Wholeless Soles

A hole. In my sock,
There is. In my
Toe's mask there is a rift

A sole shifted into space.
Spaceless, one toe sits so cold

But full, knowing.

Broken free.

No sole, new soul
Throwing faceless toes to
Freedom.

You may hate having holey socks,
But this is my sole's hole,
Not your soul's hole.

A-Lingual

Superman dat ho; her humps
‘Lil man wit a stump stick
Back it up, dis how we do
Party like a rockstar;
Crank dat, get high,
Git low git low git low git low
Git low git low git low.
Cash money millionaire
Ain’t got shit
Bouncin’ rhymes that don’t hit
‘Bout drankin drank,
shootin coke
‘N snortin women. How fly.
Either spit out your English or chew your lies.

As An Oak

I’ll exclaim, assure, imply,
Holler, whisper; I’ll maintain
Through illest valleys; gorgeous peaks
“I’ll be here!” I’ll always promise.

When your weary little toes
Can’t grasp the earth to carry on,
I’ll find a snack, or two, or ten,
And shade you from the sun.

If the clouds defeat the sun,
Dowsing, drowning freezing rain
I’ll shelter you and hide your hair
From drenching and cold-catching.

Whenever boredom threatens you,
Whoever woos or beckons you
To fates less favorable than your dreams,
I’ll brandish guard; defend you.

And if, in the years to come, if
The skies bleed brown with poison,
Fear not, because I’d even die
To keep your breathing clear.

All I ask, my One, my Ever After,
Is when I pass, to plant my dust
Beneath a sturdy, gentle oak
So I may keep my promise.

The Future

Calm hearts argue for equality
And equal hearts
Definitely
Lead to man’s survival.
But who will survive man?

Once I argued for equality.
Once I witnessed the underprivileged.
Once, and only once, I went and winced
At the deepest tragedies; whining, waging war
Upon themselves. I winced once at followers
Of faeries and falsehoods.
Twice, this time I thought
I’d rather share nothing at all.

I Am A Poet

Witness me.
I do not explain,
Nor do I document.
I do not deign to write
For the sake of anyone else.
For I am a poet.

I am a poet, not a writer; I write
Without reason, and reason without
The need to make sense. For that
Is why I write: on wry, on red, on wrists with roars
Of rages and ranges of words. Would I, I’d be world-less.
I am a poet: confused.

I am no weaver of the weak, no support of young or meek.
I am no Dr. Seuss, nor Poe, no trippy cat or raven’s foe.
Why should I prove myself to freaks who seek the peak of knowledge?
This heart belongs not in the canon;
Casting me on famine’s throne.

My life is not devoted to creation of a masterpiece.
My skills instead simply instill me with a sense of self
And purpose – though I know I have none.
No one has one – no one will win – there is no win or one.
One win – one real win won – would win us nothing: none.
Don’t you see?

I am a poet: not a writer. I am a thinker, not a guide.
Not a greedy fabricator, I am no Rowling, I am no Meyer.
I am a simple poet; I simply think;
I simply am.

Relativity

Who's to claim their life is honest
When, relatively, we are all?
Black, white, yellow, green.
Point and case. Try and think.
Bee-hives: swarms of death or life?
Apropic storms defending life with strife.
Or is it strife? I believe the thorns
They wield for greater good and bad; yes, and.
Watch your mouth, son. We're all doomed ends
To portray honesty to the dishonest
and dishonesty to the honest.

Sweatitation

Droplets like upside-down matches;
Running marathons all over me.
Blood-warm on my hands and feet,
The taste is of a salty sea
As each opaque wave explodes.
Yet, there is an absence of sulfur;
The smell of dirt is in its place.
Sulfur’s scent never tasted right, anyway.
Sandy Shelle never thought so,
Waiting by the Red Sea,
Droplets dropping dry in the dirt.
Fear is such an unusual fear.
If only we saw the beauty in singing; in living;
But we don’t, and so we are not of the anura.
The lush Poison-Darts of the forest know the way
And if we got close enough to touch one,
We’d learn to stop living ourselves to death.
Shén me wŏ men rèn wei wŏ men chéng wéi.
The droplets will catch up to me eventually.

Poor Little Scooter

Through whistling flapjacks of skin in the wind,
I witnessed the atmosphere's gasses soar through her.
Bewildered I sat, and behind batting lashes burned
A Brave, beastly lady boasting girth of a bear.

Had I been in congress, a new law would be passed.
Riders would no longer ride rides
Which weighed less than they...

Angries and Lonelies

If only the lonely would breathe.
Heaving their loneliness only
And way away it'd fly on lies.
If only the lonely could breathe.

Hanging within him and angering him only
Less grizzly he'd be if his anger were free
If only the angry could grin at the lonely
The lonely might think again lovely
And the angry might instead turn green.

downhill

The wind cheered,
The pavement parted,
The wheels stumbled,
The handles flexed,
But the tree protested.

The White Man Rapture

The Bible was probably mistaken, misread.
Alternate universe preachers might sermonize
Jesus will descend from acid rain, high as ozone
With a pack of cigars tucked in his collagen lips:
Primped like a pussy by mankind,
But ready to take one for the team… again.
He’ll swing his fully automatic piece like King Kong,
Raining death from the heavens, screaming
Are you ready to repent, bitches?
And all his little worshippers will run like watercolors

And I’ll turn to them, in hilarity, and ask,
You paid attention in Astrology, didn’t you?
The age of Pisces will end eventually
And I can’t wait for Aquarius to bust in.

Whispers

Will the wisps wisp when we wisp?
The wisps might wisp away if so.
Why then wisp when one wisp wisps?

Are oranges orange when we are wisps?
Or are ranges of oranges ranges of wisps?
Oh ranges of oranges, we won’t wisp without wisps.

Say, which way do the wisps wisp away to?
Perhaps to orange ranges of whispering rains?
Those ranges must be where they wisp, or
Else why would they whisper:

I’ll shimmer with you, shining, wishing;
Wisping with oranges in the rain.
I’ll whisper the secret of wisping to you;
That oranges and wisps are the same.