All cities are dirty
That much is true
Sidewalks are survivors of the plague
While skyscrapers have both feet in the grave
It’s not just leftover trash
No what about the discarded
The four-toothed junkie
Who begs for dollars
Or the woman with five children
Who’s only desire is to watch her children swim
Risking the rules of trespassing just to baptize them
It is these specks of cosmic dust, these stains that humanity that has tried to eliminate
With a system that is 99.9 percent effective
They still remain,
To remind us that the city
Is also the dumpster
Where man leave his treasures.
the dead can only be brought back
Time is only wasted
It was never ours
Continue reading Six Shorts To Remind You of You.
There will come a day, months after that day
When the inevitable will happen
And your position in my life will become both past and future
I’ll see a girl who looks like you, and she’ll smile like you did at my jokes
And her eyes will tell me all the things you used to whisper to me.
We’ll probably date for awhile,
At first to make you hurt then long enough for me to start seeing you in her reflection
To blend our memories together with hers
How parasitic we really are
Continue reading Remembered Strangers, Forgotten Lovers
First time on the track so call me a verbal virgin
Hands up dont shoot
My boys be squirming
Continue reading William Blake Came Through The Window
This is it. Standing in the airport, watching them all go. As do I, back home. With new ideas, and ink. New York was proof, that the person I’m becoming is not only tolerated, but welcomed by the world. And by myself.
To operate in a space freely, using my camera to do what? To show that God is everywhere. There’s work to be done, so much work. Each day needs to be used to the fullest. Don’t forget what you have learned here:
Continue reading Always Returning
The warmth of your hands on my collarbone,
recycled air turning in the space
as goosebumps awaken
for when we lay
So much energy
trapped within this prison
but when skin touches
particles of me always find an escape.
This story is dedicated to all those souls who were taken from us too early through injustice, hate and violence. This is also dedicated to those who’s hearts and notebooks are filled with the silent echoes from the past. May these words grant us a minute of reprieve.
When I was born God gave me a pen. He said it had special ink. When I was old enough, the world gave me a notepad and then told me it was time to use the pen; however God gave me no instructions. So I started writing, and the pen worked. But not long enough. The ink would fade by the next day. I wrote about many things. about love. about fear. about the future. But my notepad was always blank by the morning. So I put it away.
I saw the name of a soul who was taken too early. It hurt to see this happen, so I decided to try the pen again. It bled this time, and I awoke the next day to find that my notebook was now real. Weeks later another name found it’s way into my book, then another. At first, these names were so important, because they were so few and the white space was so great. However, more and more began to appear, faster too. So quick that my hand began to hurt and the notebook started filling up. On occasion, I had to write many names at once and my fingers would go numb. Eventually I had a list of names that never disappeared.
Continue reading The Special Pen