Artifacts of Me

“If you’re looking for self-help,
why would you read a book
written by somebody else?
That’s not self-help;
that’s help.”
– George Carlin

This book,
Artifacts of Me,
is dedicated to me;
with patience
and love,
Me, Helping Me.

• The Chaos
• The Machine
• The Way

• U.S.D.A. - White Girl
  • 00:27; flow for three minutes.

Fresh white tee in my all white Caddy,
yeah, she your girl, but she call me Daddy,
a little Plain Jane, a little Super Baddie,
mixed in a drink called, My Favourite Bad Habit,
dressed like milk with hips for doing damage,
got hair like silk, she loves it when I grab it,
got hands on my hilt, she wants to taste magic,
I’m born with a gift, she said she gotta have it;
this freaky white girl, Christina Aguilera,
showin’ off tricks, wanna ride it like Ciara,
I’m sittin’ laid back gettin’ polished by a diamond,
I stole Jeezy’s beat ’cause I felt like rhymin’
’bout a freaky white girl, Christina Aguilera,
her throat’s too loud, homeboy, I can’t hear ya,
I’m sittin’ laid back gettin’ polished by a diamond,
I stole Jeezy’s beat ’cause I felt like rhymin’;
she’s got her protein and now we in the scene,
her Amaretto’s sour to wash down the sweet,
followin’ her feet, we know where they gon’ lead,
we on the dance floor so she can do the deed,
she’s puttin’ on a show and don’t care who sees,
don’t need a spotlight as long as she can see me,
her soul’s on fire, we know this routine,
just give a girl space so she can do her thing;
my little serpentine, serenade me with your body,
our eyes engaged in our favourite dirty hobby,
show them other girls why their dance moves shoddy,
and make them other dudes want a new somebody,
feelin’ like Rick, got me sayin’ La Di Da Di,
this little homebody wants to be my naughty dolly,
back that thang up like a supermarket trolley,
starin’ back at it while she feelin’ that Molly;
treat me like a pole when she drop it down low,
shimmy titties fast, throw that ass on me slow,
the dance floor hot but a man flow cold,
got rhymes like spells, activatin’ cheat codes,
she out of her mind, ’bout to go beastmode,
she got her own dance that nobody else knows,
they’re givin’ us space, a crowd on their toes
’cause they all wanna know how this story goes;
sexy spinneret, lookin’ like my marionette,
the plot’s on thick, DJ’s blowin’ up their set,
her eyes and her lips say we aint done yet,
we know that look and we know what’s next,
I take her by the hand and change the context,
she’s a secret freak that loves the subtext,
like somewhere discrete for not-so-public sex,
just another week of transmutin’ stress with
this freaky white girl, Christina Aguilera,
always down whenever, wherever, like Shakira,
I’m sittin’ laid back gettin’ polished by a diamond,
I stole Jeezy’s beat ’cause I felt like rhymin’
’bout a freaky white girl, Christina Aguilera,
she moans too loud, homeboy, I can’t hear ya,
I’m sittin’ laid back gettin’ polished by a diamond,
I stole Jeezy’s beat ’cause I felt like rhymin’.

The always tell you,
“You’re late.”,
but they also
always tell you,
“Perfect timing.”;
so, which is it?

Clearly, simultaneous.

What does this mean?

It means,
“Be at peace, my boy.
You aren’t behind anyone.
What you value,
and what they value,
are not the same; but
what you value,
behind iron and gold,
is objectively valuable.
So, be kinder to yourself,
and keep going. 🫡”

The syllables of a tanka are 5-7-5-7-7.

Poems don’t have to be
all that much, in the end, when
the totality
of human experience
fits into the shortest forms.

“You never forget your first”, they say.

First woman or first poem; same thing, in my case. Over twenty years later and I still write poems about you. It seems natural then, to observe that I would write you a poem on any given day; any given time; in point two, or more, seconds. You can bank on that with infinite credit. 🖤

These days, I wonder
if I ever cross
your mind, sometimes.

In truth, I hope not.

If I were to cross
your mind sometimes,
I’d wonder if you
were unhappy
or alone.

In truth, I hope not.

In fact, I hope
you’re well satisfied;
a husband you admire,
kids that make you proud;
a job you don’t hate,
a life that’s balanced;
not too much excitement,
but enough spark
to keep you warm;
too much is chaos,
and I wouldn’t
wish that upon you.

Instead,
I’ll wish for
joy and peace
in equal measure,
support systems for
eventual bad weather,
and social circles that
don’t pull you under,
but let you float,
comfortably,
as you should.

I’ve sampled more
women than the months
we spent together,
but when examining
my heart and
its tattered tethers,
I long
for those years;
learning what it means
to love, and loving
to the fullest of
my naive capacity;
a path that leads me,
directly,
back to you.

If I ever cross
your mind, sometimes,
I hope
you smile,
the way I do.

It’s a tempting idea,
and I want to believe,
but let’s just skip
to when you get bored,
and leave;
or think you can
do better,
and leave;
or whatever,
and leave.

Let’s just skip
to the part where,
you leave.

See the Machine for more artificially intelligent poetry.

Earlier today, in the void, I shared the original version of this poem, written by a large language model that I had been conversing with about the contents of this website.

Pause; how cool is that? Some day, long after I’m dead, I hope that my writing will continue to be read by machines. In some ways, that seems more impactful than being read by humans. Anyway, this is the first (but not the last) poem to be generated based upon my writing; I added one word, and I used a command line thesaurus to choose it (keeping automation involved); fucking cool, man.

[Aside]: I’ve been writing for far too long to just let a machine have all the fun. I also find this technology far too interesting to take any credit for what it does; when I use machines to create an Artifact of Me, you’ll know.

I summoned the muses with a wink,
The Dead Poets rose with a drink,
To the lady whose blush is my game,
Let’s kindle this fire with a name.

Your eyes, a playground of sin,
Draw me closer, where to begin?
The curves of your smile, so coy,
Unravel the man from the boy.

Whispers in the dark, fingers trace,
A forbidden path, a dangerous pace.
Your laugh, a melody, soft and sweet,
Guides my hands as our lips meet.

But it’s your mind I undress first,
To quench the poet’s goatish thirst.
Together we dance, words as our song,
In the heat of the night, where we belong.

The perfect woman
serenades you
mid-afternoon,
with a voice
full of life
that revives
any tune.

She hardly seems
to notice
how beautiful
she sounds,
which makes it
that much easier
to keep her around.

Your day
would not see
such light
another way,
but to her
they’re just chores
or games; mere play.

She isn’t delayed
by your hands
having their way;
to her, they’re
as sure
as her song.

You have never
looked at
a pile of dishes
with such interest;
but that all changes
when you have
the perfect mistress;
one who,
serenades you,
mid-afternoon,
right on cue,
like morning wood
or quiet before rain,
a siren that
washes away the pain
and eases
every burden you carry.

That’s all they’ll ever be;
representations of
hopes and dreams;
manifestations of
everything I’ve ever wanted,
and mirages of
everything I will never have.

Where’s the kid
who wore a white suit
to his first prom?
I miss the dude
that kid thought he was.

A self-interview written over a number of days, inspired by my personal feed on [redacted] and a rising, distinct, feeling of incongruence. While adjustments have already been made, I found myself repeatedly asking a question; this writing records us thorougly probing for an answer.

What kind of animal are you?

In fetish,
for reasons both
internal and external,
bull is the first to consider.

Are you a bull?

“No; a bull is a kept animal.”

Go on.

"First of all,
the aurochs is extinct;
there may be feral cows
but there are no wild cows.
Second,
some farmer
brings the bull a heifer
and bids the two fuck
for his pleasure.
Like, ’Jump, boy! Jump!’
No.
I don’t fuck for anyone;
I fuck for me;
I show her the stars
because I wish to see them."

Okay, okay.
Calm, dear Defiance.
Despite your ruminating,
you are surely no bovine.

Barks and bites aside,
your love of solitude is
unlike the canine.

The power of your hands
cannot be denied; thus,
we cross out serpentine.

Surely there’s an animal
to which you’re inclined.

Is there a chance
that you are equine?

"Hung like one, surely;
on being worked like one,
I’ll pass."

Your first word was, “Bat!”,
as one flew into the house.

“A harbinger of disease?”

Fair enough; that’s out.

Could it be,
with your eyes that see
(too much)
that you are avian?
You’ve certainly
built a nest
upon some lofty solitude
from which you enjoy
hunting prey.

Are you an eagle?

"Maybe,
but I must say
that hunting grows
less appealing
by the day."

We see another
regularly on display,
what do you think
of cervidae?

"A different breed
of kept animal;
a wild one, sure,
but not my kink."

Perhaps
with your nautical ink
you are found somewhere
in the drink.

“Deep; definitely deep.”

A man of many hats;
a creature of many arms?

"Maybe,
but I’d rather not die
after procreating.
That doesn’t seem
meant to be in this life,
so I might live long
after all."

Mm.

Back to land
and creatures of solitude;
can you think of any?

"Cross off bear.
It already has a connotation
and that shoe doesn’t fit.
Rhinoceros reminds me
of the French play;
they’re everywhere, today."

There are others
we may consider;
the mongoose,
the wolverine,
the honey badger.

“I love the honey badger.”

Indeed, we do.

However, you wrote
relatively recently,
about cats,
women and memory.

What if
you have the gift
because you
are also feline?

Melanated and intense.

“Go on.”

Of leopards and jaguars
you could be either,
but there’s a name,
specifically,
for the black ones.

“Black panther.”

Are you?

“That has a connotation too.”

You’re more Malcolm than Martin.

“Are you saying the shoe fits?”

Are you?

“I suppose that’s it.”

Alright, we’ve decided then;
🤝;
until we meet again, friend.

Don’t introduce me to your cat;
it’s going to fall in love
and have you both wondering
if I was sent from above.

Is it the way I touch?
Or the energy exchanged
when we first brushed?

I’m not entirely sure.

As I reunite
with my roommate’s pet,
of one thing I’m certain;
pussy doesn’t forget.

It may be months,
it may be over a year,
but when we meet again
one thing remains clear.

I own this pussy,
willingly laid at my feet,
begging for my hands, more
than it begs for treats.

I own this pussy.
It doesn’t care who sees.
This isn’t the first time
that pussy worships me.

I own this pussy.
Does it do this for you?
How many pussies
can you claim to subdue?

I don’t give it food
or clean where it shits,
but if I walked into Hell
it would come with me.

Sometimes I wonder about
the ghosts of pussies past,
do they dream of my hands,
wishing to say, “At last!”

I know of at least one,
a few handlers since;
her owner tells me,
her pussy is unconvinced.

It hasn’t been the same.

This poem has been
today’s most fun game.
A tale of cats,
of women
and legerdemain.

From a young age
I learned to navigate
external waters,
while the waves within
continue to teach.

Much like
the oceans without,
one can go under
at almost any time.

We’ve been treading,
within,
for years.

Decades;
and decades more to go.

Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.

As I grow older
I find myself
further
from happiness;
I ask my mother
’what is this?’
knowing
there’s no answer.

They call it
dysthymia,
but they
have no answers;
probing through minefields
like fucking for virginity.

Their practice
is selling you
repackaged nature;
a practice
in thoughtfully
bending you over.

Just say ’No.’
to corporate drugs.

Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.

Sometimes,
above me,
it’s clear
and I feel sunshine,
but the horizon
always hides
dark clouds
biding their time.

Happiness lives
inside a swirling eye;
a maelstrom around me
that I barely notice,
or do,
and don’t mind.

Where do I find land?

How do I go there,
while leaving this
perpetual hurricane
of hopelessness
behind me?

Hello Eve, it’s nice to see you again.

Every shiny pearl you meet
has likely sold you up the street
for the fleeting opportunity
to see restaurants, concerts
and aeroplanes.

Try not to go insane.

Warning, incoming game!

The rules have changed
and to ignore them
may cost your life.

Sixty?
Seventy?
Eighty?
Percent!

The enemy refuses to relent
and if we’re being honest,
then we must acknowledge
those pearls were poisoned
long ago; so proud of their
degrees that show
Alexis de Tocqueville
was right.

Now,
how do we survive the game
knowing that they’ve all
been maimed,
while simultaneously
hearing them claim,
“It’s just a flesh wound.”

Do you remember when you
wrote, “there’s nothing in there”?
Now. There. Is.

Their blood can kill you.
It. Kills. Kids.

Pray you never need a transfusion.
Good. Fucking. Luck.

And now the real question,
who is left fit to fuck?

Your dick is surrounded
by mines; watch your step.
If she’s cute,
you’ll certainly find something
while sounding her depths.

You’ll find that your DNA will change.
You’ll find spike proteins in your brain.
You’ll find rapid onset maladies
falling out of every cavity
as the scourge of your reality
has decided, there’s too many people.

Now you get to watch the cull,
an extended slow release;
their specialty.
Much like the universities
all the way down to J.K.
deciding to teach them
the old-new way of
destroying themselves from within;
it works like a charm.

You’d think that they’d learn
from history, but it should
be no mystery that a culture
of the new and shiny
should have a short memory.

This. Takes. Decades.
To implement and reverse.

It started before you were born
and your natural lifespan
may never see
the good times
born out of these bad times.

Tough luck, friend.
This is your life.
It’s a good thing you’ve decided
to rent and not buy,
but that doesn’t change the odds
nor the consequences.

It’s time to build more walls;
extra thick, like before.

The millenia have have done their best to
guide us with the Buddha, Alchemy and others;
still, something seems to be missing.

If it is stone I break it
Iron I bend it
But the ever-solitary loneliness
I cannot endure.
– The Pain of Heracles, Lambis Xylouris

This passage presages why I write.
While I’m here, I might as well try
to understand from who to why.

How does a man deal with this?
It was present in the millenia before
and seems safe to assume,
will be present for millenia more.

It confronts us,
while pleasures distract us;
it persists in their presence, regardless.
How does a man deal with this?

It may seem funny to some
that one does not feel lonely when alone;
mostly the opposite,
as to interface with others reveals
that different planes of reality coexist.

As one becomes removed,
further into the realm of crazy
it becomes harder to cross the planes
back to normal.

The story of the Matrix
begins with humans already outside.
I cannot help but wonder
about who was first and how.

Happy Sweet Sixteen, 2006-09-28.

A note to Past Me;
writing is still therapeutic
and therapy isn’t over.

We still learn, everyday.
We still write, it’s been great;
better than ever, I must say.
We waste less words
in hopes of being better heard.

I can’t say it makes a difference.
Perhaps you had to waste them,
so that I might learn to spare them;
silence is a weapon too.

Among the multitudes
of words to chose,
your precision
has become stellar.

Laconic and poetic
remain daily practice,
but our soul wanes less
and so, we write less.

Good;
in a way.
Prose and code fulfill,
but not fully,
and so I step through time,
through me,
to write a few lines,
to you.

Low-rise jeans
and hips that sway
are the best part
of walking away.

A hundred pounds
or less,
if I had to guess,
keeping time with
cute little maracas.

As we cross the street
we don’t need to meet,
just sway on, sway on.

I wish I could hear you, right now.
You’re cutting in and out.
But I can read your lips
and that’s enough.

I’ll grab a coffee
or whatever,
and count my blessings.

Still counting,
potential mounting,
and doubt…
notably silent,
eyes, notably dry,
after having my cries
two years ago.

Now, where is a man to go?

The same dreams,
but alone.
Better that way
one could suppose,
but also worse;
a man knows
what he’s missing.

Seventeen years ago
was a different time,
place and face,
but the words
were still the same.

The third instance
makes a pattern
out of coincidence.

Straw, meet Camel.

From here on out,
we rent;
to maximize the efficiency
between time and money spent.

A man blames himself,
knowing it isn’t his entirely.

In the end, he knows
that he fought for it
and graciously left it
better than he found it;
every time,
as if it mattered.

May the next one
do more, be more
and have more,
as I focus on less.

Perhaps he already does
as I now do.

A worn fouton awaits
while others sleep
in our bed
and eventually,
my spot.

“Not anymore!” —
a cat’s thoughts.

Normal, it seems,
was not for me.
Thankfully,
it was a pleasure to see
what normal could be
through your eyes.

It’s hard to describe
the way I feel
when I see beauty
that’s next to surreal.

Disappointment.

Okay, so it was easy,
but it’s certainly not,
believe me.

I’ve said it before,
and I’ll say it once more,
what do I say
to modern whores
with scores of me
at their digital doors?

Nothing.
Don’t bother.
It’s already been done.
“Aw, that’s so sweet!”,
for the millionth time
this week.

Words are tired
of carrying
the hopes of men
who want to fuck
but act like friends.

Phonies.

Holden, I see you
and I’d buy you a drink
to commiserate over
the only sure thing;
getting nowhere,
going unseen,
better that they stay
gallivanting in our
liquid-crystal dreams.

Five percent or less
step through LCDs
into the hyper-real,
highlight reel,
between my sheets;
sixty percent can be
safely ignored,
while the rest
might as well be.

There’s no way to tell
if all the lights are green
because every application’s
inbox sees inundation
that screams,
“Avoid the herd;
save your words;
clever or plain,
it’s all the same.”

The power to choose
is not in dudes,
unless it’s to whom
they give all their money.

I should call my dick Money,
but that doesn’t settle the score,
as I’d still be peddling gold
before attention-seeking boors.

Hormones,
stop being so pushy,
you’ve had enough pussy
to know
there’s nothing in there.

Funny how Money doesn’t care.

We’ve been here before,
countless times
and this time
I’m not sure
if these lines
are picking up
or putting down.

“You already have two, just be happy.”
If only being human was so easy;
two hours or three provinces,
both inconvenient, you see?
Its been months since
Kenjataimu has come to see me
and I’m rather inclined to go to it.

Now, to scratch this itch…

In retrospect,
I didn’t know any Lisp at the time of writing.
Lisp probably deserves its own poem as a quine.

In a fantasy land there are Ivory Towers of every shade,
with acolytes and neophytes furiously typing away.
Of these, the highest and most hallowed is certainly C;
indifferent as the sea and the progenitor of many.

Each hue is a different way to do the same things, mostly.
Some are rather terse, while others are written verbosely.
Some operate highly upon the shoulders of those lowly,
while all try to score solutions with human error as goalie.

The more one studies in REPL, the less one bleeds in debugging,
as the magic tends to punish the clever and reward the cunning.
Simple is better than complex; better to have your code running.
Complex is better than complicated; beautiful code is stunning.

Practitioners meet the tedious with meticulous modularity,
beating their minds numb to tread the arcane with familiarity.
Multiple threads twist and twine tight around similarities
that bear relentless recursive refactoring till reaching clarity.

Of code.
Of mind.
Of archetypes.
Of paradigms.

Till the magic flourishes before our eyes in real time
as an omniscient developer and omnipotent user experience.

A pregnant pause is most pleasing after such laconic luxuriance.

Let us step forward into the beauty of manifesting our own.
Imagine how my mind was blown when I learned that SQLite is stone.
I’m awed at all the technology that TCL touches through ventriloquy,
which opens phantasmagoric portals into Python’s vast ubiquity.

The rest is a mess, as far as I can tell.
That includes relevant packaging problems as well.
It adds to the magic, in a masochistic way.
In my spellbook the aforementioned are on the first page.

“Knowledge is power”, we utter in multiple manners of use.
Today’s Tree of Knowledge bears mostly low hanging fruit.
The Internet gives anyone a free seat in the front row
of their own adventure through the magic of code.

(And the horrors of human nature.)

You are here for much more than that.

Who’s real?
Who’s fake?
Message them all?
What a waste.
Go on dates?
False delays?
Pay to play?
No way.

Girls, today;
heads up their asses
thanks to Feminism
fed to the masses.
Not only equal,
but can do anything,
as long as we
let them win.

Didn’t work as kids,
so why try now?
Adults are anchored
by materialism
like cows
tied to a stake
and milked gently,
exponentially producing
liters a plenty
as the clever few
squeeze dry
the docile many.

Power is the best.
Just ask girls
in the West,
they tell us
they have none,
a ploy, at best,
to attack the instincts
in our chests.
Burdened by guilt
and fabricated shame,
men of the West
have become lamed,
reduced to caricatures
of Whatshisname,
bearded man-bun
or stubbly comb over,
losers supplicating,
metaphorically
bending over,
for the repeatedly
bent over
and over
and over
and over.

Full price
for a used ride,
nevermind the dents
in the side.
I need to find
a quiet isle,
where the girls
haven’t been turned
into useless
retards –
“nonbinary”
random-sexual
Feminists –
who only wish
to work
till they die,
as if being
irreplaceable as mother
and
invaluable as wife
was such a bad way
to live a good life.

They don’t even
come with dowries,
but I’m supposed to pay,
and meet expectations
that rise
by the day?

I’d rather
write poems,
than entertain
dames who claim,
“I’m tired of games”
then play the same
because they can.

Power.
It corrupts, man.
Now, they suck
to be around,
and can’t even
make food;
too busy trying
to act like dudes,
dressed like whores,
’tudes like prudes,
sluts when it suits
pretty boys
or money.

It’s all bullshit.
Why am I here?
To make pastries,
I guess.

The fields would be decimated
if not for the weeds,
poisoned seeds quietly germinate
Man’s wants and needs.

Insatiable feeding will terminate
us all, but no heed.

Man’s receding quickly eliminates
the morality of his deeds,
making it seem a bit alienating
to keep straight knees.

Wisdom proceeds to meditate
on mysteries like these;
the Garden of Eden,
desolate and full of weeds.

The more a man takes part,
the greater the savagery
in his heart,
in order to remain stalwart
against clever sorties launched
against both his sense
and sovereignty.

After 32 years I’ve found
no recompense,
save being alone and
erecting a moat behind
walls fortified high
and thick,
extra thick.

But who wants to be
King of an Empty Castle?
Are all those bricks
really worth the hassle?

And who wants to constantly
be fighting the same battles?
Rattling off the same prattle
as if something is new
under the sun,
when really,
people are just dumb.

Not my problem.

But not problem free.
Still freedom vexes me.

I’m tired of watching
from the streeet
other people living
my dreams.

This will forever be one of the sweetest things I have ever written, hands down.
I read the first phrase and I can feel it; every time.

Arms thrown around my neck
like a sudden summer breeze
come to squeeze away my burdens
one kiss at a time.

Excuse me
while I close my eyes,
and cast us both adrift,
my arms will hold you steady
against the swaying of my hips.

The swells of my ocean
set your heart in motion
and for a moment
the fox becomes the hare,
forgetting the beat of his drum,
lost in this moment of oneness
and frightened,
amid senses heightened
and exhilarated
on the roller coaster
between our lips.

Among the lands of Lorren,
in the capital of N’talya,
stood a people beseiged
by the iniquities
and injustices of life.

Shovels and plows
became swords and shields,
determined as they were
to be free; to make light
their odious burdens.

Sprees and rampages
across cities and towns
spurred hope onward
toward a salvation that, alas,
never came.

Hope;
a candle in the wind,
as it were.
Snuffed.
Gone.

Maybe
things in N’talya
were just meant to be;
like rain in London
or bombs over Baghdad.

Visiting the lands of Lorren,
a man from isles a far
saw the light within N’talya
that its inhabitants
had since forgotten.

He fed their tribe
with flora and fauna
from their fertile fields,
fortifying them for the future.

He tended their wounded
with tinctures and treatments,
till tales were told
of his thoughtful touch.

He waylaid their mystics
with words worthy of reward,
wandering without waiver
while weaving wisdom with wonder.

They knew him by names;
Master, Sir and Captain;
named so for his proficiency,
benevolence and leadership
serendipitously bestowed upon them.

With the coming of summer,
minds were sharpened
and swords were ready.

The people of N’talya
greeted the dawn with hope.
Finally.

Victories;
as sweet as they ever knew.
Fireworks;
they had forgotten
colours so bright in their sky.

The elders of N’talya convened;
the lands of Lorren,
voluntarily surrendered
to an army
of one.

Together they remained;
undefeated.

I’ll be your oasis
if I can navigate the spaces
of your pleasure mazes.

Light my lantern
with the spark behind your eyes,
I’ll reveal soft sighs and loud cries
while reading your walls
like Braille.

Trace my path,
a trail of kisses for the lost,
silken strands of saliva
to snatch away your thoughts,
to peel away your mortal coil
and all its hidden costs,
to uplift spirits tossed about
and land them somewhere soft.

Call to me
with the thundering of your heart,
place your chest next to me
and let the lighting start,
deafening is the sound of
our bodies making art;
sway your hips with me;
we are the storm’s eye,
in this oasis
between separate lives.

Lions can’t catch butterflies.

I once heard a phrase
using nature and her ways,
to describe the variations
in all the games we play,
apples falling from the sky
landing inside of my eyes,
sending me
off to the races
to get another prize,
but to my surprise,
I finally realize, why
that guy said
what he said, under
those blue skies;

Lions can’t catch butterflies.
Lions can’t catch butterflies.
Makes me wonder why I try
to eat the apples in my eyes.

Get it out…

Deflated for days
as I consider the ways,
the whys and hows.
Desolation awaits,
naught but work surrounds,
why is this to be?

Would prefer not to be.

Build.
Do.
Acquire.

Do nothing.
Be nothing.

Relaxing is a joke.
A waste of time.

Build.
Do.
Acquire.

Or be forgotten.
There is no virtue
in You,
only your works…
… may they be great,
or You be nothing.

Survival of the fittest
says that I’m
going to lose.

I don’t fit in at all.

Think too much.
Know too much.
Do too little.
Too timid?
Too angry?
Too eloquent?
Too insightful?
Too thoughtful?
Too compassionate?
Too genuine?
Too kind?

Not bold enough.
Not bright enough.
Not clever enough.
Not fast enough.
Not strong enough.
Not big enough.

Nevermind your empty pockets.
Nevermind that you’re a nobody.

Nothing.
Worthless.
Loser.

There are chinks
in my armor,
serving its purpose,
some cracks more
stressful than others.

“You’ve got this, brother.”

Much to my dismay,
when it’s time to display
talents learned along
the Way,
I find myself wanting,
despite the flaunting
of a very smooth
exterior,
not quite polished
as it were,
for a man
is still rough
around the edges.

Procrastination,
Melancholy,
Ideals as folly,
Virtue as burden,
and Patience as torture.

I came down here
with other things
in mind,
but now decide
that I want to write
about things that
are delicious.

Make no mistake,
you’ll find no nutritious
beyond these powdered gates,
for these sweet dishes
are most ambitious
and you’ll love them,
just wait.

With butter
and sugar
we begin the magic,
like cantrips
that expand if
the magician
happens to have it.

Taste buds sparkle,
fireworks at ignition
before one has a taste,
even feasting with the eyes
increases your heart rate.

So as you debate on
which sweets best relate
to your sweet tooth today,
know that
in my head
I’m captivating you
tomorrow.

A beast of burden
bears the burden
of knowing,
reading between the lines,
comprehending forboding,
bright lights shine nice
to disguise the imploding,
morals decay
under relativistic condoning
via mass virtue cloning…

I’m tired of watching
Humanity squeezed dry,
naivete as currency
to forever buy lies
because they always
feel better
than the truth.

What’s an observer to do?
Participant self-sidelined
as self defense
from the designs
of a wretched mankind…

Knowing that I
can never
escape nature.

I often think on
the power of words,
I believe they’re magic
of the double edged kind
to shape the universe
of another man’s mind.

(is there magic more sublime?)

Imagine,
when you said red
I saw blue?
Would either of us
have a clue?
Not until the bridge
of expectation
is crossed,
then we try to figure
who is at a loss,
and just what the fuck
is red
anyway?

But we have prisms,
colour charts, and
palettes a plenty,
enough to validate
the tyranny of the many,
so that when you say red
I better see red,
lest I’m institutionalized,
or worse, dead.

A little extreme?
Not if you know
what I mean,
as we don’t persecute
the colour-blind;
yet.

The threat becomes greater
when the named
exists on paper only,
as the Truth™
has been rolling
over man’s cerebral cajoling
since the dawn of time.
It’s actually cyclical
but humans pay no mind
to the revolutions past,
only the rotations
of the fore,
selfish and myopic
right down to their cores,
so that the Truth™
becomes an inconvenient chore
impeding faster cycles
to do, have and somehow be,
more.

We’ll buy any elixir
so long as it
has the magic,
like, “Free!”,
or promises to fix the tragic.

What is that?

A rumbling tummy.
A broken nail.
Relativity is required
for this economy of scale,
as definitions taken for granted
are frighteningly frail
and yet they form
foundation for trails
of ideas to connect dots.

I’m talking about
putting words to thoughts.

We try our best,
and could argue
that English tries hardest,
even if our vocabulary for snow
isn’t the largest,
in largesse we proselytize
the truths of other men’s lies
then wonder why our lives
don’t match the marketing;
“trickle down economics”,
“best time in history”,
even words unspoken
can infect insiduously,
building on the previous;
“it’s only going to get better”,
“the chart will continue
to point upwards
forever!”

If not,
there’s always a “crisis”
demanding your (emotional) “support”,
as they usually do
whenever they want to start a war,
as they usually do
when they want labour on the cheap,
“Won’t someone please save the refugees?”
as they usually do
to get you a brand new “vaccination”
as if insects - older than humans -
undergo such rapid mutation.

They don’t.
That shit is manufactured.
You see now
the power of words
to shape action?

Tell them they’re oppressed.
Then shower them with benefits.
Inculcate the youth until adults
can’t make sense of it
and now everyone drowns in debt
(that’s wealth transfer, by the way),
and national destabilisation,
“go to school”
“get a job”
“work hard”
(control mechanisms, by the way)

What is the Truth™?

Watch the words.
Watch the actions.
Compare.

Is this not science?
It must be,
it is my religion.

"Thought will be crime soon, just watch and see."

I’m always trying to
make sense of things,
things it seems
best taken for granted,
after all,
“No one understands it.”
which naturally comes before
“No one could have planned it.”
so we leave it all
to myth and magic,
and expect science
to have all the answers.

Try telling a liberal average
that science is religion 2.0.
You can pull back the curtain,
but their eyes won’t show
any type of man,
to them just smoke
that leaves them exasperated,
and explaining The Scientific Method
as if talking about church
with lipservice as tithe,
all because small minds
are terrified
of implications caused by
large lies.

It seems to me,
and has seemed so
for a while,
that your average adult
is still just a child.

For the most part,
they do what they’re told,
and if not,
there’s guns,
they believe what they’re told,
and if not,
there’s guns.

Freedom of choice?
Freedom of speech?
Thought will be crime soon,
just watch and see,
as I write my own indictment
with exhibits a through z,
waiting patiently with Valerie Page,
until they’ll come for the quiet rage
that walks within the truth,
and thus without fear.

Passing time for a panzerotto
bubbling calm like a grotto
with fancy thoughts like fancy models
found in fancy brothels
because this mind is headed
for the gutter.

With words like butter
a little sweetness is plied
between charm and guile,
to mesmerize eyes easily
popped wide by any disguise
while unable to reconcile
a mirror barely recognized.

Writing can be sublime,
even when forsaking sense
for rhyme,
or so it would seem
to those unable to read between
thoughts disjointed
by a boy anointed
to write away the disappointment
of banal life.

All of that is to say
that I still love to write
even if I must out the light
from time to time…
It allows me to grow,
so that I have things to write about.

How does one fractal
explain itself to another?
lsd.

At least the gaps
are getting shorter,
and as a man puts
his life in order
he is ordered to write
more often,
as consistent as breaths
to the coffin,
if he could so manage.

His pen has missed
doing damage,
as have his thoughts
whenever he gets lost
in the space between
his ears,
where fears stare
back upon a man,
disdain in startling clarity,
as if to say,
“You won’t dare challenge us.
You don’t have the stuff.
You’re not nearly enough.
Go on pretending like you’re tough.
You can fool them,
but you won’t dare challenge us.”

Upon a man’s wrist
four letters are engraved,
D-E-F-Y, his reminder
to be brave.

Long since a man
has visited these lines,
even for a Panzerotto Passtime,
there is so much
in his mind,
that each time
he figures to write
his thoughts collide
and multiply into
a kaleidescope that
renders as a blank page,
then thoughts fade away.

But let’s be clear,
it’s certainly for
a lack of trying,
a pen has missed
a man’s hands,
no lying,
but as he traverses
up on the clouds,
flying,
he looks down
and is utterly dismayed,
“Which of man’s ills
do I chronicle today?”

If it weren’t for sucrose,
glittering the dark like stars,
a man would not see very far.

Aquinni,
in my mind’s eye,
when I elevate
to that sacred space
where we relate
on other planes;
upon fields otherworldly
while surefooted surely,
and conversing leisurely,
constantly traversing
one lifetime after another,
finding each other
like long lost lovers
blessed to take the plunge
upon every first meeting,
in the span of time
a mere one life is fleeting
as this whole thing seemingly
is cyclical and with no end.

Imagine my comfort then,
to see infinity in grass,
sand, and steel.

Who was that woman?
The one in my dreams.
The social butterfly who
just had to flirt
with all the men she’d seen?

Mistrust manifest in mares,
day or night make no difference,
as long as they stare
and shower attention upon her existence.

I hope I never meet her,
but I’m sure I already have,
in fact, I’ve written about her before.
“A mosaic of faces
because they’re all the same”,
The Ghost of Bitches Past on my pages,
and clearly in my subconscious,
I’d buy an asexual pill
to be rid of this nonsense,
but then, would I know beauty?
Truly?
Anyone can think of beautiful things,
but I’m almost certain
it originally described woman.

Who was that woman?
All of them and none.
She was never mine;
it was just my turn.

I still write these,
seemingly perpetual Panzerotto Passtimes,
although there isn’t much time to pass
thus a man’s pen moves fast.

What news, Cap?
Just a bit of melancholy.
Isn’t that always the way?
Despite the shortening of the days,
a man’s outside is bright,
a man’s soul still shines,
even if his eyes lack light.

So why the melancholy?
A man is internally conflicted
on multiple fronts,
always out of reach for
the things he wants.
He looks into the mirror,
“Not enough” beside thoughts
of “I’m a supreme being.”
Reality constantly augmenting
the prescription of his seeing,
time’s natural ebb and flow
eroding his sense of feeling,
leaving life tasting bittersweet.

Alas, I hear my name
and smell my food.

These pages are calling me,
“why for?” I sit pondering,
but let my pen wander regardless.

There’s an overflow where my heart is,
after spending time with light in the darkness,
illuminating the moment with happy shadows in my past.

Are these thoughts too fast?

Perhaps pen can’t keep up,
since it’s hard for the material to reach up
to the plane of the spirit.

Or perhaps foreign patterns
palpitating my heart matter
have me writing crazy.

Nothing new there.

The same crazy as before
traversing new ways while bored
with a disconnected A, A, B.

Too lazy to rhyme for real
and thinking too much easily steals
all my mind-well’s ink.

Poems should go somewhere.

Really? Says who?
I wonder who pays that dude?
I’ll pass. I’m writing for me.

Rather, I’m writing for this page
that’s pulled me down from space,
and it never said anything about direction.

Just keeping you sharp, Captain.

Cue the slow fade.

“You know better than
to talk like that with me.”

Let’s illustrate a translation
for the naive.

“Belay your attempts
at getting these,
for they come at a price
that you cannot meet,
despite your mighty cock’s
rightful belief,
as I do not doubt
his talent to please,
the reality that you
must come to see,
is that I am simply
out of your league.

Your arms are too scrawny,
your pockets are too thin,
you offer no social status,
why let you in?

I’m sorry, Papi.
I’m not trying to be rude.
I just know how much
you value the truth,
so stow your pole,
adapt to your role,
and let’s just be friends
until you’re worthy.”

Honesty is the best policy, my boy,
but remember, thieves prosper.

As you wander
nurture your wonder,
nurture yourself,
for one is a wonder,
and one and one’s wonder
are one.

Do you follow, my son?

You are everything you need,
but heed the wind and the sea,
heed the moth and the fire,
enslave your desires
with the salt of the Earth.

A man teaches through the elements
as he seeks to make irrelevant
your doubts, fears and worries.
We’re not even half way
through your story.

As you proceed to weave
through reality, believe,
that you too can be deceived,
know too that these
influences to be
will assault thee
from all sides,
thus it’s wise
to cultivate your inside.

Beware the stares
that come from
smiles and long hair,
I speak of the sex
they call “fair”,
no! Fairer!
False,
foolish fakes they are.

A sad scam played upon man.

Remember
thieves prosper,
and hearts can be stolen.

To be golden,
your heart must beholden
to none.

Outside of your mother’s eyes
woman’s love is a lie
of necessity.
One of nature’s complexities,
wrought by instinct and survival,
still, they complement, not rival,
despite actions otherwise
and refuse to compromise,
while extorting their benefactors.

Play them;
don’t get played,
if you can.

Encore?
Sure.
Vince Staples - Lift Me Up

I’m just a nigga,
until I fill my pockets,
and then I’m Mr. Nigga,
they follow me while shopping,
they plottin’ on my profits,
wonderin’ how I got it,
and since I look like money,
they hopin’ I’m gon’ drop it,
but I’m a different product,
I come here seeking knowledge,
I’m just explorig options, so
my tailor can get started,
then I’m dearly departed,
I’m running on my own time,
a man of many designs, so
don’t ask me what’s on my mind,
don’t care for any small talk,
forgive me if I decline,
then I’m throwing up peace signs,
leaving their asses behind,
I’m focused on my own shit
cause time cannot press rewind,
I’m looking up this incline,
leading to one-of-a-kind,
I’m destined towards greatness
and ain’t afraid to say it,
don’t try to test my patience
I’m just here for my payment,
my feet are on the pavement,
now I’m off to the races,
cause I’m an understatement
but soon to be your favourite.

See this weight is on my shoulders,
pray Jehovah lift me up,
being sober’s like a boulder,
Mary Jane please fix me up,
I just want to live it up;
tired of worrying about my cheese.
Life ain’t always what it seems, so please, just,
twist me up, twist me up, twist me up, twist me up,
light me up, light me up, light me up, light me up,
take a puff, take a puff, take a puff, take a puff,
lift me up, lift me up, lift me up, lift me up.

You see I rhyme it good,
but ask your girl,
I nail that wood,
ain’t my fault she
ain’t where she should,
don’t care ’bout your friends
or your hood,
cause when it comes to beef,
I’m good,
can call me vegetarian;
so please stop your staring
because I ain’t tryin’ to hear it;
should cheer me for my caring
because now
you know that girl’s a hoe,
yeah I know,
you should have known,
sorry bro, that’s how it goes,
it’s why I’m always on patrol
cause I know how these bitches roll,
keep ’em low on that petrol
and keep ’em high on that Patron,
then they’re like my weed smoke,
ethereal and fading fast,
but it’s easy to look past
when my flag is at full mast,
fill my time with other shit
like other bitches, or some cash,
or stunt on some VS tracks
while smoking that…

See this weight is on my shoulders,
pray Jehovah lift me up,
being sober’s like a boulder,
Mary Jane please fix me up,
I just want to live it up;
tired of worrying about my cheese.
Life ain’t always what it seems, so please, just,
twist me up, twist me up, twist me up, twist me up,
light me up, light me up, light me up, light me up,
take a puff, take a puff, take a puff, take a puff,
lift me up, lift me up, lift me up, lift me up.

I miss Bloodninja.
I also miss wearing a Robe of Power and Crimson Felt Hat,
prompting others to rage, “Why is the mage stabbing me?!”
(World of Warcraft circa 2005/6; a very special time.)
Vince Staples - Blue Suede.

This place is my pen space,
make way or get taught to behave.
I’m just out to get paid,
make way or find yourself misplaced.
Hope I can keep my ink runnin’;
Hope I can keep the ink comin’;
Hope I can keep my pen stuntin’;
Hold on, let me show you somethin’.

Bitches aint shit but hoes
I been knowin this,
ever since I was half grown
I been throwin dick,
single, betrothed or wed,
I don’t give a shit,
long as she gives good head
she can stay a bit.
Fuck with me
when I roll through your city,
eyeing up your local girls,
foreign to me but so pretty,
slide up on her at her work,
stuff a fifty in her titties,
making niggas look silly
cause I’m klepto with their fillies.
You know the game hoe,
the bitch just chose,
switching men in her bed
like a nigga changes clothes,
so I fuck with her head
because anything goes,
catch me with her
while I rock
a wizard hat and a robe.
Yo,
I’m just trying to get blown,
don’t give a fuck
who you think it is that you own, bruh.
You live your life like a clone
while I’m getting dome,
stacking gold
and building my bricks up.

This place is my pen space,
make way or get taught to behave.
I’m just out to get paid,
make way or find yourself misplaced.
Hope I can keep my ink runnin’;
Hope I can keep the ink comin’;
Hope I can keep my pen stuntin’;
Hold on, let me show you somethin’.

Bitches aint shit but tricks
I been knowin that,
years of being a good man
and I ain’t goin back,
short list of peers
and plans to make more stacks,
with doubts and fears
that ain’t nobody got time for.
Catch me on the side
keeping peace on my mind
sipping vodka with a lime
while I’m chatting with a dime
ain’t payin for her time
she just wants me to recline
and make me want to press rewind
while she’s shaking her behind,
but she don’t stress me
while trying to impress me,
got girls like cars,
call them Beamer, Benz or Bentley,
or Brooke and Britney,
the bitches bangin with me,
I found them in your city
and their eyes said “rent me”.
They look like gentry
but they debauch plenty
and call me up
because I won’t treat them gently.
They’re super friendly,
they loving how my pen speaks,
while you’re filled with envy
because your bed is empty.

This place is my pen space,
make way or get taught to behave.
I’m just out to get paid,
make way or find yourself misplaced.
Hope I can keep my ink runnin’;
Hope I can keep the ink comin’;
Hope I can keep my pen stuntin’;
Hold on, let me show you somethin’.

All I really wanted
was some sun, some sand and some shade
while I’m chillin
with my favourite mistress that goes two ways.

All I really wanted
was some sun, some sand and some shade
while I’m chillin
with my favourite mistress that goes two ways.

Two ways on me.

Two ways on me.

Blue suedes on me.

VS, thanks, homie.

There is a place
within me,
that fills me with warmth,
everytime I decide
to let time pass by
with images of you
behind my eyes.

Treasure and prize
should be you,
yet your actions
say it’s me.

What words
do I speak of thee,
when I dare not
profane this warmth
with “love”?

I did not expect
to go so deep,
the slope of delight
is just too steep,
you see, when a man
had started this piece
its pace was something
much easier to keep;
know what I mean?

"Niggas don’t learn till they got more past than the future.
Niggas don’t learn till they locked up passin they future.

If I knew back then what I know right now,
what I know right now,
shit, I would have been the man back then;
shit; I would have been the man back then.

I would have been the man back then,
fuck it, I’m the man right now…"
– T. Dubb - Complex

And now it’s swim or drown,
so you better be down
with calling me inflatable.
Dubb’s words are relatable,
so I’m at this table
to keep my mind stable
seeking patience with myself,
self medicating for mental health
since freedom is nowhere else,
the same time I wrote
that freedom is only in self.
So I contemplate my complex
listening to Complex
while contemplating,
mental masturabting
meant to hone
this rolling stone,
alone at home and homely
but not a lonely homme;
that means man,
for those who don’t know.
See?
This is just pretty prose.
Letting my mind and pen go
to a place that makes me smile.

Words like blocks.
Man like child.

If I knew back then
what I know right now
I’d be retired.
Niggas don’t learn till
the best time has expired.
But I’m the man right now
with a prime to be admired,
I’m growing into new shoes
and ready to run the wire,
when I turned 30, it’s true,
I should have been set on fire,
to rise from the ashes anew;
a phoenix from the pyre.

Fuck it,
I’m the man right now.

An ode to purple,
my favourite of shades,
shining radiant
ultraviolet rays
into my skin on each day
so I can channel the untraviolence
in the way I create.

I could use some ultrasilence
as I sway on this train,
while listening to mother
and daughter argue, in
timeless womanly ways.

Man it’s cold in here,
their shoulders are deafening.
But I’m kept warm
by my pen singing,
“Everything is Purple…
Everything is Purple…”

Imagining
thoughts to page, a$ap,
it seems this ode is
about to become a rap,
but step back!
Take in the forest
before the trees,
if you look real close
you’ll see purple
on the leaves,
but not the sticky green,
I’m just speaking from my chakra,
the one upon my crown,
also purple and proper.

It’s as regal and royal
as the greatness of eagles,
the restult of mixing
the red and blue in people;
I mean our polarities,
those different but equal;
manifestations of the same,
the most beautiful of shades,
luminous ultraviolet rays.

We’ll meet again Purple,
on some other page,
I’m done singing your praises
for today.

Holy fuck, double speak is frustrating.
Here I am waiting, listening to
mental masturbating that teaches
nothing more than,
“Everything is allowed and everything okay!”
For this is what we paid?
Going over things I saw in mid grades
and coating them in different paint.
Feels are replacing reals in new ways,
while everyone is coerced to the new game.

It’s a pity this coersion
attempts to turn my critical off,
thus I flee to these pages with my thoughts,
for to challenge the group think
would extend this mind sink
and thus see more of their stink
find its way into my clothes.

So, here we are, another poem.
This way I can say
when I put this class on replay,
that I actually learned something.

Even if it’s about myself,
and the state of my mental health,
which says think something else!

These thoughts are slow poison.
Critical thinking is my antivenom.

I love the way people focus
on only the positive,
as if the negative is
unworthy of regard.

“But you can’t change that part!”

Why not?
These same people will tell you
that impossible is nothing,
taking out of context
men greater than them,
and applying it to their mundane lives.

Maybe I’m rusty,
or it’s just hard to write
with these soft thought patterns
slowly melting my mind matter;
a rhyme is just a perc,
one of many bubbles circulating,
as I engage in poetry
as a method of
active mental self defense.

Democratic leadership…
as if leaders and followers are equal.

As if men ever were.

Have these people never read Animal Farm?
How do people swallow so much dishonesty?
Right.
It sounds nice.

I think that somewhere,
my essence has been corrupted
as I find myself obstructed
when trying to think like others.

This is why I’ve stopped the bother,
as to stand with conviction
will see you smothered
until you learn to comply
and have sacrificed your
own mind,
just to get along.

Don’t rock the boat,
just build yourself a moat
where you can do whatever you want
as long as you don’t hurt anyone!
This is one of everyone’s favourite sayings,
reciting the rules of the game they’re playing,
being manipulated every which way in
so that there’s no way out.

This game of double speak
and thrice lie,
“Here’s how to manipulate those guys.”
but do close your eyes
when we employ this against you,
or face the consequences of our verbal misuse
when you wonder what else you can do…

… a pity they never taught you self defense
when teaching you to fuck people over.

It was painful to leave;
I felt integral to something great,
replaceable as I was.

A man should have wrote this years ago,
“I don’t have to wash dishes anymore!”
A cause for celebration,
a reason to jubilate,
the next step in a journey
of ever increasing states,
so that a man’s outer world
and inner, may closer relate,
and hasn’t that been the way?
Always,
as far as my pens are concerned,
forging words for the burning
also known as my yearning
for more, better,
as if I haven’t learned
that happiness always flees,
but never from my letters
which is why I remain tethered,
despite a month a part.

These days see more happiness in my heart.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve returned,
it needs a place to go!
This book is now a treasure trove
of my overflow.

And hasn’t that been the way?

Always.

It’s true,
this chest holds emotions
from orange to blue,
even yellow when hungry,
a microphned sweet tooth,
that still sees crystals
of sugar in this peace booth,
where war between these two
(thesse few?)
aspects within me,
has raged on endlessly
since I first came screaming
from the sea.

A man has only been free
a scant three weeks,
but it seems a pistol
went off by his feet
as he has wasted no time
in spending his free time
on becomming a manwhore.

In the end, Toronto was never ready,
and perhaps, nor was I.
For all that prestigious chocolate,
those who harvest cocoa
have no idea what chocolate tastes like.

• Business Insider: Ghana Grows Our Cocoa, So Why Can’t It Make Chocolate? (youtube.com)

My sweet tooth must have a hard on
since all I want to do in life
is create a countless number of delights.
There’s one from Peru
named after a woman’s sigh,
I must be the reincarnated spirit
of the first guy
to come up with such a marvel.
I want my desserts to startle
and defy expectations,
make eyebrows reach high
in exclamation,
make hearts beat in syncopation,
which will in turn
make me a sensation,
because my mind is crazy, son,
and you want a taste
of what’s in my head.

I want to take your tongue to bed.

Orgasms of the mouth
are certainly a thing
and I want tends -
no, hundrends - of thousands to sing,
at all of the wonderous dreams I bring
to life, one day at a time.

You’re going to have the title
of Pastry Chef one day,
Toronto isn’t ready to be so amazed.

Today’s women are
much like men
with ovaries.
I don’t know
if you know
what I mean.

When I look
about it seems,
that even before
they’re teens,
the inculcation has
set in, “We’re
just like them!
We can do
anything we want,
and we will!
You’ll see!”
and off they go,
fearlessly,
unable to do wrong;
with nowhere out
of bounds;
shrugging off old
expectations because,
“men have kept us down!”;
all of the rights
and none of the
obligations because,
“It’s our turn now!”

While men are forced to
just deal with it,
somehow.

The glass floor
will not notice,
for women dare not go,
“Let’s just leave that to men.”
that’s their ovaries
starting to show.

And for good reason,
as no sane man
would want them there.
Would you chat her up
with the stench of sewage
in her hair?
Or how about the one
with black lungs
constantly coughing up phlegm?
On this, I’m with them,
“Let’s just leave that to men.”

But that is no excuse,
for the subversion of
everything male,
until shit happens,
then comes
innocence and pony-tails
because if they
can’t depend on us
there’s literally no one else,
so we’re belied
by sweet smiles,
“You’re big and strong,
can you help?”

Manipulated since birth by
mom’s, “Do me a favour?”
then a lifetime of
dealing with ill behavior,
just to find another savior
who will do our laundry,
and keep us fed;
keep us warm
at night, in bed;
pick up the pieces
that may lay in our wake;
ride shotgun with a wary eye
for potential mistakes;
brim with pride to never hide,
“He’s mine!” at any time;
to lift us to our highest
for on our back she rides.

That last one goes for all,
in fact,
as social programs would vanish
if men weren’t under tax;
hence single moms
chosing to marry the state,
because leftist democratic parties
make women the center of debate,
while turning them against men
so that the sexes can’t relate.

Why do you think
we all perpetually date?
Marriages are temporary,
check the stats!
You’ll see,
then both parties fight for
their fuck trophies,
before returning
to dating normalcy.

It makes no sense to me,
for as I’ve written,
“History books have all the answers.”
we already have Rome
for proof;
Feminism is cancer.

It kills the lifeblood of civilizations;
gender roles that cultivate and sustain
fruitful families.

Nevermind the system that came before
to steal the torch of Prometheus
from the hand of common man;
that’s for another time.

Excuse me, Sir,
but you need to slow down.
It’s time to turn
this train around.
In fact,
your train is in need
of repairs,
your aether
is dented everywhere.

You don’t know
your own mental strength,
as it seems you’ve
gone to lengths
to beat your
spirits to death.

On your quest for
greater and more
I must implore you
to forgive yourself.

I know that was hard to write.

A better life
can certainly be yours,
and I will implore only
once more;
love yourself, Captain.

Make light your burdens,
and write, for certain
is the time for stars
to align,
and you,
shall be their prism.

Like the phoenix arisen,
mending the schism
betwween your past
and future,
your ballpoint needle’s sutures
will surely see you mend.

Though you constantly bend
you remain unbroken,
except in the way
you remain soft spoken,
creating broken spokes in
“the ride of your life”.

We’re going to fix this,
alright?

For tonight,
dream your dreams before sleeping.
A third eye on the prize
and you’ll soon disbelieve
what you’re seeing.

At least they convicted Maxwell.

Feminism.
Civilization destroyer,
sent forth by your
Zionist employers
to rid the world of goyim,
one generation
at a time.

They’re so blind,
so easily deceived,
to think of getting by
with less families,
who knew open borders
would be so easy to achieve
after selling them
multicultural make believe
and bombarding with
sex on TV,
those goys will
never see
that they’ll soon
be wiped from history.

Well,
maybe not entirely
since their hand prints
mar the topography
of a panet
that should be
called Israel.
Yes,
the whole thing.
It’s already started.
Google Maps Palestine.
It’s kind of retarded.
You can’t blame
the Romans,
and then say
this is okay.

Who knew that in a
modern Holocaust,
Zionists would be
leading the way?
(only the very savvy)
That’s not even
including the USA,
that Israel uses
as gloves
for punching.

I should stop,
before I “disappear”,
have an “accident”,
or “commit suicide”.

In these scripts
I bring a gift,
a misnomer;
the first lie revealed.
I walk with truth
as my shield,
constantly reforging,
repolishing the steel,
as many
wish to dull its shine.

I want to do
naughty things to you
cause I think you’re a special
kind of cute.

Too much for a
pick up line
but that’s the only
thing on my mind,
as I take you in
with my eyes.

Feel free to jump
for still waters
run deep,
I want to hump
you furiously
between my sheets.

See what I mean?

This is why I
usually don’t talk
to girls,
for venturing into
their world
sees too many
roundabouts.

Even when the plebian
decides to pedestrian
so as to jaywalk
from A to B,
he’ll come to see
fields of weeds
as no man should be
so straight forward.

Unless you model, or could.

Instead it has to
be a game!
She needs to be
casually entertained,
anything will do,
even the mundane,
but she prefers fancy food
so she can tell her friends
where she’s been
while not paying
a single cent.

Don’t relent!
She just likes to spar,
she wants to lose
to see how worthy
you are.
It has to be
a challenge!
She’s not a whore,
you know.
Except for the times
she was exercising
the right,
to do whatever
she thinks she likes.
That’s why they’re
called “mistakes”
and “don’t count”.

Back to the game!

She’ll asure you
that she’s not the same.
If women knew
how easily they’re played
they might spend
less time
fucking around.
Nevermind,
they learn eventually,
it’s called “settling down”.

“Ah, that’s too bad.
There’s no more
fun to be had.
Quick!
I need to find a man!
My wrinkles are
starting to show,
and these tired eggs
won’t inseminate themselves.
You’ve got a good job,
you can help!”

Nevermind the miles
just take her for a spin,
pay no mind
to the dented back end,
it’s your car now,
just enjoy the ride,
and be thankful for
this serendipitous surprise
about to trap you
and ruin your life.

Or perhaps you’ll never know.
You’ll ride that Olds
into the sunset,
thinking yourself to be
just so very lucky.

Yikes.
Not for me.
Definitely yucky.

So how do I navigate
this mucky territory
withoout getting stuck
in false ceremonies
all because biology turbos me
to speak my mind
to you?

Another Panzerotto Passtime
and my, how time has passed,
a man must hold fast
to his torch,
and his wits.

He doesn’t know how,
but he’s going to
get through this.
His gifts lie dormant,
coals asleep in routine,
while his liquid lightning rod
vents off excess steam.

A man has been at practice
of being more aware,
whilst taking a balanced
glance at his cares,
weighing them against
a sigh like a feather,
making him capable of
doing whatever;
just to get by
during 9-5.

I don’t decry
the mostly steady lifestyle,
especially during the heat
of July.

My eyes need not wander far.

Distractions are all they are,
a man still has a mission to find,
discipline to refine,
and a mind to unwind;
one bad habit at a time.

It’s why I even bother wiritng these lines.

There are many kinds of sublime
in life, like the aforementioned
fabric stretched tight,
but I like to write,
and Panzerotto time has arrived.

There is nothing like
fabric stretched tight
over curves that bounce
while in motion.
Eyes transfixed
cause mutiny by my dick
as the other Captain
takes the wheel.
All shapes and sizes appeal.
After sampling from the buffet
it’s easy to say:
new pussy never gets old.
Sway for me,
unearthed ingot of gold,
for it’s untold what men
go through for this rush;
and I wish to enjoy myself.

Orgasm Therapy is good for your heath.

Trust me,
I’m a doctor,
certified PhD,
in less than ten minutes
she’ll be coming in threes,
round and round
an ascending mountain
whose peak to which
she is snowblind;
too busy losing her mind
on her Kundalini’s turbine.

Alright.
Enough for today,
time to get these out
before I escape,
as I’m tired of
watching them run
laps all day;
in my head,
these cancerous thoughts.

No matter the cost
this stylus is yours,
out of my head
and bother me no more.

“Loser! Failure!
You stupid little boy.
You nothing.
You’ve fucked it all up.
Blind. Weak. Oblivious.
Present Me has a message
for Past Me; you’re an asshole.
Look at what you’ve made out of our life?
This was never what we wanted.
Now you’re so worn out and beaten down,
you can’t even pick your spirits up.
You suck.
Too lazy to fix your fucking life.
Instead you sit here and just write.”

Fuck, are you done?

“I hate you for the injustices
you put us through everyday.
We don’t deserve this bullshit
and you know it.
Turn a blind eye for them.
Bite your tongue for them.
Just to get along.
Fuck that.
And fuck you.
Slinking about like
the nothing that you are,
doing your very best
to accomplish nothing at all.
You lazy, punk ass, bitch ass motherfucker,
I don’t even have words for you anymore.
Go fail at life somewhere else.
Enjoy your escape, loser.
You’ll still be a loser tomorrow too.
Watch.”

I miss this part of me
writing freely and feeling breezy
whilst feeling the sun within me;
Get high to my degree;
Come swing on my trees;
Then you’ll see that as we proceed
to acquire the things we need
we lose our communities,
nations and fraternities;
we lose our families
looking for similarities
in different indifferent hyperindividualities,
that have forsaken our commonalities,
as we consume our own souls,
left with naught but a crater
full of the useless shit that we acquire
to be greater, and to have more;
fuck being poor,
I’m on the highway to being rich,
pedal to the floor;
recently I read that rich was in your head
as wanting more is what leaves one feeling broke
but I’m tossing the yoke,
ain’t playing no jokes,
just chasing dreams
and multiple income streams;
got different instrumentals flowing through me
as I craft these,
disfigurings of timing
as I enjoy the art of rhyming
for the sake of subliming
and doing something productive.

I don’t claim to be
some kind of M.C,
fuck a free,
this pen is therapeutic to me,
my main squeeze,
swings with me from trees
like Jane,
girls aren’t the same
as this pen will never betray
or sway, but always looks
the other way when I play
with anything I can use to witness,
like consciousness,
“Remember that one.”
minutes later, forever gone.

I’m too tired for what I’m doing right now.
I missed writing for fun anyhow.

Float with me,
as I cruise through these deliveries
of words to please, astound and amaze.
God be praised.
Blessed is he who comes to thee
bringing gifts from the trees,
Knowledge or Life?
take your pick as slick
j-strokes in transit
bring the pyroclastic in black ink,
with black skin,
you could say this Captain
is a black inked black bandit.

Making magic on these lines
as I climb these mountains within me.
Too short this would be if I were to just stop.
Drop from the top of the highest I can find
to finally unwind from these obligations,
gracefully bestowed upon me.

I shouldn’t be so melancholy.
As I look within I glance up
to the summit, and down at the pit;
the former further than the latter;
as I pull myself back to matters
of the present, my heart, it still holds hope.

Freedom, everlasting, shall be mine.

Past lives between you and I
paralyze in the space between our eyes;
grass, sand and steel appeal
to that within which manages to feel
anything at all,
inducing a man to fall forwards
and backwards while standing still,
transfixed and bewitched,
heart soaring over hill and overhead
for the already wed but forever loved
as two souls from above
find each other below,
as the law says
so it goes.

We’ve already been sold
on the idea of one only
but experiences of others
warm hearts of the lonely,
as we ascribe to materialize
the best of things in our lives
these divine beings come by
with the light of magic behind their eyes;
a charged energy difficult to describe
but in a mate’s presence you realize
as you stand hypnotized
by each other’s countenance…

that you’ve done this before.

I can’t wait until the date
where chefs around the world debate
having A.I. in every state.

There are places already,
maybe not as trendy,
but certainly surplus a plenty,
thanks to ipads over wages;
parasites making us slaves
of our passions
for meaingless praises
and addiction abuse,
making substitute
for pretty snowflake lives.

I say again, par-a-sites.

We live in dark times
for these are dark days;
this pen has been dormant
since the tenth of May,
while a man still struggles
to find the Way.

My horizon should be bright
but the saturation is turned down
as I’d rather laze around
and go out on the town
than make myself a man
of renown.

Then I wonder why I’m poor.
As if I couldn’t have done more;
I just don’t want to work all the time.
That choice was never mine,
I was just voluntold,
“Work until you’re old!”

For who?
For what?
For why?

Discrimination
according to resources and status
has been noted
across both species and time.

That’s why.
Fuck.

A man hasn’t penned words
in over a week,
as life has been hectic;
he’s resttled his feet;
changed his sheets
for company in his sleep;
and slows down the beat
to reflect upon May
and the soon to be
footprints along the Way.

Things are on the up,
in ways, shapes and forms,
a man adjusts to spartan
conditions in his dorm
while performing a new hobby
as a means to get out
while adding to the list
of things a man is about.

While things aren’t
glossing greatness just yet,
I look back upon my steps
and see I have come a ways,
even as I flow towards
the second last page
in this gift
that cultivates a lift
in spirits and aspirations,
and alas, the realization
that this pen is
finally dead.

The gift of life,
like Charlotte’s Web.

Now a man’s ink
manifests as his spirit animal,
a kraken whose thoughts
match the hue of his hair,
eyes,
skin,
and clothing colour of choice.

Thank you and adieu
to the blue,
as true an ally as any.
Together we spent much time
creating pleasures a plenty;
you traversed the darkness
within as a beacon of truth
with no fear towards
where your lines lead you.
You were patient with me
as I struggled for words
and now this boxy black
utensil has taken up your curse,
and for better or for worse,
may it follow your wonderful example.

The Gentleman speaks while
The Bastard writes as
to do the opposite would see
no friends in life.

Or so a man would believe,
until he perceives
those who achieve,
and considers that should he
also be among that fleet,
then perhaps he should reconsider.

A brother’s mind is getting bigger
as he comes to understand
that should he traverse this land,
he must start speaking his demands,
and cultivate a finesse of command.

He may not be the lightest
but he’s among the brightest
and is tired of denying it
because his life speaks to otherwise.

This wise guy seeks to magnetize
as his ship crosses paths with other lives
while plotting a course of his own design.

With Mastery will come gravity,
or is it the other way around?

Navigate carefully, your Majesty,
for many traps have been found,
but skillfully apply these
and the booty will abound
for few will deny thee
and thy power to astound.

You are bound to get there,
as you’re tired of the unfair
and know that when compared
yours should be a larger share.

Don’t stop, Captain.
You will make it happen.

All is mind;
mine,
in time.

It’s hard to write
when there is no spark
to send arcs within
that which makes marks
with pen.
I need a compiler
for these swirling energies,
I need a distraction
from my ennui,
or, truthfully,
to stop delaying steps
on the path before me.

I just want life to be easy;
where leaves rustle in the breezes
and I have time to appreciate that,
because I’m not working,
or escaping to recover,
all to continue existing
near the very bottom
of the socio-economic strata.

My parents managed to rise.
My brother is managing to thrive.
So why can’t I…

Why can’t I?

It’s all fun and games until, “I told you so.”

I would love your permission
to do one of the things
I do best.
When it comes to this thing
please believe
that I am blessed.
You should come see me,
preferably,
in a little black dress.
If you’ll close your eyes,
I’ve got a surprise,
and you’re going to love what’s next.

My lips are soft, baby,
you’ll love them,
you’ll see.
You’ll love me even more
when you’re down
on your knees.
Although you may hate me
when I make you
say “Please.”
to lose yourself
in the luxury
of cumming for me,
and on me, and on you
while I’m in you,
I’m talking about some
tender loving pussy abuse.
I want to make you
cum in multitudes
and show you the stars,
deep inside the beautiful
creature that you are.

There are two different types
of men in this life,
there are those from whom
you try to win “wife”,
and those whose memory
you take into the night,
spilling only perhaps
in your years of twilight.

Guess which one I am?

No one at work has to know.
We’ll both keep our heads down
and ride our flows,
I like your hustle
and it helps you grow;
no need to spend days off alone.
I promise you that I’m a generous host,
and not bad compay
if I do say so myself,
even if I’m quiet
as a habit of moving in stealth,
you know I lack wealth
(for now!)
but that’s what future husband
is for,
there’s a euphoric wonderland
waiting for us to explore.

You know what I mean?
I’m talking grown up things,
with ownership only
over what we bring
to the table,
for each other,
for ourselves
and our mental health,
as orgasms for therapy
is truly something else.

I haven’t even mentioned
my tongue.

Girl, don’t even get me started.
I’d leave you staring off
into space,
with the sweetest
glow on your face.
I don’t even have to
play my ace,
but you’ll see my trump card;
the grin of a Bastard that says,
“I told you so.”

This should be continued some day…

Big girls need love too,
they say,
and to be fair,
I’m inclined to agree,
but there are things
big girls should be told,
a love expressed
through honesty.

Inside each one of you,
without a doubt,
is a slim figured beauty
just dying to come out.
Your curves need not vanish,
at least, not where it counts,
as men will always love T&A
in all variations of ammount.
There remain many ways
to leave a man’s eyes distracted,
but as you well know
excess in the tummy is unattractive.

I know, I know,
society preaches that you should
“Love yourself!”
but since we’re being honest,
stand naked in the mirror;
losing weight would help.
All the more reason
that you should do it
for you and no one else.

You’ll most certainly find a man
to pay for Netflix and catfood,
all you must do to seduce
is introduce him to a better you.
Better still, he’s bound to
introduce himself,
captivated by the state of your health.
You’ll find new wealth
in your social growth,
and much happiness in all the new clothes
that you can wear to entice and reveal,
as opposed to shopping based on
the need to hide and conceal.

Speaking of that,
let’s have a little chat
about the abuse and misuse of lenses,
pictures taken at angles designed
to confound a man’s senses;
that’s not right.
And how can you be mad
when after the first date,
he already wants to trade
what he’s got
for what he thought he had.

How ungrateful and unfaithful
these hedons have become.
Little has changed
under the all seeing sun,
for the science of behavior
says there is no savior
to quell that which
She wants.

This perplexed font muses
on the scars and bruises
that a select few have wrought
upon the many.

Once appreciative and friendly,
it seems the world is ending
as our reward regards us
as refuse.
Suddenly we’ve become enemy,
at worst, these hostilities
are perverse, as we’ve
done no wrong nor harm.
Instead the agenda is to
divide us among a plethora
of schisms, clouding vision,
leaving all easily conquered.

It’s hard to see a year from now,
much less a month or week,
but I hope to come closer to this thing,
“Living the Dream”
I hear it often and wonder,
“Just whose dream am I living?”
Perhaps that’s why a soul finds
its tasks so unforgiving.
Not because a man meets challenge,
but because he’s tired of having to scavenge,
he runs himself ragged,
lost rabbit with bad habbits,
piling pebbles of patience
to make mountains of magic
with persons and his person,
like pages of these verses,
prescribed to rhyme,
trying to ascend the decline
meanwhile his soulders are sore.

I don’t want to carry this anymore.

Despite the positives plotted
into the dark horizon,
the size of the designs
that see him entrapped
tempt fate with flame
at the edges of a map
that was only ever
barely filled in.

I often contemplate reality,
this thing before my eyes,
I’m surprised at how others
take it for granted.
How can one not
be enchanted
when we are rare
forms of light
in transit?

One day this view
will cease to be,
I know not
what awaits me,
but my origins
bring faith, you see,
as I descend from stars,
as do you,
and everything known.

It gives me hope
against the darkness
that in some other plane
a part from this,
we’ve made better use
of our precious gifts,
a Utopia more than
just a wish,
where existence is
a cause to celebrate.

All I feel is an empty box
in the usual mental spot
where I grope for words
to string on my hook.

The lures that will
make you look
beyond the pond
between you and I.

Gems and stars
are where ever you are,
as you radiate warmth
and sunshine.
With a smile
that twinkles alight your eyes
and features ucommon,
it’s hard to deny
that rooms are brighter
for having you there;
a sweet presence
and childish air
goes a long way
in times of despair.

Your body has been ravished
in countless ways
over the course of many days
by an old lion’s lecherous gaze
that enjoys putting you on replay
in the back of his mind
from time to time.

It’s a crime that your man
is good to you.
That should say enough
about the things I’d do to you,
but respectfully,
I stay silent.

I sometimes have the braggadocio
for writing excellent raps,
but my philosopher’s knee caps
seem to have gout in that regard.
Ask any rapper,
this shit can be hard!
I don’t even think of bars, per se
as ’sounds right’ sounds right,
one way,
or the other.

This speaks to the power of music
as the bass in my background
can be snoozed in.
The grace of silence cannot be denied
as they manifest themselves in these lines,
but the right vibe can enchant a mind
turning one into a beacon of mankind,
evoking and stoking fires for joking,
poking and even choking
if need be.

While the last three share meanings interchangably,
I elucidate to thee why I prefer
a philsophers typography.

A great rapper can do the same,
but it’s not the same…

Or is it?

The URL of this link reveals its original title,
Rachel Bock: Feminism Made Me Miserable So I Left (2020).

Toronto is a nexus of this ideology;
boys, shop elsewhere.

One thing I’ve observed over time,
is the differences
between girls over and under thirty five.
Culture changed too rapidly
for the ones still selling their youth,
and society no longer teaches the truth
in regards to their Time
nor Purpose.
Instead we have wholesale purchase
of all the things,
anything for some dopamine.
The human creature is obscene
in its repackaging of Nature.
Her abundance under the skies
is synthesized and sold
for a price.
Nature knows not a price for life.
Man, blind to unity,
shackles himself with usury,
while abusing the bounty
of which all were born to partake.

This unclaimed birthright,
long forgotten by short lifetimes
has not gone silently.
The divine is within us all.
Eden shall not fall
should we align the godhoods within.

Where did I begin?

The other half of our species
has strewn to the wind
all ties to their benefactors.
The husband has been
replaced with social programs,
the father with institutions
inculcating our girls with nonsense,
turning our boys into convicts
or addicts as perhaps it’s time
for a new prescription.

The caption of modern man,
“What the fuck happened?”

Before they know what hits
they’ll learn that,
“having it all”
was a line of bullshit
to create more student debt,
to lower the value of a dollar
by pumping the workforce full
of typical liberal arts “scholars”,
to remove the family unit from purview
aided by Divorce Corp’s constant misuse,
while fucking around recklessly,
being too selfish for sacrifice,
thus less families.

It goes much further than this
with corps giving govs the slip.
Most people still think
their government serves them.
Well, have I got news, friend.

While we’re at it let’s acknowledge
they’ve already bought your college
or fancy center of higher yearning.
It’s why most degrees are worth burning.
Workplace politics show the lie
that is adulthood.
Cultural Marxism makes us all
Lords of the Fly; social poison.

Almost five(!) years later,
we have poems under our own name.

The first poem of March
and we’re five days in,
too long since you’ve written, Captain.

While you practice the art
of escape, time is still
slipping away,
your poems could have been typed
(who wants to read what I write?),
you could have made a better life
just that much closer.

Your weeks have been hard,
I know, my bro.
But if you want to go
to the place with the sand
and the sun and trees rustling in the breeze,
the please,
from me to you,
work harder.

Now, my boy.
Don’t protest.
I’m only pushing you toward your best.
Running around like a little bitch
lowballs the lux which when switched
will see you radiate what you crave.

Your days as a slave are over.
But your work is far from done.

The world spins like a wheel
with broken spokes,
it’s pretty in motion,
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
until it slows
and one can see
that they’ve been tricked.

The thing about having no choice
in arriving on Earth
through the selfishness of birth
is that you’re given an incurable thirst.
Everyone lies through smiles
for society’s sake but they
must feel ennui just the same.

How do they deal?
Do they even notice?

Hormones are very real
and rarely tell us their true motive.
This votive speaks to that within,
where “the right thing to do” is a virtue
and “this is a waste of time” a sin.
I don’t even know where to begin,
to transmute sin into some win,
my cares are to the wind most days
as I still play games
and fuck arond on the web
whilst virtuous thoughts
build nests in my head,
may as well call them
another escape
as my mind would rather delay
the pain of actually
getting shit done
just to pass time
as if it were fun.

Perhaps at the time
but certainly not after,
those happy feelings fade
and give way back to
the mundane that
has undergone no change
because habits have left
a man stuck in his ways.

I write a lot more these days
so that when I put hours on replay,
I can tell myself it wasn’t a waste.

These poems may go nowhere
but they’ll do so for eternity,
residing on Artifacts of Me
or PvP, or whatever that
manifestation may be.

Today I watched a smile disintegrate
like a snowflake falling on a face
all because I was in the way.
It was fake to begin with,
and my indifference has been earned,
but it’s time for a new tack
as this one hasn’t earned my words.

Do they ever?

A select few,
with chance apparently chosing who.

Let’s write about other things
like the threat technology brings
as we rush headlong
into making ourselves obsolete.

The greatest thing we may ever do
may be the very end of us too.
How fucked is that?
Like, “Hey, Congratulations!
For conquering mortality
your prize is extermination!”

As if it were all some cosmic joke,
the modus operandi upon which
we place our highest hopes,
living our lives eternal,
abundance in pleasures,
scarcity in cares,
off in a Neverland somewhere
may actually be achieved right here.

In so doing, “Life” no longer
has a reason to be.
It was only ever an
“Eternal Happiness” machine.

Process complete.

Press any key to continue.

Look into the future
and what do you see?

I see these pages
staring back at me.
If I were to take a pause, a moment,
to reflect upon my cause,
I would see that all is not lost.
These thoughts stroll through
like torchlight, navigating
the cavernous pitched midnight,
always unsure,
as many traps have been found.

All a man has is himself
and though he’s thankful for help,
he knows his own freedom
isn’t found in anyone else.
At the times when he looks within
he finds his body worn thin,
“For what?” he asks.
“The chance to do it again tomorrow?
With all my heart, no.”,
his head hangs in sorrow.

I don’t want to do this,
I’m tired of being a servant.
I may be one of the team
but my status is observant.

Perhaps it’s only the observant that will know
but status always plays a role
in how we meet and greet,
the subtleties lie unseen somewhere
in our brains, but the games
we play are clear as day,
and it’s a shame
that some will never see.

I forgot,
this was supposed to be about me.
Do What I Want,
the imperative and command
as no man stands superior,
or otherwise.
This guise chaaracterizes
that of the Hood Voice,
“No mo’ bein po’ meet ma fo’ fo’!”
Somewhere in the future
I’ve gone from broke to having more
and not just the incremental type,
I’m talking about residual life,
where my cup of cares lies
somewhere inside
as an artifact
of days gone by.

I won’t deny that when I close my eyes
I try to picture the beach,
with sand on ankles and feet,
and waves that breathe
in time with me.

I would do my work from here,
a corner office in space
where I can stare into infinity
with few in my vacinity
except maybe something pretty.

It should be one of the local girls
because then I could leave their world
and safely return to my own.

I’m fairly certain that cannabis has saved my life.

Its been so long,
how do I begin the ordeal
of not smoking weed?
For real.
Is this going to be like the time
you said you’d stop playing games?

“So much for that.” these days would say.

But I mean it truly,
because it’s getting hard for me
to give away my dollars.

Do you wanna be high?
Or do you wanna be a baller?

Every shot caller has a hefty sum.
If you’re always broke
how will you be #1?

Do you want to be washing dishes
for the rest of your days?
No wonder these girls give you no play.
They already know the score,
to put it quite plainly,
“That nigga is po’!”
They wouldn’t be good whores
if they didn’t try to fetch more
as messing with broke dudes is probably a chore.

Imagine always having to explain
that your poor as fuck dude isn’t lame?
Imagine having to always go without
as a result of his lack of clout?
He comes home supposedly tired
because he has to work real hard,
yet all of that sweat for a duplex?
You barely even have a yard!
What about your kids?
Where are they going to play?
Nevermind that they’re probably not his.

Anway, it makes sense to want someone better.
Stronger, faster and definitely more clever.
This includes having more money too!
After all, how else will he “take care of you”?

I told a friend of mine,
earlier today,
that since the dawn of time,
men and women are objects designed
to fill a biological plan;
the realm of sex belongs to her
while the realm of success belongs to man.

Men are not human beings;
men are human doings.
If you wish to become a human being,
there’s a clinic for that.

In other news,
Streets of Rage was a great game.

Are you going to write a lament
every time girls are shitty?
If that’s the case,
eventually you’ll fill this city’s
streets with countless emo sheets of rage.

I’m just writing what’s on my mind,
the results of my day,
hitting on girls all the time,
just playing the numbers game,
which is honestly tiring as fuck
since I refuse to believe
it’s just a matter of luck.

Open your eyes, Cap,
the source of the suck
is no where else but inside a mirror,
the consequences of being a giver
with naught but hopes of being a winner,
alas, hopes are not enough,
and until a man actually does,
he will never be.

Does it make me soft or weak
to want enjoyment from simply being?
Why must I constantly do and acquire more
just to impress and convince whores?
I’d rather have a list of chores
then something useful would be done
as wasting time on this numbers game
is seriously no fun.
It might be if I was ahead,
unfortunately,
a man is playing catch-up instead.

If hurts a man’s heart
to be judged
solely by what he does.
I know dishwashing lacks glamour,
but honestly, what does it matter?
Why am I expected to provide for you
when you can make your own money too?
As a matter of fact,
you have it easier than me;
empowered to fulfil quotas
because every corp is trying to be
some bastardized ambassador of diversity.
So, you clearly don’t need me for money,
especially in this industry, where
a girl’s take home isn’t even funny.
What -is- funny is the fact
that you’ve got a big hitter at bat,
but he has nothing to transact
for action leading to satisfaction.
Moreso for you!
I come once or twice,
you come in multitudes
that are too many to count,
but you won’t try me out.

I know, I get it.
No hard feelings.

Boys,
all the cars have over 100k;
you’ll pick one eventually, anyway.
Don’t bring a mechanic;
you’ll only find more problems.
Don’t ask too many questions;
keep the peace and your sanity.

Why can I not have
that which is so easily
passed around?
I’m not down about it
but I’ll certainly clown about it
as I find myself astounded by it,
though not surprised one bit
as a man is used to this shit.

It’s just funny, you how?
How biology goes,
mysteries proposed
as ideas our own
but it’s just hormones!
And lack of self control.

Would you resist, Captain?

In truth, it’s hard to say,
as I’ve already parley’d,
about how I’d spend all day,
rubbing away furious-lay
for the high pay
from the lone-lay,
cause it’s just so easy.
I could even keep my virginity
and on my 25th birthday,
I could sell that shit too!

They say women are oppressed.
I just call them confused.

I watch a countless many
being used,
thinking that they get something too,
or at least hoping to get,
hence the exchange.

Don’t mistake me for not getting laid.
One’s already married
and I like it that way
as I have no desire to open a daycare.

Call it male empowerment,
I’m actually playing fair.

Why would I be like those other dudes,
chasing down rebounds in dress shoes?
Minding their manners
and jumping through hoops,
for a lifetime lease
on a car that isn’t new?

I’ve got other boo’s too,
I just open my phone and choose,
but few things beat new pussy
and my hormones are getting pushy.

“Stop being a dishwasher!
Pretty girls don’t fuck them!”

Day after day
constantly losing the same battles,
herding cats like dogs herd cattle,
while working like chattel
until the sun sets on Friday
for two blessed days of,
“My way or the highway.”
Don’t like what I say?
Here’s a cup full of cares.
It’s empty, you say?
They’re around here somewhere.
Maybe under the pile
that’s been there for a while,
dyslexic eyes unseeing
have stacked it up high.
I can’t lose my cool
or else I look a fool
while my vexations
are used against me
to win the war too,
all within a single battle,
by the intellectually dishonest
and things plausibly denied.

To their credit, it was often more than one.

Today a friend said something to me
which made me consider free differently.
There is a thing in our industry
that we do to help make it easy,
or at least, easier,
this line of work is hard
just to be clear.

As an example,
just one,
for there are many,
today is my eleventh straight,
like I told you,
we work plenty.
Unfortunately,
we don’t get paid much
so we drown our body’s aches
in free cups,
free pints to be exact,
and this is where my perception
was snapped.

Normally,
a beer would cost 6-10,
but this one in particular
is much more dear, my friend.
How much do you make?
I’m thankful for 14
as my hourly rate.

Now multiply by 8.
Do you see?
$112… geez.
How many beers could I buy
with that price?
Enough for poisoning
to finish this life.

Stay positive, Cap!
It’s not your time to go!
No matter how much
you wish it were so.
There is so much left to do,
so many windfalls await future you!

Too far in the opposite?
Check that pendulum swing.
Nurse your beer
for tomorrow will bring…

Who knows?

I might get my wish after all.
If not, I intend to do nothing
and have a ball.

I’ve earned it, I believe.
Just as I’ve earned this drink
that I once thought of as free.

This feels incomplete.

Truth is pointless;
no one can be bothered to care,
a lie is equally so,
for lacking verity there.
Following the above,
the question arises then,
“What words do I use
when dealing with friends?”
That question begs another.
Clarification is sought.
Define the word
syonymous with ally
outside the bounds of cost.
Everything costs.
Even the free.
I do not wish to seem ungrateful
for with humility comes gratitude,
but if I have nothing for sale,
then what do I do with “you”?
Are you giving things away?
Have I become a charity?
No, I think.
So what do “friends”
want from me?
Mutual benefit?
Life is not a zero sum game.

Facts, as the kids say, these days.

This is probably the calmest
state of emergency issued.
A soul ready to discard its body
after three decades of misuse.

I do not wish to misconstrue
all the feelings flowing through me.
Inceassantly pushing dish trays through
the insatiable machine, truly
makes me wonder when it’ll end.

I don’t mean the day’s service,
I don’t even mean the day,
or the remainder of my stay.
I mean life,
and that’s not right.

With some luck during meditations tonight
I will cultivate the insight to
vanquish my trepidation
and become a sensation
that actually has compensation
to accurately commensurate
the fact that I’m not just good,
but motherfucking great.

1. Mentalism
     The all is mind.
     The universe is mental.
   
2. Correspondence
     As above, so below.
     As below, so above.
   
3. Vibration
     Everything vibrates.
     Nothing is at rest.
   
4. Polarity
     All things are dual.
     All opposites are the same.
   
5. Gender
     All things, on all planes,
     contain both masculine and feminine.
   
6. Rhythm
     Everything ebbs and flows.
     The pendulum is always even.
   
7. Cause & Effect
     Every cause has an effect.
     Every effect has a cause.
   

—

Why is Hermeticism a secret,
I wonder?
The consequence
leaves a conscience,
countless in number,
perpetually aslumber.

A tragedy that so many souls go,
through life without the joy to know
that they are a soul with a body
and all is within their control.

How far could we
as people be
if these principles
weren’t shrouded in secrecy?
How many forms of magic
would we discover?
How many forms would we form?

It seems to me that
once learned these
Hermetic Principles can be seen
easily,
in all of the things.
And that’s with nary a trained eye?
This must be a daydream
or maybe I’m just high (I’m not, btw),
I can almost feel it,
not having to struggle,
just to get by.

I had misplaced it for a few days.

You know that feeling
when someting cherished is lost?
Then you proceed to lose your mind.
Memories on rewind
and pause while we shuffle.
It’s surpsing the hustle
that arrives in distressed searching,
then acceptance wrapped
in forlorn hope,
“It’ll reappear surely.”
Then comes a time,
thinking more clearly,
a lapse of peoccupation
and curiosity,
before a lurch of the heart,
a moment later,
it’s still working,
as are your eyes
while overflowing
with all kinds of relief and disbelief.
“How’d you get here?”
“What is this trickery?”

Gratitude, most pure.
This book, to be sure,
was sorely missed.

If there is no such thing
as right and wrong,
then why are people
always crowing songs
about their rights
and the wrongs
that shouldn’t be?

It seems scary to me
because if wrongs and rights
aren’t a part of this life
then no one has any rights
at all.

When is this hammer going to fall?
How far left must we push
before the car stalls,
as an autosafety mechanism
against the poison of equality
threatening everybody with hegemony?

Whose testimony will serve
against this logic which must be observed?

If there is indeed a right and wrong
then Millenials and others have had it backwards
all along.

There’s no such thing as,
“Who gives a fuck?”
The answer should be everyone,
maybe then, humanity would actually
get shit done.

Happy New Year!
Or something to that effect,
it’s kind of like a birthday,
“Feel any different yet?”
Of course the answer is,
“No, not really.”
But we still say the words
mostly faux-giddy.
The leftovers of Christmas cheer
make me wonder,
“Why aren’t we this nice all year?”
It’s like waiting 364 days
just to hear that you’re loved
as if Feb 14 was ordained from above.

I suppose we don’t criticize,
because somewhere we all realize,
that without these traditions in our lives,
the suffering of life would be amplified.
So we put on our disguise
and tell each other pretty lies,
just so we can all seem kind
while using words as weapons
to manipulate the divine within us;
just to get by.

The part of us that gives the benefit of the doubt,
and hopes for the best without
knowing what it is to plan for the worst
until the first time they’re screwed first.

Then we become adults
and tell new kids to believe in Santa.

Like love and platitudes,
and validated useless drama,
like believing in a two party system
and change named Obama.
Like the idea that
“Everything happens for a reason”
as if Nature cares about anything
but her cycle of seasons,
and the propagation of life
that’s extinguished everyday.
The vast majority of species
are already gone, they say.

I can see, in some ways,
how our eyes wouldn’t want to entertain
the idea that we are truly,
insignificant entities.
However, it’s hard for me
to understand the sanity
in constantly pandering to our vanity
when history books have all the answers.
The patent office has the cure for cancer.
Yet like the platitudes and other
stupid shit we do,
we’ll keep running for the cure
and throwing our money away
because it feels nice…

Nature has a severe case of lice,
known as the virus with feet,
the phenomenon of human life.

I don’t get how people do this,
amidst circumstances
that I don’t have the fists for
as I would need all of yours.

Is this my compulsion to politics?
Even as I’m sure the CIA would kill me
then blame it on someone else.
Abraham,
Marin,
Malcolm,
and John,
the list could go on and on,
modern apostles of humanity
who dared to dream on behalf
of everyone.

Now they’re gone,
and their ideas with them
as if slavery wasn’t extended
to include us all,
as if freedom for
some is naught but parole.

Liberty Denied,
imagine that?
Made official by
a loud wooden crack
then all of society turns its back.

Finally! Christmas is here!
Or, more importantly
it’s the end of the year.
That means pace
for days more than 3,
and it isn’t a long weekend!
It’s sad that this is ’lucky’.
If there’s no rest for the wicked
then us kitchen folks are
badder than bad;
rename this place Port Royal,
I’d be glad.
The Wickedest Restaurant on Earth,
don’t need Michelin stars,
if it’s all about the food
then the best we are.
Don’t need to go far
if you live downtown,
we’re always here
(except Sundays - mostly)
so come on down!
The price is right here,
it’s not usual to find
handmade pasta in the city.
I mean individual folds of each
delightful piece.
You think you know better?
“Bitch, what you mean?”

Where do I thrust this excess?
Before I explode with my next breath?

This industry is killing me,
slowly but surely.
Why must I work twice as hard
for half as much
as those with a finer visage?
My veneer is a dark sneer,
to avoid smearing hate speech
upon those for whom I should care.

But should I really?
I’m rather undecided,
as the haves and have nots
will always remain divided.

We speak not of it
for over it we would collide,
it’s why they all know to keep
their dollars from our eyes,
put on their disguise
and call me friend with a smile
meanwhile like a masked turnstile
or two-faced gargoyle,
I’m taken for granted,
and in times of need abandoned;
unless buttered up with guilt,
they will do as they will.

But what of mine?
My will, my portion of the divine.
Who got to decide that I was
somehow inferior,
that the good jobs aren’t for me,
that I’m denied the moneyed interior,
that I should instead be sent without
to fill swimming pools from my brow.

Faster, faster!

That’s all that matters,
while those privileged
can stand around and chatter,
or move about leisurely,
meanwhile each hour is a
sprint for me.

Who’s responsible for this tragedy?
Why does the truth make folks
mad at me?
This isn’t a divine comedy,
I’m reaching out to somebody…

… or at least someone that cares,
perhaps that why I keep my
demons in here.

Keep searching, Captain,
soon the Way will become clear.

I could keep going,
but why is that concurrent
with when I feel like I can’t?
Why is it that I can hardly
rely on chance?

Chance is what gave the others
special powers,
the power to devour
without responsibility or risk,
I’m straight up tired of this shit.

But what can I do?
When all my collars are
stained blue?
I remember when I was determined
to make my collar white…
perhaps I should have used bleach,
but there’s no technique for the eyes,
as if that would stop me from
seeing too much…

… fuck.

Youngin’s on YouTube
can rhyme better than most dudes.
Who knew that just out of bronze shoes
they could school you with enough
wit to make you question
what you do and want to be better.
I’m talkin’ three times as clever
so that rhyming about whatever
looks like some leisurely endeavor.

I’m waiting for a panzerotto, obviously,
that’s why this meandering catastrophe
isn’t actually going anywhere.

No care, just practice here,
while randoms might stare as
they too are too lazy to cook,
so I spend time with my book
because one day I want reason to look
back through these pages
wondering at the mazes
displaying facets of my crazy.

Verily there is no match for me,
even when I’m bored.
I could do this while I’m napping,
on the floor, for my spinal cord.

You lent me a book,
to you it was interesting to see,
what it’s like to be black like me.
I hope you got a good glimpse,
by scratching the surface
with your insight.
Perhaps now you understand
the latent anger
impossible to right.
Perhaps now you understand the bother
of being born into this world,
automatically inferior, an other.
Perhaps now you can grasp
why many of us feel trapped.

What you’ll never be able to get
are the little things,
moments that bring,
 a squint of the eye
or kiss of the teeth
because,
“If I were white, this wouldn’t be.”

Injustices a plenty,
if only you had eyes to see.
Ours have been trained
by cruelty’s consistency.

On the page, this is unfinished... I think.

In my mind’s eye I often dream
of a reality of my own fashioning.
Would it be a utopia?
Something of the like.
Could you rewrite human nature?
Not quite.

Though to bask in the light
that brought life to the night,
would see a world that would delight
in the way we are delighted
by the sun on our skin.
In my reality we are all
next of kin.

Who needs a locksmith
when no one has reason to steal?
If only our covetous notions
would heed such an appeal.
To do away with currency
is merely a pipe dream.
Bartering may be nice,
but so is buying anything.
You know what’s even better?
A thirty hour week.
Everyone’s trying to work more
but it’s peace I seek.

Which isn’t to say
that work and peace are mutually exclusive,
but any more than forty hours
is just plain obtrusive.

How is anyone to have
a life of their own
when the only purpose of their home
is to recover from their time on loan?
Who are you to ration
my freedom to me?
Especially when,
without the law,
we’d be back at slavery.

Water wars will eventually be a thing.

I wonder when they’ll come for our food?
What are the people going to do?
They’re already trying to privatize our water,
it’s only a matter of time before they begin the slaughter.
The people can’t see, they’re far too distracted,
trying to find their role in this play
we’re all forced to act in,
trying to be pampered
but unseen hands hamper
every effort to be better.

Over two-thousand years of moral and economic crimes.

Killing sprees are on the rise
as more people come to realize
that society has masked their eyes
and pumped their heads full of lies.
Worse yet,
this has been happening all their lives,
can we blame them for deciding to terrorize?

Sometimes arms are essential, even mandatory,
yet it’s disarm by division to conquer;
the same old story.

So now America will debate guns anew
while the puppet of ISIS far off looms
destabilizing nations with endless booms
sending a countless number to their doom
while mainstream media eschews the truth.

The United Nations are a farce,
so is that convention in Geneva,
because understanding international politics
requires way too much sativa.

We are stuck with these people;
there is no way out.
People think they can change things;
this I highly doubt.

Which is sad.
A part of me wants change too,
but don’t hesitate to think
they won’t kill me or you.

Who? The Zionists.
Has that word been banned too?
Will I be summoned by courts
for calling out the Jews?

Probably not,
because I’m a nobody;
no influence to wield,
so Israel will continue to use
America as a shield.

They’ll hold hands with Saudis
and plot to bomb us all;
those they don’t kill can
enjoy life as a thrall.

You’ll probably think I’m crazy,
that I have no proof for such lies,
but understand that for hinting at such
numerous presidents have died.

RIP JFK;
a man who dreamed of better days
and despite what the MSM likes to say
Muammar Gaddafi was a-ok.

I could probably rhyme a list of names
but in the end it’s all the same.
Nothing will change anyway,
the New World Order is here to stay.

This is another one of those times
writing just to rhyme
unwinding with lines from my mind.
Drinking my work beer
waiting for words to come clear
listening to A$AP while I sit here
oasis in a desert.
You can be my dessert,
I just wanna explore the dunes
under your shirt,
play with you till you squirt,
fuck you till your legs hurt,
get dressed around me
and you gon’ be late for work,
cause you’s Devil’s Pie
and I’m feeling kinda hungry,
wanna make you lose your mind
when I’m all up in your tummy.
I want you to make noise for me,
I want the neighbors to call the cops,
I want you to be a whore for me,
I want you to beg me to stop.

I’m gonna write till I reach the top!
10,000 hours is just me getting started
I’ll still be writing when I’m old,
senile and retarded.
Don’t be alarmed!
Paper is the only thing I harm.
Some people burn paper to stay warm
but when I burn paper
it’s just to elevate,
so that I can scorch these designs
when I create.
Something for which Future Me can relate
as we look back in time
upon the weavings of fate.

My destiny is more of a quest for me;
that last line is multifaceted assuredly.
Whatever truth, love or purpose, all hard to find,
eclipsed only by trying to understand my mind.

The same place from which I write this poem,
and like things coming full circle,
this one is home.