On Becoming A Man

I have a need to be a man.

A tacit yearning to conquer the self

I have a need to be clean

in my body, in my spirit, in my mind.

I have a need to love the way I want to be loved

so that I wont feel alone

and that I may become whole

through the vitality of love.

Through a series of enlightenment

I now see much more clearly
that every strength, every weakness observed

is an observation on me. 

Every critical remark or thought

aimed in any one direction

reflects back directly on me. 

So I ask for forgiveness 

I ask for permission
that I may always be in motion

always moving towards brighter days

alive with brighter thoughts 

and emboldened with broader
considerations.

Mr. Young

You're a hard hearted little boy

with a harsh and critical attitude

You whip your little yellow tongue

snapping out small, subtle insults

and poison the air

You'd like to think we're not similar

but, brother we are.

Though a canyon separates our cultures

we are bound by nature,

mother fucker.

Frankly, I don't like you much

and that's what I like about you

That you could care less and never more

keeping your nose up

while you look down

You dress as sharply as you speak

and sometimes just as colorfully

But I hear you mostly talk about

"Weak shit" and "rude shit"

and that is you

I heard you bragging about yourself

how you stay away from outer influence

yet you criticize how your brothers live

and offer your best advice

behind their backs (hypocrite)

I appreciate your existence

the gift of lessons you bring

that I was sort-of once like you

except taller, bigger,

and grateful of most things

Phantoms

Things aren't so light

like the veins in a butterflys wing

But rather startling heavy;

the rock where my heart should be

Memories are just like people

arbitrarily kind or cruel

I behold a kingdom of memories

over my soul they rule

The mind is an unjust kingdom

it beheads young bodies of thought

premature actions cropped and numbed

the lifeless receipts of each intention bought

 this intent is paid with uncollected debt
phantoms owed to the next set of deeds
"Next Time" written in fine black ink
each little ticket reads

Trouble and You

What am I going to do without you?

where will I go?

You're like the cold of the mountain

beneath a blanket of snow

You say I'm fine and perfect

that you could drink me like wine

But I can't decant from what I'm feeling

the air is too thin

What can I say to melt the ice

gathered at your gate?

If my words turn to fire

then scoot close to me

I'll be the desert when 

you need to dry your running tears

I'll be the safest place to hide

when you need shelter from fear

Tell it like it is

Like it was

and will always be

Don't listen to your Mother

Don't listen to me

I'm trouble, yes it's true

and trouble is in love with you

You don't have to worry

if it's not in the cards

But if you get discouraged

I know, it gets hard

Call me when you want me

just don't wait too long

A good thing will always live

even when it's dead and gone

is it dead and gone?

I Am Defender

Against the throws of war

I am the defender of my heart.

Poisoned arrows with sharpened tips

soar with accusations dripping down their silvery lips 

ready to puncture my every pride.

But I am the defender of my heart.

When lovers complete the idea of me 

with incomplete ideas of me, 

a hollow shell of my actuality 

is animated 

and mocks me like a cartooned parody.

I am the defender.

A patient heart is a determined heart,

not waiting, but patient. 

Indeed wading, patiently, through thick 

and sticky scores of sluts, tramps,

and hooligans, all waiting with bows and arrows in hand.

Here I stand, the shield, the man,

the only defender of my heart. 

The blade sheathed in me is sharp and quiet, 

can reduce a loose tongue to a 

removed one, and will pierce the ears of 

any fortunate enough to hear what truth I speak, 

or stab, for my blade runs deep.

And it must. Because in me, my soul has trust. 

I seek within, beyond the moths and rust, 

between the unsettled dust, 

beneath the copper crust. 

I am the defender.

When chicks play games and lick the names 

of the many men they've fucked and bent, 

I write the boards and bar my chords 

pressing ink to page while burning sage.

Needless to say, the nights are solitary 

in my home. 

I thrive by candle light, 

fire helps me write, 

the flame insist that much burns inside of me. 

The pain, the shame, the 

misery, all melt off like calories.

I exercise the defender in my heart.

I have friends in many places, some wear 

two, three, four, and five faces. 

Some are copy cats and rely on traces 

to shape their lives and like glass blown vases 

are full of hot air. 

Speak your peace or let your words rest peacefully, 

because only deeds can be 

resurrected successfully, 

and the groundsman gave the keys to me, 

I run the graveyard shift in to the early morning. 

Would you believe how many thoughts are buried in this cemetery? 

Six feet beneath actions, respectfully. 

Where is the love you ask? 

Well where do I start? Begin where it ends.

I am the defender of my heart. 

Round Corners

Is it enough to be a dreamer
a composer of realities
One that bends the lines
rounds corners and breaks light?

What is it to become the dream,
to personify a fantasy,
the walking image whom
manipulates its every angle?

The flesh of the imagination
is bound to the bones of perception
nourished by the blood of creativity
and courses through figurative vein

nails and hair become corrupt
growing and curling like nightmares
draping over and on beliefs and certainties
playing pretend at ones expense

trans-dimensional sketches
dance in poly-morphing rhythms asking
"Could a finite vision transcend
the perceptual walls of the unrefuted?"

It is felt as a sound
a knocking, pulsing vibration,
an oscillating electric punch,
the budding of a fiery orgasm

A broken chord plays whole notes
and dissonance emerges through the chroma
polished by smooth resolving concord
birthing temporary silences between silences

Hallucination stretches
proposing total faith in the immediately visible,
or a fear cloaked in the invisible,
perhaps the invisible cloaked in fear

There is something permanent in an idea
like a photograph, it can be seen
and like a memory, it can be photographed
half forgotten in a dusty index of pictures