Paranoia to the Masses

stock-photo-young-ill-man-with-schizophrenia-175109303

You’re all a bunch

Of lab rats

Being tested, traced

Controlled

Each with another set

Of variables

They push and test

Until they get

Their reaction

I’m their lab

Rat too.

We’re all a swarm

Of roaches

Followed by a

School yard

Chum

Getting his jollies

With each crunch

The sound of murder

Under his loafer

Forgotten Youth

The expression is stern
As cross hairs float to the next spirit of God
A man of war
Finger clasped around the trigger
But in his mind
His chapped hands are smooth
Coiled around feminine face
Warm with life
But on steel
Burning stove tops
Metallic pools
Galvanizing the machine
Pushing the trigger
Like clock ticks
Deliberately
Consistently
Each second
He watches men fall
Like his children at the swing’s apex
Youthful face is cloudy, swollen
And tears race like rain
But these orphans
Torn like warped boards
Enclosing the crate
Of Pandora’s box
They aren’t puffy eyed
Aren’t lifted to their feet
By overly concerned mothers
They lie motionless
In the reddening mud

Will it read Poetry?

If I ejaculate on the page
Will it read
Poetry?
What if I tease them
With another man’s seamen?
If I use my little peter
Will it rhyme with meter
Reveal my best feature
I’m student, plaid skirt
Spank me teacher
The ruler breaks
When I masturbate
Auto asphyxiate
Spit in my face
Put this little bitch
In his place
Don’t be meager
Be the woman
man enough for me

The end

Flustered faces
Life dependent
In or on that manila folder

But there are no windows
And the walls are white
Styrofoam.

Frazzled fro
You once combed into
A crafted mane

High school, college,
Work
“something must be done”
I remember when you said it
“it feels like so long ago.”

The world was cracking
The shell caving in
And we had to stop it.

I haven’t seen her in ages
At a bar once
The black cocktail dress
Holding her figure
As close as I used to.

I remember the curves of her supple body
And fighting to stay awake
To keep the moment
In our grasp.
Stale in the eyes
That once overwhelmed
Me with vibrancy

Vivacious and vulnerable
Now drained
Running from
What will
wait patiently

The rain drips drips
On their foreheads.
Sagging, stroke victim smile
mixed with lip and grimace.

Wilting crow’s feet
Darkened with the scars of the road
over
two small burlap sacks
Swollen
Void of color

She picks him cherry blossom
And they walk hand in hand
Riding the high

Their
ballpark-urinal teeth
Misfits of the street
Miscreant of society

Walking numb
Dim inebriation
Smiling at colorless
T.V. screen skies

For them it ended a longtime ago
Weary from the race
They stand on the sidelines
They’ve accepted

Forget the Kids (Trigger Warning)

*Trigger warning as this material deals intimately with school shootings. It is not as a means of disrespect or belittling. School shootings are horrid and far too frequent.

Dressed in a green camouflage and dark boots he stepped into puddles like mortar shells being fired into the ocean. An unjustified, misdirected rifle is slung over his shoulder. The rain stings and is unforgiving against the flat of his neck. It stings his eyes in the contrast of the sunrise. He reaches his post, whistling “We don’t need no education” and unperturbedly silences the screams of an angry flame at the end of mistaken power. He sees the reflection of a god with his mighty trident when he stares at the mirror. He will be remembered, this is his legend. Children scream, teachers hiding students in gymnasiums, closets, corners are murdered for their loyalty. Afterwards the memorials are meticulous and frequent; an event to bring people together; people entirely unrelated, people from hundreds of miles away. If it wasn’t for the grim, sordid looks on the faces of the mothers and fathers you’d think it was a celebration or a grand festivity. In time they dwindle. In time the families of the deceased aren’t asked to meet with the righteous TV show hosts pretending to sympathize. In time even their closest relatives avoid them in a fear that they may remind or reinstate the pain the soldier had given. The fame from their misfortune follows a long downward spiral and all that remains is the legend of the mighty, dreadful soldier trudging through the red mud.

Lethargic Cages

I sit alone in a sterile, plush room.
It happened before
Your soft hands weren’t strong enough
But the trees grew in through the window
Life came back into the walls of that institution
The floor turned into one substantial planter
Of mud, sand, and stone

In the winter there was a storm to weather
But what made it count
Was that I had someone at my side
To survive for

Now the colors fade into each other
The air is stale, stagnant
Every purple, pink, and violet
Turns a light shade of blue
Lethargic cages
College is
Lethargic cages

Paradoxical

Below is a writing exercise about oxymorons in language. I ended up noting more oxymorons in society and public education than anything.

Braking flatulence.
The player, lonely in a crowd of women.
The oxymoron of Public Education
Empower the public, with a healthy dosage of brain washing.
Help them improve society, just make sure there is no independent thought.
The teacher teaches, so the students are tricked into thinking that they’ve learned.
It’s illegal to mesh state and church, and yet we pledge our allegiance to God single day.
They want to avoid teen pregnancy, so they preach abstinence, hoping that we’ll know the off beaten trail with closed eyes.

They speak of opportunities, and bettering yourself,
but the children marked as unworthy are training by cleaning up our lunches.
Nothing induces self worth like public education.
Trying to advance society,
relieve the world of its ignorance
by teaching the point of view of the plantation owners History.

They try to produce different results, by sticking to the centuries old system.
Painfully honest seems to be something in itself.
Or maybe the truth will set you free. Both seem to be oxymorons.
He spends hours memorizing the facts that will be forgotten by the end of next week.
He wants to learn how to write, so he goes to the lectures.

Going to biology, and removing the reasons
the evidence is relative to the world around you.

I’ve lost the point to this exercise

One good one.

I want to become a poet
So I can write one good one
On paper better than the poem itself

Show the girls with the glazed look
And the slack jaw
And have sex for the rest of my life

I want to write one good poem
And when the critics and scholars
Crucify me
They’ll have to choke past a wadded piece
Of jagged literature first

To show my family
What a PHD in words and letters can do.
I want one good poem.

The head in creative writing

I’m told I have an appointment
To meet with the head of creative writing.
The only person who’s wasted more of their time
On fallen dreams
Out of the kids wafer cone
And melting on the street
Until their parents buy a much better
Frozen Dream

Isn’t that beautiful
All that a degree in words can make
All that a pretty sentence can change

Thank you

Hundreds of thousands of dollars
For teaching me how many times a pig can be stuck
And still be happily running back
To the trough.

Thank you for showing me
How everyone of us that drowns
Is just another drop in the sea

What makes me strong
What makes me pass through surface tension
And evaporate
To something better than?
To rise into the clouds
And walk on air?

But it is far too cold
And the ceilings frozen
And still I drown.
I could never crack the ceiling
While I’m feeding off the ocean floor.