teepee.

I need an attempt to draw my self nearer.

naturally, I step to the mirror

only to hear

"Come with me,

where alarms clocks wont go off

where neighbors don't scoff at each self expression.

You could say I've learned my lesson and studied for this test,

Yet the answer thats best

is one grain of sand from the rest.

See, as the hair-based swallows nest 

                                                  gets kicked for a random jest 

we test dogs on their ability to speak.

 The control is weak when

the words that we squeak 

are a dead language.

And fitted with this anguish 

we settle, four lettered love

and gifts from above

that fit like a glove.

So, what are you seeking? 

your tattered ship-a-leaking

 your weak mind-a-meeking

 you've lost the control room.

I remember the day

i couldve sworn i dusted my broom

awaiting this doom

sweating barrels at high noon.

Yet for once,

I saw clearly

as lead missed the real me

that everything i held so dearly

was really

most nearly

a tumbleweed.

Now, too soon to free

readily 

I wait for We

in eternity.

with hopes that you will see 

the end of the apparent mystery

and start something new

old, borrowed, and blue

wed in the light of the sweet morning dew"

(Noting my inability to cope with reality, 

i saw it a mere formality that i yelled back to the personality...)

"Oh, and whats a crush to do as they spot the lush in you?

to walk on through?

how refreshing,

how new!

this...Chivalry!

what a thrill to see

another white knight on a horse

another preacher's voice

coarse,

growling obscenities like a drunken norse"

"What i mean, of course

is after three corks on the championship court

my humble retort

is the size of the fort 

doesn't matter.

What truly arose such a clatter 

were the walls tumbling down

as your gem-studded crown

fell fast and down

to drown

in the hems of your gown.

to shatter the gilded floor

paranoid Emperor, be paranoid no more!"

"Rather me a single thread

on the bed

where a wrinkled old god rests it's head

as leagues of the dead

jam it with unleavened bread?

Is that the destination?

after all this procrastination

and three hail mary's after each masturbation

and taking one to many lacerations

from the organizations

sister corporation,

to end my expensive education

my final fidgeting frustration

is to man my eternal battlestation

and learned when to bow?

if i have missed it somehow

show me now!

for all i see is golden cows,

lifetimes spent in torment 

to help pay the rent of a fat billionaire"

"There!

the glazed-over stare you wear payed your fair.

and now,

behind a veil so thin,

only now gnashing for oxygen

lies an ember.

A gift from the month of your splendor

a spark to remember

the flame you were born from"

"and how my heart beats like a drum

i will not succumb

I am

but a crumb"

"aye, but a crumb to a loaf,

and if i might add,

quite an oaf.

You argue to stall, 

i am but a wake up call

who dares to shake up all your 

crispy leaves.

i challenge you,

dance as the trees do,

hum like the bees do,

that is whats true.

that's the to do.

No witches brew

no incantations

years of vows to renew.

you'll see when you do,

you wait only for you."

and with that,

left i alone

with a mouthful of tongue

to chew.

open-close

Sweep the floor, flip the chairs

A breathing sea of unclaimed stares.

See the last wave crash through the door,

flip the chairs, sweep the floor.

Willy

  There is something deep about that one-millimeter plastic bag. The cracks in his face gripped the eye. His paint-covered pants ask what his mission in life is. William Lee Jr., his silvered hair competing with his head as his feet struggle against the weight of his boots. 

    For 12 years, William has worked as the same man, the same pattern every day. At seven am, he boards the train in South L.A., the train so full of hope and destitution, struggle and ease, production, and at the same time, plight. He and his static bag, full of gas station lunch, reeking of the mediocrity which threatened to engulf him, would travel the 45 shaky, steel minutes to his destination. he worked for eight hours, every day, painting the same wall the very same color. White. As monotony would have it, the company which payed him the same two-hundred dollars per week, Halbert White-Washers, specialized in just that, white washing. 

    Some days, with the sun on his back and sweat crawling for the crevices on his face, he begged for color, daydreamed for hues of pink to grace his pail. Other days, in between the dunk of his bucket and the gleam of the wall, he breathed in the sterile idea the white paint offered. Will the painter reveled in the odd contrast of his dark, callused hands against the snow white walls. he took a special comfort in the idea that his muddy hands would clean anything at all. in a world which screamed out from every living room that he was nothing, in a country which blindly belittled him, telling him melanin was near sin. In a city that shouted from both sides of the line in the sand, here stood Will, foam roller in hand, washing it all away.

     

Days as these, he would whistle a tune, and as it echoed back from whichever empty room he painted, he would swish the melody along its path, letting each stroke and fluttering note carry his cares, his worry, his endless breath along downstream. These days the aging man would skip his lunch, for fear of his shattering plastic bag being reminded of the banality which surrounded him. within these walls, as he breathed in a fresh skin and rolled another brilliant white layer upon his masterpiece, there was no sign of any of it. no need for a far-fledged mission, no end to seek. These days there was nothing else in existence, just a breath, a brush, a bucket. Four relentless, definite hours from now, he would climb aboard the tin train to tackle his own tail, to ride the unwavering rail back to his minuscule cell. But here, in this heartbeat, William Lee Jr. is completely empty, and missing nothing.

le Square.

   What's the next step?

When waking life has turned into a tourist trap,

and your house is filled with plastic-wrapped plastic crap

and even the stairway to heaven seems lined with a

gold covered

high-fructose

polystyrene banister.

Whats the price tag on salvation?

Whats the hash tag on your distraction?

Whats the sound of our demise?

If you despise the enterprise, you'll be left oiling fries for eternity.

yet what i yearn to see

is a shift

in perception

a change

of direction

from peering out from behind movie collections 

to using discretion when choosing at the next election

or, in perfection

beginning to reclaim some of this spiritual power

instead of doling it out

half hour by half hour

from the comfort of a lazy-boy locked in the recline position

and as the misses salts butter in the kitchen 

and i swallow my prescription for higher blood pressure

i understand honesty here is too kind a gesture

i'm sure there's a legal team somewhere to rip me to shreds should i 

DARE insinuate the cure is to get out of bed and stop shoving factory food through our gullets.

there is this thing

called mastication

and though i know it sounds a bit like masturbation 

if i could just pull my hand from my inseam

I'm talking appreciation for more than the t.v. station which shows the most titty.

such as:

Who dimmed the stars in the city?

when did the committee on painting the night fluorescent orange sit in?

did they all maniacally grin 

and say "Let's begin"

to our endless chagrin?

or was it simply

Overlooked?

were we really 

Overtook

by the imported importance of being afraid of the darkness?

Yet,

you cannot know light unless you also know dark

and that said, let my voice be the spark of recollection

I'll remind you of your present perfection until you get the hint.

because i see,

behind the glint in your eye

We don't buy into the lies out of sheer power of our will.

We were all simply caught up in the thrill

of losing a one-dollar bill

to test our skill

at a game of street fighter.

Now let that spark hit the lighter as we engulf you in flame

show me your face before you ever had a name

before the conditioning began to take place

before your parents ever conceived their embrace

what was your game

in the space between the space?

and for that matter,

point to the rat-race

Which part of your luminous soul was served the task

 of serving an economy
that no longer serves you?

not trying to unnerve you here

but we're all going to die.

the sooner we can come to terms with this

the sooner we can stop just getting by

and start demanding a living!

after all, its yours for the giving.

so what do you demand?

Is it really bands of white hands bombing the shit out of brown people?

and where did we get that?

the good book under the steeple?

the signatures below "all men are created equal"?

Drop whats not yours

nature abhors redundancy

don't believe me?

come and see

you show me the duplicate snowflake,

show me the pattern the wind will take

as it dances in the street.

and what of your feet?

do they follow another's print,

stuck in the mud?

do you chew the same cud you did last week?

spit these electronic opinions from your mouth and 

move on, baby get your groove on, maybe even

do this thing together

see, we're birds of a feather,

and that's whether you wanna weather the weather or not.

you've got skills

that I haven't got.

unity only comes through community

yet community only comes through individuality

so that's not me claiming a duality

its more a formality

a way to point to a reality

that's best expressed by saying what beats in your chest

moves the rest of the galaxy

in fact

the universe.

so before they steal your flesh for a hearse

rid your self of the curse of dying along side it.

you're the ocean, baby.

find a wave 

and ride it.