Fond of your identity

Is there a well collected image of yourself?
One that flickers in the mind whenever you say "me"
Is there a body that's really felt?
A mind that has been inverted and positioned at all angles

For the many layers of the you must have been active to really live
Those chunks of your innerness that were never recognized
huddle in hidden places pushed down by the acquisition of a phony identity
Wanting to be like the others at the expense of yourself

But I'm here lost coin of this false currency
to tell you your value isn't in the engravings that you made
to fit into a quarter chain
It's in the rough cuts and bumps that a real person receives, risking themselves
with an identity they are fond of.

You are not their noise or hush lost soul!
You are not their jeers or spoils!
Wake from your disgusting conformity
Your unwillingness to question self awareness
... Or sleep in what society has bullied and shaped you into being
For your identity is your curse or blessing

Baghdad fish

Floating on the redness
like closed lips
a million submissive maidens
each with a recipe

Little boats trading hope on the water
As extremists take the country and extort her
war and pollution have discolored the water
It's in the flavor of the fish

Each family offers their version of the dish
Ashamed that their culinary delight
Is reddened and swollen
Like a desert corpse of an unlucky Shiite

And as the land is hit by the tyrannical Islamic fist
May Iraq be flooded by it's mighty Tigris

Entertainment news

Media insists on deep graves
Headlines of a lifetime
That leave little left but death, gossip and mouths to rave
Celebrities on the helpline

Expensive boxes don't pine to hug you
A million fans do
It's seven feet deep and glistening
padded with a fad a phase of magazines

A new suspense keeping you from the reaper
A movie opportunity
Another flic, a directors cut trick, grave gets deeper
Now your bed is a million words overstated snug and glossy

Just stop asking when the plane will leave.

This buzz, this ride, this life

One thousand times
Disease can´t
oh a Thousand lives but one right now
Injury can´t

Oh overcoming the train on the eternal rail
holding onto the metal
No
No certainty no safety let it all come

Through the ride ears and eyes and busy minds
No be here
move with it
alive

One Thousand times me
never worrying about injury or
Perfection and other fancy lies
still making the best of this buzz this ride this life

Familiarity and pride

On high houses
high horses and dreams of high classes
Your life stories now refined and compact
Nostalgia is your courier

Most of us shallow wanters
Seeking above all of it flavor
Tell us about the time you tasted
the poverty of sophistication

The meager experience toasted as rich
stamped by connoisseurs for approval
The time you ate a hedgehog
and selected a fine wine to accompany it's effect on the palate

Taste the list of things eloquent self important chefs recommend
Afternoon nap and troubled sleep for cheese grills nearby
Taste the base of the twiggy mess
the uneven batter and the sour insides

Taste purple life
the tongue a magnet
electric saliva
fear of the poets menu

What's cooking for the shallow wanters today
Taste testers knife and fork in hand
eat your old skin under the pergolas nicely
For nothing we've served you sufficed

Autumn was my mother

I was raised where autumn's liquid amber leaves would litter the garden
Where spring's Rhododendrons would shed sticky gum to dry in the sun
Where the winter lilac would bloom to contrast against the short dull days
And summer was eternity to everything living in every way

Not long human I made my way through the dry leaves
Looked up at the woman standing under the houses eve
her expression was autumn with highlights of hope
Words came from my heart for I could feel their journey to the throat

And once there I could feel their footsteps much like mine
struggling to open the voice box in time
Fighting to thank the kind lady who had helped raise me
Who had helped to prepare me for any season

Tweek´s week

Those tweeker´s hit the house last night
anything that wasn´t held down
A broken corner house plagued by a decade of users
A progression toward addiction

A doorway to crime
And they stand in withdrawl, hands trembling in their pockets
In the dirty doorway
Unwashed and street ready, swollen by their own drug hungry veins

light goes out of day
They hover in the doorway
empty bottles and dime bags
they plot to realize a strict enough fix

Soon stoned again and crazed
their limbs partly exposed tatoos and tattered shoes
Time demons dance over them
as dossile, they struggle to breathe during their dull euphoria