchasing,
of owning.
And it's okay if my shoes were made by slaves
[I don't have to think about it - ]
Not necessarily ignorant, but definitely abhorrent.
Loathsome, disgusting, disturbing perversions
Painted perfections on stretched, dented canvas
Mistaken for talent, mistaken for meaning -
[Nothing has meaning anymore]
Imminent omnipresence, splitting infinite halves...
Pouring, bleeding, running out -
Phlebotomize and subsequently suture
[Everything will go back to normal now]
Will everything go back to normal now?
Nothing was ever normal and what is normal anyway?