Saints and Sinners

the crooked orphan shoplifting a toy gun
the naive girl confronted by his threat
the pennies and lint she gives up

the faded drunk on the corner of 22nd and State
spilling his thoughts and lunch on the sidewalk
the steps taken to clean it up

the decrepit bum rummaging for some food
the pennies and lint that he finds
the steps taken to clean him up

angels watch from above
they holler from the windows
at the noise
interrupting their holy suppers
saints in their homes
sinners on the street
but still they live together
under the same black sky

Mediocracy

Those mediocre mothers drip with money:
"I can't let go of anything these days.
There's simply too much space."

Their mediocre husbands breathe desperation:
"I can not go on any longer.
I wish I was stronger."

The mediocre children embellish gratefulness:
"I could not care any less.
There's always a way to get out of a mess."

And their mediocre infant siblings peer out from their crib:
"From the cradle to the grave,
We will always be insane."

Metropolitan

In clusters of concrete, asphalt, and metal,
the masses sprawl out on terrantial landscapes
of manmade lawns and plastic gardens
Flesh and bones and thought populate,
racing, pushing forward,
but they’re anchored,
gathering dust.
Each one has the same checkerboard grid;
the pieces moving from spot to spot
and in between.
Their moves are already played out beforehand
by a black queen that devours and consumes
But there aren’t enough sectioned, empty lots
to fulfill her ravenous hunger.
And there aren’t enough standard, miserable lives
to quench that avid thirst.

Strung Out

Machinery

machinery
speak for us, lay us out flat
like dollar bills
a mosaic to all our thrills,
purchase, check, receipt,
understanding and submissive
machinery
make up our mind, drilled into
our head, memory lapse,
migraines, aspirin pill
insomniacs, melatonin
caffeine buzz, extra espresso
machinery
close our eyes, can't tell
the good from the bad
the ugly from the proud
monotonous images
dragged and pulled apart
machinery
stand in line, wait for the
systematic social tendency
to fuck, to feel, to fuck, to feel
today, tonight, tomorrow
blueprints for satisfaction
taking notes, paying attention
listening in
machinery

Room

In this room I live in,
there are only fortunes
and the prophets that tell them.
There is no way to speak to God
or to call upon an angel.
I find it hard to believe
that I can keep this facade,
a charade that lasts too long.
In this room I live in,
it is always cold.

What It's Like Without the Pages

I draw scenery from children's books on my eyes.
What's better than that pixelated party
Pulling you in with princesses and pixi stix.

The scenery that lays beyond these fantasies:
Phantoms in formal wear.
The neighbor kid Timmy with his haunting God
That stands by the side of his bed
With a shadow so dark
A bat can't even see.
Money that mauls people's faces
Until their very being has changed meaning.
The pungent political pig
That bathes in broken vows...

My children's book is better
It looked better from the start.

Transitions

His pavement colored rant dripped with indifference,
While his vicarious mother played with his heart.
And their emerald forest exploded with envy.
Its mediocre performance connected well
with the executive community that spits
upon ingenious roots that copulate to reproduce.

“If sinister insincerity is the fruit of relaxation
then I will indulge in the Apple.
A hint of that golden aroma will cost me dear.”

So they sit and preach:
Inhale that change with pride.
Let it sizzle and pierce your radio.
Throw that stone into the sea
and ponder where it lands.
Your blind days will be overwhelmed.
You will hear the music.