To Things Forgotten.

Huck,
Click, click, click, click, click,
Huck,
Click, click, click, click, click,
outstretched arms catch wind against that old flannel,
those worn jeans with the honeycomb against the back of your knees,
that backward ball cap that gathers sweat,
those vans that just fit perfectly on your feet,
because your toes are worn into the canvas that lines them,
the cuts, scrapes, bruises, tickets, and late night push sessions,
spotlights against ledges, black out security cameras,
cops telling you, you need to leave,
the thousands of signs that read, "NO SKATEBOARDING,"
that moment of ecstasy when you land that big trick,
that one you've spent months learning,
the labels, the road rash, the broken limbs,
all for the love of,
Huck!,
click, click, click, click, click,
Huck!,
click, click, click, click, click.

The Trees Canopy grows, and changes colors with the seasons, but never forgets what shade it was.

He feel asleep a young boy,
and woke up a young man,
removed the sheets from his body,
and stepped onto that cold, wood, floor.
Dusk and dawn collided out his front door,
he, in a trance, danced to the edge,
of a small cliff a few hundred feet from his home,
sitting he grabbed a handful of sand,
and let it drift through the cracks in his hands,
catching the sweet spring breeze that chilled his bones.
He began dropping small rocks off cliffs edge,
and heard each one klip and klop to the bottom,
with each small sound growing fainter and ever so distant,
like his memories, and his past.
Aging and falling farther from the surface,
getting away from the ground it once called home,
spinning wildly away from its dreams and hopes,
forgetting its useful existence as a mere grain of sand.
Faster and faster it goes, picking up speed,
and at its furthest point away from both surfaces,
it reaches a terminal velocity, until it comes back to its original state,
hitting hard, yet sitting back on earth.
That young boy now a man, and that man still a boy,
listens to those sounds to understand,
that we are alive once,
and then, well maybe, just maybe, never again.
Gravity seems to have that effect,
A lust to hold us close,
praying for us to just let go.

Misery is the only company I keep.

I want to be buried in an unmarked grave,
shallow like my breaths.
Enough so that I can feel the rain,
but deep enough to connect to the earth.

The Heavy Hands Of God

Sometimes I miss having you here.

I took up the habit of wishing on stars. Then realized that they've been wished out.

I spent last night dwelling on poor choices. This morning I woke up and wanted to meet someone to share creativity. Not someone who pretends to be creative. The difference lies in the lie.



Love Dance Infinite

She was twirling her hair with her finger,
grasping at stones,
throwing them gently
at glass houses.

I thought I heard the sound of concentration breaking.

wrapped together against her,
we competed for a dominant position,
to attach at the lip,
and I can still feel her hips.
I heard her exclaim,
"King of the Hill"
I was willing to give up the ground,
I feel her weight on my wrists.

We rounded each others bases,
mimicking gravitational lust,
while exhibiting polar opposites push,
all while being tangled tightly in bed sheets.
Her breath against the swell of my neck,
our legs intertwined,
the slow drag of her fingers,
raising goose flesh along my back.

Dawn nears through eastern facing windows,
colors catching white walls,
those shadows now stalking the edges,
of the corners of our room.
Peering deep into those mirrors,
noses grazing tips in circular fashion,
the soft press of pedaled lips,
I twirl your hair in my fingers.

Pause.

I thought I heard the sound of concentration breaking.

Something is Happening. Can You Feel It.

::Transmission Begin::

It is unquestionable, that in the belly of humans, there is a discontent with the imminent, a thirst to destroy, and a need to believe that material gains are the only way to prove that we are god's chosen few (the puritan work ethic). The majority of the world has bought in. That discontent with the imminent, whatever that beasts name be, boils in the blackest portions of our stomachs, eating at the lining of our hearts and tearing through our lungs. So that each breath be haunted with that disease. We know not its name because we choose to ignore it instead of face it head on. Finally that discontent meets the world and begins to destruct. Today, 12 men and women, were shot because of that gluttonous beast whose name we do not know, who lives in each of us, and unless we do battle with that beast will always remain in us. It will reside in the darkest trenches of our beings. It will fester and implode. I am in turn left with questions, is this is a message from God or are we forgotten with the rest? I was always taught that if you have the ability to stop the evils of this world, you should make full use of that ability. Even if your own life is lost in the struggle.

::Transmission End::







"Rise like lions after slumber,
In unvanquishable number!
Shake your chains to earth, like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you-
Ye are many; they are few!"

(Read from Howard Zinn's, "A People's History of the United States." Poem Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley and titled "The Masque of Anarchy."

These Colors Don't Run

I grew up in a city of wealth and prosperity, I grew up with two parents who loved me, and the environment that surrounded us fostered creativity, Now I watch it all crumble beneath my feet, in a crumbling economy, in a land of uncertainty, and fear makes me believe that nothing is coming, nothing better is coming and even now I watch Rome burn slowly.

And they all told me to pick my chin up, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off my own two awkward feet.

To fix our problems you gave us a uniform and watched the bodies pile to the sky, a youth so violent, so loyal, untrusting, self loathing, satisfaction seeking, self serving, and wasteful human beings. What do we owe them when they’ve given only their lives.And what happens to old fathers, their stories and tales, forgotten.Can we not learn from them?And what happens to old mothers, who’ve already seen their sons come home in a pine lined box.

So to rid myself of these pains, I buried myself under the dirt, and committed myself to the earth, waiting for flowers to grow.




WHEN HAPPINESS CEASES TO CREATE STABILITY, SEARCH FOR THE MOMENTS THAT YOU WERE ALIVE.