left.
we are writing the wor(l)d backwards.
welcome to the final seconds of existence.
when we wake up, we fall down and crash.
we will draw ourselves away on blank pieces of paper.
09.27.05.
writing
lefty.
lefty.
left handed piece for the broken right.
go in reverse.
go in reverse
to curse the verse.
which is worse,
we are stuck
here on earth
w/ out wings to fly,
or an imagination
to escape.
so i start asking questions,
and then my brain starts
to wander off
into the night
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.
and i’m not afraid to dream.
and i’m not afraid to sleep.
left handed piece for the broken right
cause i am not like you.
yes,
we will all just become
someone else’s memories,
but so then tell me
what were we before?
(because what is
the standard of reality?)
please, an island.
find me an island
to wander off
into the night.
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.
we sing our songs
to remember the worlds
inside of our minds.
how i hope
that this wasn’t for real,
but i fear that it is.
the universe scattered fragments
of which we are all pieces of
which don’t make sense,
so why not then
just go.
go in reverse. go in reverse.
and what is worse
feeling cursed
like we are stuck
here on earth
w/ out (any) wings to fly,
or an
imagination
to escape.
so i start asking questions,
and then my brain starts
to wander off
into the night
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.
07.05.
Share this:
i’m sorry my dear.
i’m sorry my dear.
my move
-ments
in mo-
ments
lose
pur(r)-
pose [lik(e) a
mo-
del’s smile].
i am trying
(that’s my ex
-cuse)
2b sin
-cere, but all
the noise and the
static of things
keep creep
-ing in.
i’ve often wandered.
i’ve often wondered
how 1 does it
? s)tick(s 2 1’s
princ
-i-
ples. please
my dear,
i am sorry.
4 not k(no)wing
how 2b a
hu- (or)
man
be)ing.
please my dear,
hand me a copy
of the set of
instructions
on how 2b a
hu- morless
be(ing.
01.09.05.
Share this:
existentialist moment.
existentialist moment.
be boy.
be girl.
be good. be good.
i’m so afraid of making mis/takes,
of falling
short of what’s expected-
what i’m expecting from
the world.
because beauty
is
bountiful, but barriers border,
therefore impeding
being. being babbling backward babylon’s
ancient rhetoric
banishing balance, but banking
on the people’s brand of ignorance,
lack of free will,
and our plain idleness.
barbaric bohemian baptisms bankrupt before bailing
out
brainwashed barbed bantlings breaking 2 beats.
when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?
b boy. boy just b. b boy. boy just b.
when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?
i’m not on a different planet
and i 2 need oxygen (o) 2 breathe.
“please, share your air (h2o) with me/eeee!”
is what the children will plead
on the $treet$ from the rich.
and i’m not a communi$t,
but
mostly, i just want to
be,
mostly, i just want to, mostly,
i just want.
when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?
this is not a dream.
you are al/one in the quest for self.
no one cares much about u as u,
but we are
not alone
because we all
share the planet,
and we all need oxygen to breathe.
when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?
12.02.04.
Share this:
the poetry of children.
the poetry of children.
breaking schemas
and
the molding of tomorrow’s youth
into plastic soldiers
with replaceable, interchangeable personalities,
guns, and names.
marching away into the eve
of tomorrow’s dawn,
our
children’s poetry
will be
bullets and gunshots ricocheting off the walls
that once supported dreams.
left trying to decipher,
marks on the wall,
messages in graffiti,
if there was ever any
meaning.
cavemen left their marks on walls,
but these new scars relate misguided, disenchanted,
disenfranchised urban youth, revenge on the concrete
built on superficial ideals,
wasted energy, fading hope, and savage inequalities.
historians will remain in awe
at stains of blood,
of murder filled books juxtaposed with fairy tales.
and these stories are yet to be recorded and written.
depending on who dictates the future,
and how much everyone’s allowed to know,
they may never get written.
thus the
children’s poetry
must not fall on
or off
deaf ears,
so that deviant behavior and memory
will continue to remind
history,
and perhaps the whole conscious
of present society,
of those ignored, gentrified, and pushed to the outskirts
until permeating the psyche.
being that truth cannot be
hidden or buried,
children’s poetry
will come out beating
to rhythms the color of love
that most people have already long forgotten.
beatings and rhythms,
washing out
the bitterness the present has left us.
or maybe it’s just me that keeps hearing
the same thing,
the same song
that everyone’s been singing.
all the radio’s been playing.
dewey would argue what the schools have been teaching
for centuries since the romans and greeks,
or what corporate entities dictate through promoting.
because
nobody’s been listening,
nobody is listening,
nobody is listening
to the
children’s poetry.
cause what could they possibly teach anybody?
the
children’s poetry,
strange mutterings,
frequencies,
but transmissions
have had a tendency of being
intercepted,
and thus the message has yet to be
fully understood.
but children still believe in poetry.
translating messages for history,
some must start then decoding these writings and movements
before an eternal silence befalls us all.
trying to figure
children’s poetry,
already hiding in alleys,
break dancing, and drawing on walls.
trained to be just like little adults.
learning quickly to bully and scheme,
how to politic and maneuver,
aaaarrrggghhhhh.
next comes the nervous breakdown.
screaming, shouting, shooting in schools.
wait.
it’s already happening.
wait.
because
nobody’s been listening,
nobody is listening,
nobody is listening
to the
children’s poetry.
listening to the static off the vinyl
interwoven into the grooves
until foundations come down crumbling
off the bass
from the
children’s poetry.
yelling to be recognized
as a single living identity, entity,
independent of society’s standards and schemas
of how children are supposed to be.
the whole of society seems bent and content with silencing
what echoes tremble in the voice of
children’s poetry.
dancing, running, playing, exploring, discovering
without guides, barriers, or grown ups
at peace to develop like haiku:
the child once had thoughts
till order became borders
the child could not cross.
the child still has dreams,
but rules are raised up like walls.
free the child in me.
please.
free the child in me.
please. free the child in me. please.
free the child in me.
free the child in me.
please. free the child in me. please.
free the child in me.
9.24.04.
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wingless.
Share this:
? mark.
? mark.
the quest
i
on, i mean
i on a
quest
chasing rain
bows
while kiss
-ingstars
as an)swers
or mean(ing)
lose pur
pose
and the quest
i is
on, the on(lee
thin/g of
value ex
-isting only as a
quest(i)on?
12.29.03.
Share this:
monica.
monica.
me
and an alien
were wandering
over whether or
not
love was just
imaginary
and then the ancients
called us
towards one
another.
08.18.03.
Share this:
patiently awaiting promotion and for things to get better.
patiently awaiting promotion and for things to get better.
everything is being modified, designed, stratified, digitized, maximized then minimized, marketed, socialized, manipulated then redistributed, imitated, upgraded, patented, repackaged, reformatted, made over, made up and everyone just gives in, bows down, let’s go, fades out.
so then do people really trust society, believe in anything or just have no choice?
so that today for all intents and purposes becomes another slicker, faster, cheaper version of yesterday.
everyday commits tiny actions that feel dirty inside like part of soul slowly being sold out, away.
thus the shame.
the shame of feeling, touch, nakedness, and dreaming- never doing but just thinking, of being passive aggressive and words over action.
the shame of only going half way because it’s easier to follow.
the shame, the guilt of shame.
of everyday allowing part of self to disappear in the name of profit as everything’s so made up and cosmetic like dolls shiny and plastic.
the guilt, of not being able to look into anyone’s eyes.
almost no one becomes what they were dreaming.
the guilt, the shame, the masochists and catholics, the whole religious right, third reich.
por mi culpa, por mi culpa, por mi gran culpa.
the guilt, the shame, still praying.
someone sets out to be something, someone.
americans with guns and how the west could have been won without exterminating whole nations of native americans.
whose guilt? whose shame? in whose name?
everything’s prepackaged for dissemination and consumption, but still believe what’s being said- that’s all there is to go on, so isn’t it just easier to take everyone’s money then? and run
from guilt, from shame.
ideals become corrupt as part of whole fades while days pass by and less of truth remains.
everything heads towards the one, but that one is completely mistaken for a one that should be all.
color shall blend towards gray as even love deteriorates.
no one has time or emotions to invest, so everyday live life more and more like everything’s a hustle or investment.
the guilt, the shame.
not being able to fall asleep, without energy to leave, without anything to live for until it becomes easier to follow the herd over the cliff.
the shame, the guilt of not being free, of everything weak like me.
06.09.03.
Share this:
sleeping till noon.
sleeping till noon.
let me
b
sim(somepeople)ple
is a((ll
i ask
of dreams
out on aaa
coooooold concrete
metro
-polis play
-ground,
05.04.03.
UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s) 