Your name wrung
between the lines of
fresher tender cuts.
Brushing a slower finger
over dusty pages,
disturbing untold stories
that was long untouched.

Your name is
the tap-tap of hammer nails
and the crimson consummator.

The barricading name,
of the mesmeric temple of apologies
molded by unequivocal agony and anger
lying in the bleak moor
laced with your remnants.

My mind is left shambled on the floor,
shards of memories
now leaking as exudate
am I being inflamed?

If I were to paint this across the canvas,
it’d be red, blue then purple
a galaxy with mismatched constellations
on a rippled fabric of night skies.

If I were to ink you to paper,
tracing you in black
you’d diffuse, cry and leak
into a pool of red,
dripping at the edge of the paper.

You are the cactus
pricking with every temptation.

The one engrained in my figmentation
wrapped in lessons
coloring the pigmentation of my skin
with various hues.

You are the open wound
with the fabricated scab.

You are the name
that rings inside my head,
echoing through my memories
trembling shakes, tremors
through the cronies
widening the past a little
more within me.

5 a.m. Souls ascend
from earth’s vale
of fears. Others wait
don’t give up yet.
Nothing I can do about that.

Not is my name known
but am I a good man.
That goes for John, too
a man of faith
who wants what God wants.

What about hate
in the streets. What do white
people want?
I see no need
to pull down statues of General Lee

instead put him side by side
and head to head
with Martin Luther King,
Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi.
Also kids who cops shot dead.

Meanwhile on the macro
economic and political scale
leviathans (peoples, nations)
drift toward perpetual
armageddon or peaceful solutions.

We don’t know which
and John will be gone
before it matters
except to his children
and, of course, ours.

What I have done
to change man’s trajectory,
for better or worse, remains
anonymous. Every action
meets an equal and impassable mountain.

Passion
is its own predicament.
Cast a cold eye and guess.
The clouds go, nevertheless,
in their direction.

when sitting at your desk
you experience hypesthesia
from being to statuesque
it's called paresthesia

don't want to swear
by yelling out bollix
take it out with blare
or a string called grawlix

do you have that tickling
feeling on your niddick
don't know that christening
it's your nape to be specific

going into winter sun
that soft warm felicity
experienced by everyone
that is called apricity

This sorrow, unforgiven, Hollow, be thy name.

The screams, they come, the pain has won, as cursed and filled with aggression.

Give me today some mercy instead, and forgive me my debt, and I might just feel better.

And please change this sensation, and make hope believable.

If you’re the one sitting on against your window with tear filled eyes and an empty heart.
I understand how you feel
If you’re tired of speaking up because who might chain you back down.
I’ve been on thrown out also.
If you hear your name used as a curse more often then a welcome
Mine has been ruined before
And if living has become a responsibility rather than a blessing
There is so much more waiting for you outside.
I believe that whatever trial or issue contains you now, just as it came, shall leave. Don’t think life is over just because you can’t see it. Lovely things come to those who let God lead them to it.

everything you say
resonates with me like a
headache.

the pounding of your
words
against my porcelain skull
shoots fire and lightning
down my cracking spine.

my lungs are glass
and your name shattered them

and broke me.

each breath rattles.
each breath chokes.

what's the point of breathing
when there's no air?

As subtle as a sun shower
My tears become one with rain
Loosely connected dreams hold my love letters are bay
All I ever wanted
Was to know your name
I guess I'll have to ask you on another day