Happy Birthday George

In honor of my favorite Beatle, I scrawled this little ditty out. it's nothing much and began when i pulled a Robert Frost book from the shelves on a whim, but it became something more and I dedicate it to my one and only.

My lips lick my fingertips

Touching the frost

The leaves are broken

Bitter.

I blink and think about the moments lost

And inspiration found—

‘Constellations of Intention’

Isn’t it pretty?

To think about the trail of wandering inspiration

Hitting the page

Brushing past the backs

Of sweaty palms

And ending their long drawn life

Under snoozing sneaker-clad

Belligerents

Isn’t it sad?

We can’t leave behind

A bed of memories

Only a lackluster muster

At a beautiful sentence

Succulent sentiments stick to my numb,

Numbing,

Thumbing fingers.

We analyze with waking eyes

The sleeping dreams of believers

Dream weavers

And apple scruffs

Just.

It is such a rough feeling

To know

To fully know

That I was never a blip on the radiant radar I praise

But beneath the leaves and trees and screens

And drum-machines

And screaming teens

I commend.

And end—

with the phrase,

This is not a phase. 
A Library / 2013

Masculine Mentality

The streets stood on the backs of men

—whose regiment settles sour scores

who leave in their wake those wanting more.

And perched upon those marble tiles

between the sameness stretching aisles

no one has the gall to whisper—get out now.

The crowd becomes a stepping-stone

for men who wish they’d never grown,

now shadows running free around the town.

So do not dare stop and stare

there’s no more heat left in the flare

For, all the boys who left for war; stayed there.
2012

My Generation

My Generation

Ask me about the hands of the man of the house

and I’ll tell you that he is not home.

I’ll yell from the peaks of the mountains, scraping the smoggy sky

No! I did not mend the bent tips of his leather gloves,

nor stuff in a brown sack knickknack snack bag

sandwich sentiments and send him off towards the masses.

Or neatly stack cotton atop cotton, atop rinse cycle repetition,

mundane membrane tasks, thoughts,

caught between pages of self help, how to—Be.

Be told what to be, how to see—what is me. Gobbledy Gook.

Ask me how I spend my days and I’ll tell you,

Go To Hell.

Now, ask me how I spend my nights—and I’ll invite you there.

To the hell of uptown found homes,

stone-cold decisions set in unassuredness,

growing up, growing left, growing different.

Growing Weird.

Stoned realizations, Brilliance!

Retreat. Regret. Rethink. Repeat.

Go Ahead, Ask me what goes on,

behind the façade of snapshot picture frame windows—

broken glass, superglue, dried up superglue.

Hard time pass by with the blink of an eye.

Seamless—

onto singing, screaming, giggly shouts,

weekly calls of relief across streets.

Friend? Acquaintance? Stranger? Foe?

Flashback to picking poison,

cashing checks or clutching quarters,

one in the same when blurred together by broken memories.

We do it on purpose. We hail it with purpose,

when we know—in our racing minds, difficult hearts,

and percolating pupils. Speeding, Slowing, Stopping, Starting.

Strike that—never stopping—not really,

We know that within our minds we have not yet become inclined—

To Find.

Discernable purpose, fleeting purpose, pleasing purpose, gleaming purpose,

in the evening of progressive purgatory.

Ask me about My Generation.

But do not dare go and request explanation.

It’s all-relative.
Poetry & Citizenship / 2012