The Last Time You Left Me

“I cried today.

It almost seems funny; you would always get so upset about how I never cry, and now here I am weeping like a child.

I cry every day now. 
I cry myself to sleep sometimes.

I gave a speech at your funeral the other day.

I couldn’t get out more than a few words before I burst into tears.

I miss you so much.
I don’t know how to sleep without you here.

I can’t stand being inside of my own home and yet no matter where else I go, I am reminded of you.

I see you everywhere and it almost seems as if it’s getting harder to remember your face.

As if it were even possible for me to forget you, but still…. sometimes I find myself struggling to picture your smile.

And then it’s like I’m brushing my teeth in the morning and the only thing I can think of is your set of pearly whites.

And every one says it will be better in time but that’s just insanity.

The only things that grow in time are hope and fear.

There is no hope in my day.

The only thing that I could ever hope for is that you could come back to me, that I could hear your voice one last time but I know it will never happen.

So how can anything in my life possibly get better with time when all it ever is, is time I missed spending with you?

Anyway, I need to get back to work now. I’ll be back, same time tomorrow. I love you more than everything.”


Often I find myself seeking something.
Sometimes I’m seeking space.
Sometimes I’m seeking nothing.
Sometimes I’m seeking grace.

Sometimes I’m seeking retribution.
Sometimes it’s repentance;
Sometimes I’m seeking revolution.
sometimes it’s a penance.

I’m sometimes seeking forgiveness, and sometimes seeking revenge.
Sometimes seeking isolation, sometimes seeking friends.

Sometimes I’m seeking help and sometimes independence.
Sometimes I seek attention, sometimes I seek indifference.

I’m sometimes seeking answers and sometimes seeking questions.

Sometimes I’m seeking stories; sometimes I’m seeking lessons.

Sometimes I’m seeking honor, sometimes courage and valor.
Sometimes I’m seeking fame, sometimes disdain and power.

Sometimes I’m seeking pity, sometimes I seek respect.
Sometimes I’m seeking strength,
and sometimes I’m seeking rest.

Sometimes I seek below, sometimes I seek above.
but most of all I find that I am always seeking love.

Immortal Gaza

A new hell, erupted–
from the ruins of a broken city,
from the walls of a country
turned penitentiary,
from the homes of thousands displaced.
More than lives have been lost in this cataclysm.
What more can you take?

The young fallen are dead in the street.
A dying generation ripped from history.

Men carry out orders
devoid of any moral purpose.
God’s holy fire reigns
and consumes death.
Of life, it knows not what it is.

The terrorists are blamed. But
it is not the guilty who suffer.
It is the powerless who speak out,
The unlucky survivors
seeking refuge, looking towards
Western civilization.

Our civilization with our evolutionary intellect.
We have answered only in silence.
The whole world is informed.
And while we debate and discourse
about human nature.
We lose an unbearable battle to ignorance and denial.

And I weep.
I weep for the mortal Gaza,
I look upon footage in such harrowing detail and weep.
I weep for the failure of civilization,
For the devotion of my own life,
And for the sorrowful numbering of each of the dead.
I weep at the shame of Israel,
as human history weeps
at the shame
of Auschwitz.

And I pray.
I pray for the preserving nature of destiny.
I pray for the bodily forms of my soul,
lost in the dark shadow of the Holy City.
I pray for the immortal Gaza.
The crying mothers and children,
the reality in their nightmares,
and the silence of the church,
The White House, the unions, corporations, schools and communities of the mighty Western Civilization.
I pray for those who profit off of an industry whose product is death.

And I dream.
I dream of the passing of
the cruelty of man.
I dream of peace dominating
the memories of the future.
I dream of the silence of humanity
drowned out by
loud liberation!
I dream of a happy ending for
this continuous narrative.

Ode to Hipster Byzantium

We built this city.
This is our indie empire.
A culture cultivated
On Bob Dylan records,
Cafe Americano, nose piercings,
And wrist tattoos.
This is hipster Byzantium;
Fumed by cheap Mediterranean food,
Fouls cigarettes and dank weed.

We live for these summer nights
Around the fire,
At rogue pubs with light beers
And delighted spirits.
Blues bands in the coffee shops,
Folk bands at the stage,
Aspiring guitarists on the sidewalk.
Even the wannabe club scene-
Has originality.
Wreaking of old sushi,
And bad choices.

This is to the kids wearing crystals.
The men with their mighty beards.
And the girls with dreadlocks.
To the guys wearing Affliction shirts
And the girls in short skirts and tight dresses.
For my niggas in snapbacks and hipster glasses.

To the mature people who “hate hipsters”.

For the artists, musicians, scientists and poets.

For anyone rocking a beanie in the summer.
For the DJs and rappers with 12’s in the trunk.
For the men and women home on leave.

This is to the superheroes on bad trips.

To anyone who has been hit by a car on their bike.
To the students with no direction.
And the cooks who sneak out back for a smoke.
For the immigrants and exchange-students.
For anyone driving a Subaru or F-150.
For the landscapers and construction workers in the hot sun.
For the pizza guy on Saturday night.
For the old man in overalls with his walking stick.
For everyone who got towed because they said “fuck it I’m parking”.
For fraternity and sorority brotherhood.

For long discussion on feminist archetypes.
For protesting war, government or nothing.
For leaving tags on mailboxes and under bridges.

For smoking blunts by the river.

This is an ode to everyone and everything here.
To the people who are nothing more than themselves.
To every tree in this forest.

To the unmistakable beauty in the design.

To all of my friends and the few of my enemies.

I am a spider and this is my perfectly spun web.

Good Children Make Mad Men

Most men are mad.
Mad men welcome the crash.
Mad men do not go gentle
Into that good night.
For the good children
It is bedtime.
Good children
Sleep entirely too much.
And so,
The good children turn mad.
Good children in the wild
Turn the wild good.
The call of the wild hums.
Hums like the flies.
Hums like the mighty conch.
Good children praise the Lord.
The wild child
Becomes the Lord.
The lord of the flies.
And he, like most men
Is Mad.

Mermaid’s Dance

Only a human would ever
choose to believe
That a mermaid would ever
choose to leave
Her magical place,
At home in the sea.

Man, with his legs
Limited only to the beach.
Will surf on the edge,
For a glimpse of the beat.

But mermaids dance often–
To the rhythm of the ocean.
Dozens of beautiful half-women
Will sing in the water.
They’ll sing to the tide!
From evening to morning.

Such glorious scales
Will gleam from their tails.
Dancing amongst themselves
To harps, horns and bells.
To the thrill of the song,
They’ll whistle and rave.
But mostly they dance
To the feel of the wave.

Still Thinking

Back again, outside.

still thinking.

Thinking of everything.

Thinking of nothing.

Thinking too little and far too much.

Thinking habitually.

Thinking in routine.

Thinking spontaneously.

Thinking unbalanced.

Thinking of the beginning.

Thinking of an end.

thinking of Now,

now, before and later.

Thinking of Her, Him, and Them.

Thinking of myself.

Thinking of the world.

Thinking of the orrery.

Thinking of nature,

of spacetime, of television.

Thinking of insects,

Thinking of the river.

Thinking of a story.

Thinking of regret and guilt.

Thinking of old friends

and close goals.

Thinking of feeling.

Thinking of the Sun.

Thinking of clouds and blue skies.

Thinking of the time and work.

Thinking of shame.

Thinking of change.

Thinking of giving up.

Thinking of you.

Thinking of us.

Thinking of so much.

I still think i’m crazy.

… I’ll think about it.

The Ballad of Accountability

Tell me Miss Teacher how can I pass,
When knowledge and skills in testing I lack?
How can the standardized tests you give match
the mental development of all kids in class?

Tell me Mr. Teacher why am I here?
My time in this school is a waste of a year.
Why get a diploma? i’ll be a cashier.
I guess I’ll drop-out and just disappear.

Tell me Ms. Teacher, I thought we’re all equal,
But that “gifted” class has all “gifted” people.
I study as hard, just lack the retrieval.
Educational mobility is bad for the ego.

Tell me Mr. Teacher, what’s up with my grades?
Coach said if I failed one more time I can’t play.
Don’t have time to study, I practice all day.
They need me to win in next weekend’s big game.

Tell me Mrs. Teacher, is my daughter established?
I wrote you a check, please respect my assets.
Private school reflects on my husband’s social status.
Who cares if she misses a few of her classes?

Tell us Mr. Teacher why hold our son back now?
His performance affected by cultural background?
His fluency in English causes him to act out,
when other kids act as if his accents a bad sound.

Tell me Mrs. Principal why am I fired?
Proficiency in test scores need to be higher?
YOU changed my curriculum and frankly i’m tired
–of trying to meet the evaluations required.

Tell us Mr. Senator, what’s wrong with our schools?
We pay you your taxes and you make the rules.
Why is it our children are all set to lose.
There’s nothing but violence and crime on the news.

Tell us Mr. President, they’re brewing a storm.
“We need some adjustment” “We need a reform”
We need you to sign on this line on this form.
So education ensures that children conform.

Today I Looked in the Mirror

I woke up this morning.
Of all of the miracles of the universe; I woke up today.
I looked in the mirror and saw a face.
It was not unlike every face, but different; like every face.
I saw two eyes, and within them two separate worlds.
One eye-world contained a garden, thriving with fresh, astonishing life under a vibrant Sun.
The other possessed a beautiful desert, quiet in its solitary vastness beneath a bold Moon.
I saw a nose resembling a tremendous and violent mushroom cloud reversing its destructive ways.
I saw a broken smile hidden between thick, dark lips and the fear of rejection.
Today I looked in the mirror and saw myself.

I went for a walk down by the river.
The stream flowed restlessly and crashed alongside the rocks on the bank.
I looked in the water and saw a reflection.
It was a reflection of the past moving within the present.
I saw a desperate boy longing for the chance to fit in, to be normal.
This was a young boy who came out of a time in which the worth of things measured the value of people.
A boy, dreaming to be one of the heroic, masked, masculine action-figured characters he spent his life idolizing.
I saw his confused expression and anguish in comprehending the difference in his black skin.
I saw the laughter in the faces of all of the other kids as he began to conform to an identity, a joke.
Today I looked in the mirror and saw myself.

I thought to go downtown and grab something to eat.
I walked past the coffee shops, and the banks, and the stores and stopped outside the bookstore.
I looked in the window and saw a story.
It was a story that I dared not judge by its cover.
I saw a man, adapting to the rapidly changing and magnificent forces of nature.
This is a story of a man learning from themes and motifs of revolution; personal and political.
A man embarking on a quest, conquering helplessness and fear by celebrating all that there is to be happy about.
I saw his search for potential through incredible images of friendship and cooperation.
I saw his acceptance of love and gratitude and his understanding of language as human nature.
Today I looked in the mirror and saw myself.

Mr. Metaphor.

Mr. metaphor is starving America.

The free discover the harsh dream

Let Washington plot judge, manage & kill.

Drunk of flawless wander.

Acting angry, thick, immense, old.

Totally dead.

More pathetic than a tiny cocktail lizard.

No– than a baby vegetable garden in our hole on this rock.

That wet ecstatic scent after a good moist storm.

The hero might not sleep,

his difference then is surreal.

His ink shall illustrate that epic crash

between Sun and Moon in which-

love too must soon show up in full

through time. To find her heart

he saw his world beside her voice.

Roar for him lady.


With your soft approach,

travel by night.

Speak bodly.

Sing it.

Under nothing I flew.

Stop me.

You Are Beautiful.

And each heart came

from some garden.

People want love.

Give more.

Make Love.



Rustle some character.



Excite after drama.



Yield by blue sky.

Do happy.

Invigorate gorgeous water.

like temperature, heal by wet yet black clouds.

Like stone,

protect it.

I cry too as the young Sun explodes

in a pure, fiery dance. Thus

the strange and wicked feel drunk

and smell pot when stars giggle and glow.

Question only the taste of summer.

Obey into the good fight; take care.

beautiful cuts the balance.

Play against Now.

Speak in Metaphor.