3.23.2010

it's getting harder and harder to budge.

just a little bit of flesh please?

3.20.2010

let's suppose tomorrow will be
better than today
and tomorrow no one you know will die-
and there will be no classes tomorrow
and no time to show up to for work.
tomorrow you're free to do whatever you want-
and the drinks 30 minutes ago won't matter.
the beers and the queers that danced around your forehead
while you stood sober
won't matter one bit.
and the 40 days and 40 nights of no contact and no
pixelated fornication
will be easier than
eating a pint of magic brownies in less than an hour.
and the walls would be painted
and the furniture would be in place
and the tests would be studied for
and you would be able to keep the pace day after day
after day.
it's past midnight and its already tomorrow.
so maybe it's time to look at today.

3.16.2010

leo had a dream the other night-
once he closed his eyes- it was actually during the day
when the sunlight had lost focus on his apartment for a bit
inbetween the hours of work and more work when the
bed had seemed too tempting to turn away.

he didn't quite remember where it began but he remembers his
mother walking down the hallway younger
in a red dress smiling and all of his dreams
are like commercials or movies or the best woody allen film
he can remember though
he's never had a dream in black and white,
that he can remember.

and his mother walked in front of he and his sister who was also younger with short
hair and no kids and no worries and no
debt and the hall was grand and the rug was pure and clean
and the design was intricate and the walls were
white with no scuffs and the lighting technician did an amazing job on this scene
because his mother never looked more becautiful in her
red dress.

and she walked them to the hotel room door
and opened the door and it was such a grand room almost
as grand as that hallway before
and the windows took up an entire wall
nothing but a window and lights on the outside
and the lights of the city were beautiful and bright and
he knew it was paris.

and there were three beds in the room one with
the little mermaid sheets and barbie
and one had no childlike things at all
save for the bright red of one part of the cover or pillow but he
can't really remember.

and he stood in his underwear hairless like an 11 year old boy and his sister stood behind him getting into bed looking like an 8 year old child
and she made fun of his barbie sheets but leo said
"i never had barbie sheets but i did have a sesame street blanket that i don't know
what happened with" and he was right but he
didn't get into bed
and his mother didn't come into the room
but when she closed the door she was smiling and happy
in her red dress and her youthful face and it made leo
not want to wake up and he
stood in front of that large window and looked down
straight down and saw trash and broken cars and a junkyard but he looked
up and out of the window and saw lights and saw
paris
and the lights never seemed to end almost bleeding
together like mercury and creating their
own horizon and some kind of horizontal
patched blanket of man made sun.

and with his black graphic t-shirt and his
underwear on he said down on the floor not taking his
eyes off of the large window and what lay before it
nothing else and no other noise
just a wide shot, a panoramic view of leo holding his left leg up like a child
while his right leg steadied him on the floor looking
out to paris.

3.15.2010

too many hours
studying and painting
working.

not enough hours napping
staring at the ceiling
for hours
for no reason.

3.10.2010

My childhood dying everyday
And all I got is this instrumental
to keep me on the straight,
I make the words-
supposed life makes the beats we tip top
continuously based on those crooked streets.
ust a fundamentally psychotic post memory of a
dream
Nothing seems cool in a recession filled
world.
Trying to live quick and young while trying not to get
burned.
Everybodys working round trying to keep up the focus
Keep your head up
don't depend on that focus.
Nothing ever comes from nothing That's what I've heard.
That's why I can't take a break,
that's why I must fly like i've got wings,
it's just one extra imaginary thing.
No i ain't no queen I'd rather be the eagle, the hawk,
sighting prey, flying down focusing on the people.
i'm gonna change this land, i'm gonna
fit in, then get in
show them that triple consciousness then land
takeover and over again til the end
even when it burns, just shows its continuously growing within,
all they do is tell us why not,
gimme a reason why i should
then maybe i'll think about
stop no don't let me digress,
i might as well regress
i'm already this far i gotta be the best
at school and work and words- this isn't cute,
this is what i do.
this isn't a hobbie, this is life.
i know i look young, but i'm still my fathers son.
and forgive me for lazy when i'm working like crazy
moving for work for family or babies
pushing for school for work then this love game on top i can't become a crazy.
all at the same time and i'm still pushing this?
what do you expect i'm only human in a metaphysical mess
praying to God Jesus Alpha and Omega, Jehovah and the media, it's a constant dream.
hopeing and knowing that it'll all work out my friend.
my enemy my muse, my rival: my cue to
kick my ass into 8th gear, at least i'm semi-automatic, hope the help will last.
maybe that's why you're here-
never know for sure but if i keep the hope in my heart
fuck corny, fuck trendy i must speak what's inside.
been hiding for all these years, conforming to registered lies.
but when i wake up tomorrow what'' be waiting for me?
another bill another doctor, another death in the family?
another baby, another breakdown? another overdraft fee from doing something that i knew i had to do to keep up this so called "responsibility"?
another bigot, another bush another bill o'reilly?
another tea party fuck saying that the president's just a communist populist scally?
what you screaming for? your argument doesn't even exist.
taxation with representation, ya'll just been been resisting common sense.
but i got a pocket full of change coming your way- right in your face- smack it just like
them olden days.
wanna bring back history-
i gotta a HISstory for you- she gotta HERstory, they got THURstory, we got OURstory too.
i wish i could get drunk everynight and sing songs about shit,
live in a culture that praises irony or glitz,
i guess i care too much, but i don't think i wanna change.
cause i'm not the only one with all this shit in my way-
it's never easy when you're born in the vall and the
top of the mountain is just there without a rally to push
you on when you're on your own
no ropes no ladders just your legs and your arms
no massages no men, no women no sun
no water just a mess you're bless with to hopefully
make you stronger.
but when i get to the top better know what i'll do
throw a rope down to that valley to bring those children up
educate not discriminate, one must never be done-
even when i'm dead i'll be the one
listening to lennon.

3.9.2010

long day with seven hours of sleep-
no more no less, continually competing
against myself in every game possible.
too much on paint, hopefully it will work,
before walking and picking up a new movie and admiring a
rain free day in atlanta.

down to p.s. to see the new marty flick, which i enjoyed
until i realized everything that would be going on.
i suppose we ask- what is crazy? not his best-
but better than a lot that i've seen.
on to the bar with the skin on display such a shame,
or such a natural place- since we'll all human and a bit
of animals underneath it all.

ironic that strip clubs hide what lies beneath with tis subtle exterior.
no phallic imagery, because of all the glitter inside.
someone thought about our senses-
or maybe they wanted that gray wall and those blacked out windows
to lie.

Rosie O'Donnell's been tagging my neighborhood again.

tisk. tisk.

3.8.2010

an hour past the alarm rolling out of bed,
pushed the sheets til it's almost eleven and i
must immediately start.
blue tape on the walls edges.
donating clothes that could be five years old
and a tv that's too big for me,
a bottom heavy machine with a scratch on its back from
move in.
growing up is never easy to do until
you realize you want to do it
and the flat screens and movie scenes seem
better than before and better than
the trivial kisses and the
sometimes stares by boys that are
hot today but what happens
when their thirty?
do what's popular and you get a kiss from
mr. man,
do it the right way and you'll eventually rule
the land, fuck
mr. man.
work feet heavy til ten o clock,
smell like coffee beans but no gin and tonic
waits just
pinot noir from publix at a good exchange rate.
Debuss, Chopin, Schumann play as i'm back to the walls
putting up the blue tape reminding me that i truly do wish i had a river
i could skate away on.

3.7.2010

heavy lids, from 6 am this morning-
no nap time- stuck moving and driving heavy hitter on the road.
pressing my pedal pushing, losing, gas.
my car vibrates inefficiently beneath me i don't know
why it lags its way down the road so unhealthily-
but it still moves despite it's semi rust, its unfavorable moods and
uncanny sense of thrift.
golden statues to the beautiful people as they pamper
and praise with words
onto each other the blessings flow,
from one to another but they've worked
hard i should say, and they deserve at least one day to
indulge in the selfish conformity of it all.

i know i will.

3.5.2010

mary's on a cool night-
lady with the rags dances with arms a flight
moving slowly
lights shine down with the pbr in hand
we dance, we dance-
talked to a man named greg
remembered his face from a few moons before
moving to l.a.
hope he keeps it cool in his new neighborhood.
addictions easily envelope over sweet souls that are new
in the land where everything becomes used.
the smoke sticks to the air as if its always been there
and that rhyme pattern
pattern
pattern
sticks to your mind even though you don't want it to be there.

the twee rhythms and rhymes of the indie pop mix with beyonce
and gaga and all her recycled but amazing funk and it's a mess
that i'd never want to be without-
i'd be so much less without
it.

and jamison tall stands beside saying hi
patting his back and his tells his typical cry of a simple pain that my
hand inflicted
but it's a friendly gesture nothing more that i'd mention.
and the alcohol digs deep then mitch says hello
i move to the dance floor while the tiles stay close
and my typical feet do their typical thing
but no one is around it's just you, the music and me-
and i realize why i want it this bad-
everyone listens when the beat is an instant fad-
no one questions,
everyone moves
hands go up
as the mouth opens up
regurgitating words that you wrote-
that were new
once.

listen to my words one day?
get the confidence enough to say?
"the manifesto"
"gay madonna"
"nicco, nicco"
"my lady of stone"
these songs only few-
one day soon-
one day soon-

my feet keep moving
the lady does her jig.
another pbr,
she smokes one more cig.
this is all coming out-
a sudden response-
it lacks a filter-
but happiness is such a killer.

we move on we move on-
last call last call,
mary's lambs get lost
in the streets on a friday night with
no shepherd in sight.

driving to the apartment that's new
it's been one week- scored the walls for the paint-
swatches by the bed-
what happens if i move?
we focus on the now and the future-
not the ifs and the whats
we live for the day-
not the exclusive unfortunate buts.

i pressed play to gonzales five minutes ago to get
these thoughts out-
moving slowly from pretentious nests
to being able to fly free without,
soon-soon.

the music did,
the music is,
the movies the posters
moving images in my mind- a good way
to capture the tempting night.

paint on my fingers, paint on my knees.

freeverse while preparing to move, painting walls.

i'm painting over all these faces
black ink on white is so hard to cover-
one coat makes it a shadow
and two makes it a memory.
the faces all have large eyes saucers
even like classic disney.
and the words and phrases scatter flatly
horizontally on the wall.
it was once flat.
but the coats from before, the yellow maybe
brown.
the ready maybe
blue.
my pink and my sky gave it a thick skin.

who's missing their inner city trinity?
mabe i'll put on some 2pac and soak the brush-
soften the bristles til it covers 2 years.
i could have a cigarette between my lips
but i don't smoke inside
i don't smoke anymore-
the carpet would capture it anway,
but anyway the carpet is gone.
it was once new (it knew)
(it could have possibly absorbed my residue)
and it's a wonder
such a wonder-
with all the paint and all my hell-
this carpet still isn't blue.