Brruh
A woman can’t sing
A woman has no rhythm
Between her and the water
Of life and creation
You wish to put a schism
Starve her out of the chasm
Where she was born
Turn her to an orgasm only
You the lonely beast
With lore
And her a cave for your
Droning
On and on about
How you are owed
A life greater than she
In your abode where you roar ownership
Full of sitting and sitting
And sitting and moaning
Some more.
Fuck you and your Jesus shit
Saying the only reason she can
Is because you loan her it.
You tell her to grow a set
And you can’t even get yours to fit
Your concept of your grand exit
From the life of the common wit
The life that you belong in.
You demonize.
Moralizing is an exercise in reasons why
You shouldn’t find that job.
You sob and sob about your degree and
The absence of that mob
Of supporters from your insta
Decreeing you THE KING
Finding you everything
Least of all an instant million dollars
To seize from Spring.
Yet I’M the Ho’
I’m the bitch
I’m the witch
I’m the one switching to and fro
FUCK YOU
“Nigga’” I’m your fucking back hoe and
More than that
I’m the slingshot that brings you back
To where you belong
BRO
Somewhere there’s a song
That humbles you
Into being blue
As you should be
Instead of blaming me
For the life you flee from
And all its inequities.
Mothering
A tether hovering
Covering
Smothering
Letting it druthering
Inside a mug of
Troubling
Ugly buggering
Bubbling
A sort of loitering
Chugging along
A shortening
Bordering on
Theft.
Destination High
I love to sail and I love to drive
I love the sun to be in my eyes
I live to swim and run and fly
But when I’m sick I live to die.
Dying is fun when dying is picked
Letting the gun alight from its niche
Letting the fool that threatens the witch
Receive a good pardon that’s
Gracious and rich.
I love to sail and I love to drive
I love the sun to be in my eyes
I live to swim and run and fly
But when I’m sick I live to die.
Dying is fun when dying is real
Hard like a stone and sharp like a nail
Fragile and lonely then fragrant and stale
I wish for a shovel, rubble, and pail.
I love to sail and I love to drive
I love the sun to be in my eyes
I live to swim and run and fly
But when I’m sick I live to die.
Dying is fun when dying is slow
Dragging to heaven what’s destined to go
Heavy with burdens that angels would know
Endowed with a silence that’s spun like pure gold.
Dying is stingy when dying is quick
Done with a club, a bludgeoning stick
The sand tumbles down and sucks like a pit
Landing in heaps that pile like shit.
I love to sail and I love to drive
I love the sun to be in my eyes
I live to swim and run and fly
But when I’m sick I live to die.
Dog Life
He keeps eating
He keeps using his mouth
Licking and chewing and spitting it out
I want to shout and tell him get out
The tongue at work causing a pout and
Then I remember a cock,
The one with all the hens,
Which I hate to think of
During time off from them.
The throat that just swallows
And swallows again
I can’t stand that tuning
When there’s a longing within to forget
The lewd song of him
A friend with appetites for
Meat ad infinitum,
A fury of lust to sin.
Will he ever stop the gnawing glee
A yearning for learning
To bite a hard squeak?
I’m nauseous and reeling
Feeling the fever of he
The doesn’t find moments
Of freedom from He
With the animal teeth.
Open Disregard
A new practice hatching
Keep the brood gnashing
Bashing our heads against glasses passing
Passively
Lips massively closed
Woes stuck inside a loud head
Bound to the dead willingly, which was
Found to be filling compared to the
Dread of choosing the wrong muse
Taking the wrong shoes to work again
In the morning lurking like
A cat and mouse
The louse on both that won’t allow
Closure of the chronic loop
Couping and coping and eloping
In land of hoping
For a helping house
For his sake and nobody else’s
He is the snake poking his head around
A romantic energy
The synergy addictive like smoking
Fire for his cold-blooded lethargy
He won’t leave them alone
Soaking her in though she won’t loan him nothing
No matter how much the damned thing
Would trick her and guilt her and otherwise
Wilt her under its brutal force
His twisted bone
Torturing til hoarse under his diction
Conviction that she’s a mission
A collection of sin
Causing the condition within
His sick skull
Ball and tether
He won’t let her be feathered
But tarred is okay
That is the only way he escapes
His own burden and delays
Dreaded death decay
A future array of chair-bound stairs
A skin he won’t bear alone
Because he hasn’t a heart to call
His home.
Girls
Sweet Girl
The tone is like a flute
Her voice sings
Cute song
And I get to smile
At the color
Sass Woman
The tone is
Hollowed
Because she learned
To talk from she-wolves
And bellows
To be heard for her words
Alone.
Crass Woman
The tone is
Hot
Because she is boss
Of men
Willing to lend a hand to
A hen.
See Me
I am to blame, are you happy?
I am to blame, are you sad?
Can you tell me why you fail to see
The blessing I never had?
I try to tell you again and again
I am the one you seek
The one who died to find you crying
Inside a kitchen sink.
You threw the bath water at me
To cure yourself of sin
I went to see the doctor and
Instead you went to win.
I see you at your cleaning and
I sense the soul inside
Wants to see this thing defeated
With nowhere left to hide.
Tell me what you’re thinking
So I can use your lense
To see the thing you’re drinking
And tell you not to within.
Rhyme
Rhyming inside a box
Rhyming inside a box of tricks
Rhyming inside stacked
Boxes of tricks
Amplified by wits
Rhythms won’t quit at four
Open the door and let in the sound
Of five
Pound six for a minute or a minute and a half
We are quick but short staffed
Wanting to cut in half a work that could last
For an even seven
Eleven is not a problem either if you let the
Man work
Not twerking for some jerk in the dark
A lark in a cage
An owl in a maze
That just traded
A set of twos for a four again.
Who couldn’t lose to someone
As rude as a user
Who can’t remember to swear
Off booze and then
To start losing shoes that offend.
Chooser of a ruse instead of
The clean promise of a yesterday
And a tomorrow one could lose
Sorrow already present because
We are patterns
And the beauty that follows it
As Saturn turns from a longing
That burns like fire in the furnace
Of the majority
The base of the spine
Where the music lives
And art too
Perjury absent in lieu of driving home a message.
Enabling
How dare you sit here with your gray intellect and tell me that my green instincts were wrong, that I am not the song. Everything was not right but it was green and blue and there was sun and people were dancing and everyone won. And now the gray fills the air with its suffocation and leaves the space in a state of stultifying stagnation. No longing for the lightness of being illuminated. Just dull resignation and recession of a line, a retreating into secure sleepy entertainment, which you call sublime.
“Why do you insist on causing a ruckus, a fuss, a noise of reluctance to be in the sweet rhythm of nothing harmful or mean? You want to toss yourself around a mountain and swing from high branches and find all of the colors for your machine-like precision technique of ‘sight’ expressed. We are beyond hindsight, and that is a plus, but how do you know your lust for dim light isn’t killing the sharp one that I hold dearly in my neck of the woods?”
An x-ray, my x-ray.
Your home is a popsicle stand to be blown, huh?
This chocolate lust, this cream lust, this longing for that crucial sex appeal that makes life seem worth less than it actually is, allows you to spend it quickly and mercilessly in the act of consuming people and their attention and their affection and their time and their love. A comfortable silencing of intention for doing the greater things from above that aren’t achievable anymore, in your “humble” estimation. You’ve exhausted me and now I know the true meaning of zen while you merely parrot the concept in chirps and buzzes of your god damned phone. Why not actually be in one place and one time and meet the collisions head-on in a zone of solid associations with the people that follow the music you love and call it God? Why put yourself in a desert and teach yourself to be a cactus instead of the lush flower that you longed to be?
I was never a flower.
I was always the cactus.
The cactus is my nature.
The cactus is what I must be.
The me that might have been a lush flower was transformed
to a harder creature that can weather the storms of this climate
one that needs the effort and ingenuity of a force
that grows like a plant
an architecture of defense, in the name of God, Amen.
R’s
I guess it is a kind of hardening that happens inside this can of unsoothed. It is always a can first. The loudness of this boundless hedonism looms above all of us. The extremities of a place lost to a boss or someone. This dog’s cry is piercing— that sound of piecing together a reason why anything happens. Things happening is just not that interesting. It’s the hedonism that is interesting.
The Bird
We finally rescued her
By telling her that
She was fine
And allowing her her wings
To rise without her sign
Above the terror of
The crew singing mutiny and
Their pirating captain’s mind.
The patent she had been working
Formed patterns in the sky
Silver spirals of smoke
Guiding those woken by
The shine
To weave baskets
In her honor
Though blind and a goner
They thought she was.
It was the invention of
Their usage
A tool to wine and dine
Setting her intentions
For the crowds who thought she’d lied.
Never forgetting to mention
Her generous fair ears that grew,
Loyal to the fears of the sheep
And the goats,
Hoofed ones
Who loved the sound of
Their freedom, too.
Not getting eaten seemed
Nice
And not getting swallowed seemed
Free of vice
And if she could fly
To deliver our message thrice
How many animals
Might be allowed a
Free range.
We allowed the imprisonment
Of her skin inside a matrix
Of our sins
As she said we could
And saw the wood of our trees
Turn green as it rained
Her sweet joy and pain
The sorrow of being turned into
A bridge and a loon
Unnamed.