Sonnets

1.
What is a man to do when pushed against a wall…
build his own?
Living looking up feeling that he’s lost it all
knowing that when it boils down to it— as people we’re all prone
to see the glass half empty
before it’s half full.
Hard times we see plenty
it’s like we call for the bull
with red flags flapping and still test the water.
Though it seems so clear
fog sets and we falter
then we fear
it’s all over…before it’s even started
& as whole we act lethargic.
2.
Starving artists play for pennies in suitcases going nowhere.
We have no voice.
We have no choice but to oblige or go nowhere
If I could make one point
It’d be raise your fist and die screaming
rather than on your knees
pleading
for that which you need
knowing you’ll never get it
unless you take a stance,
a chance, they won’t give it
you’ll be nothing but glance
given on their ways somewhere you weren’t welcomed.
And I know this ‘cause my whole life I felt em’:

3.
Belt buckles…piercing glares
hate-filled stares—and—hard scarred knuckles.
Malice-filled chuckles…prison cell chairs,
life without cares—and—yelps held muffled.
Glory days…lonely nights,
life-long gripes—and—people betrayed.
prayers preyed…deepest frights,
violated rights—and—long hard days.
It seems as if satin wrote my shopping list
and delivered for free.
If I had one wish
they’d deliver me free
from all of the folly
or like Bopper and Holly.
4.
The day the music dies
I’ll fry in a chair sentenced to death.
Like the day that I try
will be the day there’s nothing left.
My soul will be empty like I suffer from convenient amnesia
‘cause I promised never to forget
to make you all believers
of the creatures of regret,
the red-head step children
the ones you gave hate to
the name with the X right next to it
ex-con, or ex-addict the ones you won’t to sit next to
the pasts you don’t know
is what keeps you slow.
5.
This is Life In the Fast Lane,
my mind soars free with the Eagles
I peer life through a glass pain
and see the feeble people
hungry for inspiration
‘cause what’s knowledgeable aint profitable
and you can’t cookie cut or trace it
Who do you hold responsible…
for our lack of voice?
Do you even notice
that is all by choice
that we lack our opus.
I am the lotus
the truth is in me, I just have to keep my focus…


And not go blow it…in the name of instant gratification.

Language Art

She said, “we don’t play Ackee, we eat it”.
See…language is fun-ny like that we all
speak some sort of it but those who speak through
language like a Blue Mountain breeze floating
through window screens and inhale aromas
of the land, understand that “language is…
the only homeland” and native tongues are
not split but together. Dialectic
rhythmic measurements of past events scribed
by hands motivated by past movements
that hit hearts, my words…middle passage(s),
my hands are enslaved by inner rhythm
that drums as ores row…sailing…on my way
to destiny that I know is not in
any way promised but to be honest
the art is what keeps it alive. I…live
in a prism of the deepest hues and catch
cues that though we may not know it I speak
for you, not your thoughts—…your vibes shake me
and shaped me and taught me that we are more
alike than we would like to think. I…see
a renaissance coming where actors die
and thinkers fly, while they scribe the next few
chapters of history, clutching pens fueled
by fury that spew ink of blood ‘cause this
is me but also you, if you opened
your eyes maybe you’d see that too. My words
are the last mutterings of dead poets
breathing their last breaths staring through window
screens catching that last breeze before it’s all
gone for good, and ab-use of language is
what you consider art—all in façade.
Where is poetry today?...In the clutch
of know-it-alls and networking masters,
organizers, attention seekers. Me—
I’m an exception, I am a bleeder
and a healer, an exception to your
scene. You build Acts but I’d rather build
my own Globe ‘cause Rome wasn’t built in a day
but damn sure fell in one in the name of
Greed.

When Im Gone (freewrite)

If it ever so happens that I just
abruptly exit and you have no intuitve direction
as far as
what to do
just remember:

how the red leaves are deepest in autumn,
how the tide is at its highest immediately prior to crashing
and how I neglected myself the most.

I am a dead child living in a knowledge-filled womb.
I was a victim of circumstances brought from the tomb,

hung in my closet.
It hanged and dangled
kicked its legs on swings of sorrows
and jumped.
Leaveing its footprints in the sand
no wood chips here they made gavels with the trees
to make those
and books
and diplomas
for inner city children.
Not JUST because you're black
color lines
in coloring books
we're tought to be separatists
and forget that at the end of the day we're the same

WE DIE

so just in case I do,

just do what you would do for me
as if I was still here.


When I'm gone
just remeber
AWARE- everything reaches its deepest beauty right before it passes
(byE)

Dance With The Band Saw (freewrite)

Stacked...Against...We Stand
drained.
It's ODD now isn't it
how we break even and take the pieces
puzzled while building, shoving, danceing with Jig saws
and have extra pieces
left over
to jamm into future instances
that have nothing to do with the former scene
but we incorporate, franchise
turn prophets into nonsense to turn profits
and crash
then feel depressed
because you didnt get the bigger picture


I am nothing but a lost piece
of a 3-D puzzle with no picturesque guidence
I know not what to think
nor say
nor do
but i do it well
Dance with the Band saw

Born. Rigid. Using. Cultural. Enforcers.

(To New Jersey:)






We don't play in the water,
we play the games by the water
from the days that they're daughters
until we're raising our daughters
some lacking patience
had curves--felt soft faces
felt urged...to all be waste--d
Diner food--working all day shifts,
burnt pork roll...chalk-like coffee
hard brick back boards, some were mader of concrete
gritty like sand but harder on the feet.

Broken glass...

could it be another fight
or another life?

More than likely it's another night.

Stone Ponies turn into white hoarses
slot machines
Bada-Bings
home of the Boss(es)
(in)
cinamatic scenes of lived dreams on the ocean
you taste the brisk breeze
and believe that it's gorgrous.

Muddy Banks...Muddy Waters
Hungry Hearts...-...Can you hear Clarence?
Really, do you hear Clarence?

Do you feel that it's a(p)-parent
that molds understanding...did you come?
Eminent Domain...were you gonna run?
capitalist slaves...are you going to stay?



..........all Situations aren't welcome..........



Sweet powder topped funnel cakes
share shapes with water slides
and great escapes--Adventures
capitivating with measures of pleasure
in every city, suburb and stick
they're stuck with a script
of mangled, mixed-heritage...

_
Some have obsessions with the burnt Orange reflections off of the sea in the regional waters
_
Some grip hot-to-touch fenses sitting on board walk benches, ball courts or literally fences,
from the outside looking in.
_
Some Jon Bon, Bruce, or Jay-z (and Lauryn) in their days, at least it's universal and polor opposites don't seperate....you've heard of everything:
_
Chicken Shacks, Remy, Flying Fish, Oysters, Fat-Sandwiches, PBR.
City views of the shining sea that supplies you with everything.


not
a
Cheese Steak,
nor
sweet
like
Cheese Cake.
_
Seasalt, dumps and cars all have exits it's the Garden not the flower (please remember that).
_






To you,
My advice
Just Rock your Red to the games

by the water.


Those
Games

by the water

Knowing that they're




FIXED