One Way Conversation

TO: Jake

Hey, man.

I didn't know you. I don't know you. And given the circumstances I will never get a chance to know you. To fully know you, I mean. What I do know is that we went to the same school, were in the same grade, or at least a neighboring grade, and that you had a wide smile that covered the vastness of your plainly handsome face. I've tried to read your personality through pictures. You're laughing, smiling, singing, and shouting. I can only observe your exclamations in and through silence. You are, were, very much real. Living a life I knew nothing about with mutual friends that I've drifted further from. Now these distant friends post your picture on every social media center, the news has your name bolstered in black, white, and red across the headlines. There are forums with comments filled with opinions about you, about your death, about your killer. And your face is clearer in my mind today than ever before, including the times we may or may not have passed each other in our high schools halls, or more likely, briskly across the senior lawn. I think I remember you were an A's fan. I recall you celebrating with a gleaming smile in the iconic green and yellow coat and hat. Could be a mistaken memory. Could have been another face in an endless crowd. And the same could be said of your circumstances, this could have happened to anyone else, it could have been another unlucky soul struck down by the fierce bite of that bullet. And perhaps you could have enjoyed this cloudy eclipse, gleaming that contagious smile back towards the hidden Sun. And I would continue on not knowing you, not needing to have this conversation with the idea of your poltergeist. So even though I never knew you, and never will, I wish you were here.

I've scribbled out expectations all over this place

with woes and foes and troubles twisting my face

Everything I see is doubled, tripled, or bent

I make a little money, but my job keeps me spent

I've had a few lovers, some of my best memories

But when I open up to my friends it's all complaining

What happens next? I wish I had a summary

Or at least a place to stay cool 'neath this summer heat

Made a few new friends, inherited a family

People that I love to see and cherish inherently 

One whispered my name and passed a note to me

It was an invitation for a lunch meet and greet

Still, I was troubled because the girl I'd been seeing

Was conjuring strong feelings, but my feelings were fleeing

We were a match made on Tinder with a solid first date

And though she was lovely, I still loved my last mate

Whom happened to call me one day at the lake.

She told me she was ready to put it all away

Her  counselor said this, and her counselor said that

I told her that I missed her and wanted her back

She agreed it was worth it, we'd give it another try

But I now I think she's with some other guy

I try to stay cool when females get me tripping

So my pipe remains lit, my paint steadily dripping

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

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. 

Gods

Just as they created us

we created them

gestures of our human nature

are broadly traced upon their inner and outer contours

Up on great legs, these deities walk

trampling over mountains

swimming in the seas

growing vast valleys on their backs

Some say there is only one

that He is the greatest of the greater,

that She is the spirit, the Mother,

the Creator

Some shatter the spirit into many fragments

For there are rulers over all of my affections, 

my despairs, my prides, and my pities.  

Contenders

I see what you're doing

You've found something new

You're learning how to flip your craft on its ear

and explore new territory.

And I'm proud of you.

I'm proud for you.

I'm inspired.

I'm envious.

It's so easy for you to share your work

You can just send a photo and wah-lah.

You're getting the credit you deserve.

You're getting up and out on the streets

littering the walls with your creation.

It's brave, it really is.

Watching you has helped me expose my fears

and in that exposition my goals are revealed.

There is much I have to share.

There is much work I have to do.

We are very alike, yet so different.

We both want to succeed!

And I am proud of you for wanting that!

We are both contenders fighting a similar fight

in a world riddled with wars of varying nature.

I am doing my best to be a friend.

I am doing my best to grow.

There's so much I want to say,

so much anger and hypocrisy waiting to be exposed,

but things of that sort are better forgiven and half-forgotten.

Because no matter how angry I get, or how jealous I become,

I love you, I care about you, I've got your back.

This is my gift to you.

It's small, but like the passion you have in craft

and in creating envy, 

it grows.

Ballpark Love

I could say dreams are curious, but are they really? I cannot recall a time that a dream has flirted any inquiry of me, it is only me that inquires into my dreams, or so it seems. What if we never spoke of dreams and regarded them as an off-shoot of memories? "What was it I was thinking?" Dreams are portals; step into the fissure and feel yourself carbonate. Bubbles rushing through your toes up and out of your nose. You're in deep, dark, thick, sleep. 

So, last night in my dream she was sitting next to me. We were at a ball game of some sort. It felt like baseball, but smelled like football. I sat with her and her girlfriend. The two were laughing and joking at topics easily ignored by a man. She sat next to me, plainly gorgeous, light, and womanly. She is a woman. And here in this stadium, immensely packed with blurred apparitions of people, she was my girl. I wasn't mad at her, but a little annoyed - much like my actual attitude towards her in my waking life. However, annoyed as I was, I was playful and caring, though hardened and quiet. She sat on my left, her hair in a bun, a black tank-top clung to her chest, and jeans that I did not see. A comfortable halt in her girly conversation and she turned to me, finally. Cracking a smile she sarcastically complimented me, "Ohhhh, look at those veiny arms of yours..."she joked, but meant it seriously. My arm outstretched, veins and all, responded immediately to the call. Annoyed, I was, but still in love. Her words still push, prod, and shove like they always have. She tried to turn, but I caught her in my gaze and stared at her as if in a daze. My face was cut as sharp as stone, and in that moment, we sat alone. Isolated in a crowded space, focused on my lover. 

And as I awoke the stadium went black, a heavy vignette shrouded my dream-girl and she was gone. I tossed in my bed from one side to the other, grasping frantically at a pillow, shoving it between my legs. It was early, too early to get up. I laid my head down and thought about that mystery until the waves of sleep carried me again into the sea. 

Twenty-First Century

Life can be so scary

especially when you know you're gonna die

wake up and work for hours

at a place you hate, and you're left wondering why

Life can be so stupid

when all the tables turn against you

been building this machine for ages

now it wont work, no matter what you do

My friends are changing

they're folding in on themselves

My family is aging

My memories are fading away

And I just want to be

I just want to be

I just want to be a loose screw

There's no need to be

no need to be

no need to be attached to the rules

Life can be so boring

just nine to five, five and nine, and nine to five again

I don't sleep

No time to dream

I wake up in the middle of the night and scream

I don't eat

I don't drink

I don't think about much

I just look around for the next available do-hah

Is it a problem

Or is it a solution?

I got problems

I need a revolution

Twenty-First Century

Twenty-One centipedes

The coins for your laundry and you

are the same thing