The knuckles make the sickest sounds
imprints of bone
decorating our safe place
a letter detailing failure
to keep my shit together
against the wall i am everything
and nothing
conversation through collision
say my piece
away from the light
take calm steps back out
continue my performance
the taste of blood is brief on the tongue
small pain self inflicted
release the tension built
in the smallest bricks
tucked between repetition
and falling arrows of productivity
stack and save
count the days before escape
sleep tired
awaken drained
restart the clock
remembering what we’ve planned
hide away the desire for silence
that dreamt up place
far from the loudest of mouths
and their oceans of words
repeat
you told me my anger reminded you of home
in the worst ways
some days the chatter is so loud
i can only speak through fists
to whichever hard surface i choose my words for
it does little in the long run
but against the wall
i am everything
and i am nothing
it will always reveal
the weakness in my argument
sing to me
how frail these bones are
taste the blood
heal the holes in my skin
pray to keep it contained somehow
better than before
repeat
i may never find that place of peace
for long
it seems to leave when i think myself too good
to regress
here i remain
taking moments to scream into the dark
please don’t blame yourself
if i ever lose my grip
i could fill this house
with what i could never say
and smash it to pieces
Category: Poetry
a song for your sleeping
i think you found out about death too early
another mistake in my litany
what i would not give to keep your happiness
yet the word is here in these pages
on our tongues
and the hours between sleep
shelter
and sing
your fingers move
across the keys of our piano
what can i do
to keep this fascination?
distract
lose races in sunlight to our shadows
paint patterns on boxes
when we run out of canvas
there are some days
when you forget the alphabet
and there are days when you act out
a policeman
shooting your stuffed animals dead
my eyes too drawn
to see these pieces of innocence
wither
you’ve begun to have bad dreams
a safe place
compromised
how could i let that happen?
shelter
and sing
shelter
distract
and dance
around the edges
of this poison that may have taken me
i wish i could explain
the right way
i play guitar not to lose myself
but to bring you to a place
of peace
please stay and hear
this song for your sleeping
hear the notes in these chords
when your eyes are shut
hoping the mind crafts wonder
not fear
scorched earth signature
–
i grew up with a knife in the chest
my inheritance is a dull blade
placed well enough
for everything to grow around it
the taste of metal is never far
on good days the blade will twist
and people i love are targets
for the weapon forged in me
skin and blood bitter
my face becomes my maker’s
a hereditary poison
words taste of fire
seeking nearest wood
i’ve got a need to burn
to detonate my good thing going
as quick to anger
as she is joy
i am envious
protective of innocent hearts
bite this itching tongue
swallow the blood
i am used to the taste
to closing doors and eating keys
this “scorched earth signature”
both gift and lesson
–
a bird landed on my window
and it would not move
some guilt or drive to not be like all the ones
who left me behind
nurture this weakened
thing
in small drops of water and seed
watch its growth
past feathers and wings
into something new
and terrifying
the scales came first
new skin to replace that withering flesh
a hardened shell colored bright
neon
and then the teeth
so sharp
i ripped like paper
it was then i knew
how special
there was a strength in you
unlike anything i’ve seen
but i wasn’t afraid
even when i began losing pieces
of myself
this blood can always be replenished
a body is only a shell
i learned that from you
to take such pain
let it become
tribute
it wasn’t a primal rage
that tore the fingers from my hand
you were young
and hadn’t felt the love you needed
no idea how to trust
without seeing someone standing
rivers red flowing
arms still opened wide
like a wound
still you transformed
into something greater
beyond the normal
i am more than proud
to pour out this red
burn the wounds
to keep my limbs
bleed this blood
to feed the fire that you breathe
the parts can be replaced
i am more now then i was
with both my hands
this body must continue
lift this creature
praise this evolution
take flight
burn this world
into something new
and beautiful
weak
weak
I was supposed to be strong today
but I can’t,
the weight on this mind is too heavy right now
to keep from cursing those nearest to the stone,
the mouth is bitter with words
I told you I was better than,
with all I’ve forgiven of you
still so much unsettled in me,
memory is too good to not replay
the record of our better moments
when we hate each other,
forget our progress
and choose venom,
I cannot be what I promised
but maybe tomorrow
the sickness will be buried
under the pain of hands clasped so tight
the bones ache
but for now I dedicate every minute of the day
to easy outs, familiar demons, disrespect
this fatigue is so strong
ask for forgiveness, strength
maybe tomorrow
I won’t sit in corners
crafting theories for my every misfortune
ignoring every mirror in this house,
eyes do nothing now but seed doubt
when I need this anger the most
to put these words down somewhere,
a record of my worst moments
gain another page in the book of another man
too sick of himself,
maybe I will put down the stone
choose to carry my women
place them higher on the mountain
than they were before,
maybe tomorrow
today, I am weak
podcast:
https://anchor.fm/outliergentlemen/episodes/Episode-16-Obnoxicity-e4ht92
books:
letters to the unborn
the day i found out about you
the world had shifted
i felt less fake
more permanent
then these words
from books no one has read
five years with your mother
scares me still
the closest ive ever been to forever
ive been carrying the weight
of two families for some time
preparing to continue the name
in a good direction
watching the world both galvanize
and crumble
this is where we come from
i write these letters to tell you
all you ever need to know
if you ask why we decided to have you
we didnt
we welcomed the possibility of you
trading in our once future selves
in light of your potential
your body is yours alone
listen to music that challenges you
you dont have to belong to anything
you were loved
long before you ever saw light
hold the door open for people
even if they say nothing in return
anothers ignorance is not a reason
to show them you lack manners
everything you notice in yourself
and in others, is a lesson
use your turn signal when you drive
learn to keep things to yourself
you will not be treated as an equal
but the hard way
has always been our specialty
strive to be greater than me
make some mistakes
learn from them
but you will learn more
from the mistakes of others
never settle
learn to cook, to dance, to sing
question your parents
but respect your elders
read books
do not rest on the first success
create things that matter to you
social media profiles do not define you
never stop learning
the internet is not a crutch
you come from a splintered family
but not a broken one
travel to other countries
remember where you came from
even if you never go back there
i dont have all the answers
but you will understand why i lied
in time
my true legacy
is you
The Blackbird Seven
In between work and married life, I’ve taken a lot of time to look back at what I have written. I needed to look at it with fresh eyes and a different perspective to see what worked and what didn’t.
Last year, I had the idea to put out a chapbook of poetry. I think my time as a neophyte slam poet are done. My style does not cross over into the world of live performance as well as I thought it would.
At some point, I felt that the writing needed to change to try and pull people in (whether with topical or political subjects) and when I tried it, something was lost. The ones who do it well, excel at it. I, myself, do not do it well.
The chapbook was to be called The Blackbird Seven; seven pivotal moments in a life, from beginning to end. Each piece would be numbered, (Blackbird I, II, etc.) to symbolize a piece of the newly deceased character being carried away. Some pieces were meant to represent captured moments imprinted, some were emotions from formative years.
The idea changed many times from its inception; first, it was to be a fictional character, then it was about my own experiences and memories. As much as I like the concept, I could not find a way to make the pieces connect and instead, now have seven disjointed pieces.
Instead of releasing something that I did not feel was 100%, I will be putting it here.
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I.
A Sorrow Broadcast
Dear friend, I sing here to curse your name
That you should take a life as valued as your own, two weeks ago this day
This pile of dirt holds your truth
I find myself losing breath when speaking, reflections show me wings
And a sadness that beckons me to try my luck at flying
Struggling to keep my head above a water rising higher the more I walk this path alone
Here is a toast…
To the growing void in me
One that spreads dead feathers in the places where warm laughter would sit
My eyes match the sullen stares of my elders finally accustomed to the realities of what life is
We had talked about this for years
On buses and trains, drunken and reckless, through the youthful city we revisit
But cannot reside in
Those were the best days of our lives!
Things will change…
Somehow, we knew what lied behind our parents’ hopes
That dreams and fantasies were proven to be a matter of luck of timing
And we had obligations to fulfill…checks to write…jobs to work…
No one has changed the world without food on the table
Cheers to the anger…
That put holes in walls and dents in my knuckles
For you have humbled me
Swallowed up
By the years, the bills, maintaining small comfort
This shit catches up to us all, doesn’t it?
I fell short
But you…ran away from it
Never trading a piece of yourself
What courage it takes to look at everything we are, everything we came from
And say
“I don’t need it…”
What sorrow do I broadcast with my every move?
This rat race is no longer fun without your disregard
And I tell stories about you to whoever will listen
This blackbird on your stone is becoming me
A carrier of bones and old memories
Casting no shadow
No longer feeling its heart
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II.
Vanishing Days
These are vanishing days and I am troubled
Something keeping me from placing words on paper in unique strings
Bringing clarity that I desperately need but all my numbers are decreasing to zero
Wax dripping from the burning touch of mysterious, divine fingers
A tired mind pushes me to find truth
To cease speaking any words lacking resolution
Believe me when I say I am sick of keyboard warriors
Endless arguments never made in person
A circular distraction
Occupied fussing with toys
We are insects too fascinated with the shiny lights ahead
As opposed to the steel engine pushing forward
Faster than you can run
Yet I am hit with petty, empty emotions
Except for one…
There’s not a lack of, but an adverse reaction to its presence
Unable to focus and grow collectively
We stab at the hands of unassuming strangers
Seeking the validation reserved for those who truly educate
Always the ghost in hallways of loud voices
Silent observation never put me in the crosshairs for accusations
But rest assured that no one would survive with reputation intact
Should they attempt to take what is mine
It’s all about one thing…
You think I don’t know what it means?
The idea that you cannot let go of someone
Desperately needing a punch in the face because you still care about them?
The days of living on good memories are vanishing
Replaced by a fight every day to hold onto what you deserve
In the wake of passive insanity
Of people who would rather sit alone in the dark than work together
And keep fighting the ones who never turned their back on them
Creating new enemies from their own mind
Never getting up and making the change needed most with their own hands
There is no other way that I know of
Some things cannot be controlled, but I will not be controlled
To the woman who waited two years to fly 20 hours and watch me falter
I am sorry that I am not as strong as you thought but I love you
And nameless men will put me in the fucking ground before I give up on us
Let them pour that dirt with the same conviction that goes into these words
I am tired of hate
The anger that feeds these pains in my stomach at night is useless
For so long, it’s been the fuel for my hands, the catalyst for my life’s work
But there is something else here now
What could it be?
What have we been ignoring?
How long has it been waiting?
And vanishing?
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III.
An Invisible City…
Within me is an invisible city, populated with history
It turns and revolves like clockwork, stirring up heat in these early winter hours
My hands are cradled between my legs
The numbers of the clock in my car struggle to change in below zero air
It is here, where I prepare for cubicle service
Eight hours of routine digging through telephone wires
These internal city lights flicker with the same frequency as my eyes blink to flush tears
Breath creates ice across the surface of the dashboard
Three blocks of memories to walk before the car is warm enough to move
One:
Years ago, poetry club and a ride home on the same bus were common ground
She and I spent our summers finding ways to reveal our fears
Becoming writers
Practicing loud, complicated art in messy bedrooms
Two:
Pouring our vulnerabilities into carefully worded emails during her semesters away
She wore white dresses with flowers in her hair and white pearls across the neck
Clear eyes with furrowed brows
Billie Holiday without the heroin
Three:
We sang a blues beaten beet red by lack of human contact
Left pieces buried in the other that we will not get back
When we talk, there is a reminder of summer in our words, so conversations are brief
Yet somehow, we remember that we made each other better
Four:
You said that we write, to save ourselves
To this day, I think about superheroes
Whether on damaged Midwest roads
Dodging potholes like raindrops
Or ingesting two cups of jet black electricity to shock my city
I am not a morning person
Every spreadsheet falls victim to the rivers of ink inside my blood
Coercing me to pray to these paper altars
Untouched
In hopes of finding a new language to define this metropolis I carry
When I dreamed as a child
Images formed through a dancing darkness behind my eyes
A sequence of shadows that speaks to me still
Begging me to give them life
Two lined arms to the side, majestic circles for hands
A small dot of mouth to show the stoic understanding of the burden placed upon them
To watch over this bustling world made of pencil lines and amateur shading
Reminding me there is still a place for my heroes here in the world of big budget monopolies
There is an infinite amount of personality in stick figures
Within simple bodies lay carbon hearts
A lifeblood with my signature
Moving through veins crafted by my own trials
They are dying to be freed
Hands move into prayer position
Hidden underneath endless paperwork
And the city begins to move again with startling precision
Paving new streets
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IV.
Belly Button
Anger was written into my DNA, I was raised with it and around it
It is who I am
Everywhere beneath crackling skin, blood boils then settles
I make with crafty motions to let everyone around me know that all is well
A cool, casual demeanor is important to maintain, they say
Yet with every idea and ambition that I fumble
There is fleeting contentment, over analysis, insecurity, rage, meditation, repeat
My reflexes are coming under fire
Awaiting the loss of a façade I took years to design
My faults are the harsh medicine mixed within the food
Laced with every mistake I said I would handle right before she left her country
There is fatigue in my bones
My contradictions are no longer interesting
Weaknesses no longer endearing
Every day, I feel I am failing to be the vision of what I could be
Looking back to the smashed cage that bred me
Sheltered, ill prepared to handle the questions I didn’t even think to ask
Caught at a fork in the road of my decisions
Baby, have you ever felt lost?
Didn’t anyone ever tell you that nothing you do will matter?
Unless you are willing to step outside of yourself
No one will believe what you say until you believe them
I am halfway between being a man, and staying one when things go wrong
And though this anger comes in short bursts, it is still enough to alienate
Making me second guess every face that smiles when I do the dance
Bringing out charming laughter to replace that brief hatred
Show them it doesn’t get to you, but it does…and it might always
The dance has no appeal; the moves are too rehearsed
Maybe no one can live this long without becoming a cliché
These wings grow tired under the stones I said I would burden forever
The weight is heavier than I thought it would be
Feathers fall showing broken skin
The name of my love is etched deep
I am everyone who has ever been in this position
So why do I feel like everything bad still happens to me only?
When we shower together
Your finger will sometimes trace the edge of my belly button
And sometimes, you push in
My stomach tenses when I grip your skin
Bracing as if you were trying to dig out a better me
There are times when I can say I do not love everything you do
But I am here, holding on
How long before I can shed my own anchors?
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V.
We speak in video games
My brother is a grown man with the mind of a child
Unable to articulate universal angst to express thoughts and emotions taken for granted
Yet excitement often pours from him leading into breaks of dialect
Fast moving hands, repeating phrases
All sounds of a forgotten language buried beneath concrete shackles of disability
The expressions of a lost people, I strain to find the meaning
Years ago, I discovered a way for us to connect, we speak in video games
We speak in plumbers and Pokémon; we are as snakes under cardboard boxes
With guns blazing, swords clashing
All the furious lights and energy to stir the imagination bringing forth the bridge
Visual media burned as a catalyst to home schooling
YouTube and Playstation after schoolwork allowed countless attempts to get the phrasing just right
Over and over at all hours of the day, memorizing, recording
Understanding emerges making communication slowly possible
My star pupil
Valedictorian in the fine arts of Mortal Kombat, Soul Calibur and Marvel V.S. Capcom
Tinkering with the colors and combinations of clothing for characters
We share opinions through the fashion options of space pirates and world warriors
The waters of conversation sometimes bubble up into frenzy
“hey jr! look at that! What happened to his head? It exploded! That’s called a fatality…
Choices become preferences, which evolve into favorites, culminating into personality
But some days, there is nothing but a brick wall
Regression into silence of prison walls, where every question you ask is ignored
Brother, can you hear me? Yes
Why are you sad? I don’t know.
Why are you angry? I don’t know, stop talking please!
Motor skills are hard to recall, eyes staring in directions further away from a normal life
Babies born spared the random collection of genes are molded like clay from the beginning
Into a reflection of its makers and the world around them, for better or worse
Teaching my brother is taking knives to a tree, taking endless patience and diligence
In guiding the growth of an incomplete work of art
In 2014, the average cost for behavior therapy for children with autism is $17,000 a year
At 21, there will be no government programs to teach him how to survive
I envy the inner workings of his mind
The fact that he does not yet have to know what it means to worry, or to dread
Or feel the corruption of the world around us
Brother, do you know what is happening outside?
I’m okay! Not to worry!
There is fear of what will happen when or if I go before him
A smile on his face, a laugh that echoes through the rooms of the house
Replaces the discussion we bury and never fully hold
I refuse to die while him becoming institutionalized for the remainder of his life
Remains a possibility
My purpose, more than words on a page that need to be written
To shape the mind of a boy into the strength of a man
Press start to begin
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VI.
The Genesis of Memory
Dylan Thomas became a hero for me
When he admitted that he wrote not for ambition or bread
But for the lovers in bed
Those words I would find in defining times
Buried them deep in the back of my own
Leaving an imprint
Writers document life in floods of paper and ink
Poets capture an entire existence within moments
An echo of distant music left for an audience to discover
To tear apart
Fill the infinite blanks in their minds
We write for ourselves
For those who can’t or never wanted to
Those with no choice, no option, no desire
Even if we did not realize it
It belongs to all
The real function of human beings is not to spread a seed
But to spew information
This is universal, subconscious, and undeniable
In literature, social media, networking
Through infection, invasion, war
Written words work the same way
Exchanging ideas and moments
Sadness to dispel sadness
Darkness to defend darkness
Death to stop more death
We hear the signals, process the data
But we have our own destruction to make
There is no future without it
Records I leave behind will mark the dirt and grime
Touched by me, as well
No false pretenses in my words
Just the slow evolution from the day that first imprint was made
A check to check life, with a flair for dark clothes
No money, no connections
Just a handful of comrades
Living the stories with me
Spreading the infection we embody
First place prize was never in the cards for me
No trophies or degrees
Just honest work until an honest death
Nothing else matters but words on a page for me
The cycles of technology will bury this work
Deep into lines of code, easy to download
Stories survive as time charges on blind
We carry on
Festering, spreading the disease of knowledge
Virus of existence, language of experience
Spit it out and become your history
Words on paper spark fires that burn relentless
The genesis of memory
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VII.
A dual elegy…
They say that when a person dies, a blackbird carries their spirit to the land of the dead
Sometimes their energy lingers
Residual motions imprinted in time through strange phenomena
Finding themselves struggling with the presence of living creatures newly ripped away from them
Shoved back into their faces, older, broken
The lifeblood within their shapes, bodies no more, still remaining
It pushes to stay alive
Relevant to familiar faces with histories are empty
Leading to doors moving on their own, drinking cups flying from their hands
Voices off-screen shrouded in distorted whispers
A language of static misinterpreted as messages from beyond our world
This is wrong.
I am alone here, but there has to be others
We are not lost in clouds
They are always around you, never quite remembering your names
I am barely holding together
A ghost is nothing more than a revolving door of memories
Formless
The passage of time moves with the persistence of busy highways
Images stick out but are quickly shuffled aside
No time for true sadness, only calculated movement
Showing you the fate of all things
A universal truth appears weaving between the rushed narrative of the world
We are weak
I speak these words to no one
They have echoed across endless sky for as long as I have tried to speak them
What afterlife is this that you are made a spectator for the death of all others?
The actors on this stage are unprepared for what is waiting for them
No airport landing with relatives long missing
No heaven or hell
Fire or light
Companions or vagrants
You will see everything you left behind wither
A garden of lost flowers, my exit proved to crack the foundations of so many
Far stronger
Honest men turned wayward shadows
I used to be their rebellion
A woman given a child she didn’t choose
So convinced that she could not create a decent human alone
I gave her that chance
There was so much hate in my absence, but she succeeded
Some people don’t realize how much damage they inflict simply by living
People bouncing off of each other, spinning fictions of negativity
An evolving chaos we perfect daily
Whatever soul remaining has been poured out onto phantom pages
Spread out across life
It is all I think about, it is all that is shown to me
In dead black wings, I will follow you
Singing in aching fervor
The journey is far more vicious than its destination
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Thank you…
shadowart 