Archive for October 2009

As you shake your head,
He jumps across a stretcher
In a bombed out home,
Violence, Violence,
Everything is violence
Cries the teacher.

Armies come and go and wander in between
Finding cities to sack
Women to rape
Children to enslave
Blood to spill again and again
When does it end you ask?

He laughs,
Violence, Violence,
Everything is Violence!

You were brought into this world with violence,
With violence you were formed,
With violence you were expelled,
With violence you were made to breathe
With violence you were behaved,
Prevented from committing more violence.

Look at the line of people,
They march and seem
To be peaceful,
But they march to hold the reins
To whip and pull
Leading men where they want.

They spill no blood now,
But will one day,
As dreams are worth nothing
Without violence.
Violence by itself is a nightmare,
Violence with a dream is progress.

Your whole world is built on a web of violence,
With violence against mother earth you are fed,
With violence against the poor you are housed,
With violence against the brown you have land,
With violence against children you are not questioned,
It just is, but is it just?

Hah! He continues to laugh,
Winding down a staircase,
A light in his hand burning off the night,
Violence, Violence
Everything is violence!

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I Hate School

Kid HangingI know, I should get in line.

I just went to parent teacher conferences. No relation to the child discussed, just along for the ride due to a wide open schedule. And I heard a lot of things about a few kids. “Has done well, just needs to participate more,” “you have nothing to worry about, your child does everything perfectly,” and “he consistently arrives 3 minutes late.” Yes, she’s been counting. I couldn’t help but wonder what the point was. I never saw the point while in school, and now I especially don’t see it. When have I ever used anything that I learned in physics? Or geometry? Technical drawing? Really? I haven’t. Someone has, but I haven’t had the pleasure yet. I don’t knock any particular subject. I just dislike curriculum as a whole. Everything that I’ve needed, I mean really needed to know, I’ve learned on my own, or have been taught through the world.

I never learned about death. I never learned how to tell if someone was lying to you. I never learned that love is always conditional with most people you meet. I never learned that most of the love you show most people probably is too. And that people do die before their time, but they don’t really, because we don’t really know what time it is. Those lessons hit hard. Harder than a textbook.

But the third Matrix movie did help me understand that nothing can exist without its opposite. Clubs showed me that most people drink to escape, and made me look at what we we’re running from. 2 years of college showed me that it isn’t for everyone, but there’s a small amount of avenues for those who don’t fit the mold. Kids have shown me that everything is possible, until the world beats the imagination out of you. People who test my nerves have taught me a lot about my limitations, and more about myself. An illegal substance has taught me that we’re all just different cut-outs of the same fabric. Can you guess which one?

Now, that was through a pipe. I don’t know how you put those lessons into a classroom, or how you teach guidelines for truly unique experiences, but there’s no room for wonder. Everybody knows that not everyone is the same. So why do we have the same criteria for the masses? Who are you to judge me, mold me, place me in a box? There isn’t room for spontaneity or for life to occur in those boxes. As a person who never really fit, I don’t think there’s room for all personalities to excel. Not everybody sits comfortably at desks.

“Why does he need to participate?” I wonder that as I overhear a teacher telling a kid what he’s missing to be her ideal student. “What if he doesn’t care?” Because… I don’t blame him. I never got an A for helping to diffuse a situation, or an F for letting her off the hook when she used fake tears to disarm me when I was mad. Those things – reading people and situations, harnessing courage through your fears, standing up against authority when it needs to be done – aren’t graded. Aren’t given praise. But they are so advanced, that those lessons are passed grad school. They lie somewhere in a moment that won’t be looked at on standardized testing. Where is that kid’s gold star for not caring, and for not wasting time on things that aren’t important to him? That’s a lesson that I still haven’t been able to grasp fully. Ahead of the curve, he is.

I don’t like school. I don’t like what it promotes: A whole lot of sameness. I hate that it leaves out the differences. And parent teacher conferences are like the nail in the coffin. R.I.P. to personalities. And I don’t know how to fix that; just consider me a complainer.

From my days as an after school teacher, I know there’s not much I personally can teach. But I can offer this: Kids, duck and dodge the laws of the curriculum. And most importantly, no matter how many other people are facing the other way, don’t ever think twice about running towards what you want. Real life comes out of every one of those steps.

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[ Don’t lie to yourself ~ Reduce or eliminate excuses ]

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Preparedness is the key to VICTORY…The more you SWEAT in Peace, the less you Bleed in WAR.

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The sun still

With shadows grazing
the bridge
of your nose

Your irises
rest in
the shade
of two o’clock

A lone bird
demands attention
at the tip of
a solar flare.

Ringlets tousle
in a head pivot
Suddenly it is six

The white ring
on your itching wrist

There is no
of his indiscretion
upon your body
of indiscretion


…a turquoise shoe
dangles from your pinky toe
by the journey
of rough education
it dangles
above the ocean
with expectation

the moon goes black
comes back
and returns
as a cat eye

the shoe waits for a nudge
for a final thought
that douses
love letters
with lighter fluid

You contemplate the heel
nearly snapped
in the taxi door

The black smudge
of his clumsiness
when he couldn’t hear
the music
He could never
the music
never listened

to your body

The rum he spilled
on your anxious leg
ran down and inside
the sole
At the Christmas
party where you bit
your nails
he was better

He alternated
adoring and forgetting
flattering and upsetting
dancing with
and trampling you.

Inciting you to speak
to show
you were smart
Interrupting you
so they wouldn’t
know how smart

He ripped your dress
passed out
never hearing your
dream time breath

The shoe falls
Sun swords pierce waves
the splintered pier
shoe won’t sink.

The passive man
Sits numbing himself with whiskey
Bleary eyes reflect greyhounds running in circles.
He asks the bartender to turn the volume up.
He wonders where you went,
Why you always seem angry,
And what time it is.

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One shave and you’re
Back in the world,
Two blades rub
Against your face
In a metallic imitation
Of the kiss you miss,
Luckily it’s all electric,
Your hand trembles too much
To hold a naked razor
Against your jugular.

Now you’re the gardener again,
Taking care of yourself,
She would be proud, only
If she was standing in the threshold,
Her face looking back in the mirror
Like a painter placed
Inside his creation, observing himself.

Before you were alive,
But not awake, the world
Had its way with you
And let time sit on your face
To conjure up a brush
Sweeping everyone away.

The engine growls,
The first music you have heard,
And the best, sound independent
Of any passion, of love lost,
It tells you that the bills are paid
And the fuse box is working,
Small joys you had a hand in.

Gently, you are reminded
That there is still creation,
There is time to carve a mask
Or to liberate a chin for the world to see,
Time will bury you soon enough
You can take a moment
To climb out and walk around
Before the gravedigger notices you’re gone,
Your Delilah wanted you to grow these hairs,
She wants to hide how you looked,
She’s done with that man.

Bring him back, bring him out,
And parade him under her window,
Let her know who’s she missing,
Risen from the dead and taking no prisoners,
Including her, you’re harmless,
But she doesn’t know that,
Let her be afraid, thinking of those blades
And what they’re capable of cutting.

One shave and you’re
Back in the world,
Welcome son, and stand
Before the mirror,
Watch your hairs falling
Like black snow
Remember to trim the bushes
Sprouting from the nostrils,
She never liked the sight of them.

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I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet. I am unfortunately the audience member who won’t sit down and shut up. The night spot regular who feels obligated to share his ability to memorize lines that just so happen to rhyme occasionally.

No I am not a poet. You see it’s just that I write to live. And I’ve been told that true poets write for a living. And I don’t wanna be giving anybody the impression, that my chest’s expansion and my diaphragm’s compression is interferin’ with feeding their chirin’ so. excuse me if it’s cool. Well, is it cool? Preciate’ it.

No I’m not a poet. Cause’ poets get all the women, It’s already a given that I’m apt to tap any crap of cat if I want that cause I’m just that cute. Then she hears I can sing too? Shoot! So how would that reflect on my character if. Let’s say your names Erica. Erica here, came with her dear here to hear sheer genius, and it just so happens that this week’s piece isn’t about peace but my piece. ‘Scuze me penis. Then I get to spitting’ that freaky sh*t. Just to see how weak she gets. Like, “Girl I wanna give it to you in the worst way like it’s your birthday. From first base to home plate I’ll knock it out. You know what I’m talking bout’? I’m talking soaked sheets and ceiling fans. Shaking knees and flailing hands, angled rams, knocking divots in your diaphragm until you’re hardly breathing if we be heathens then God Damn!” Then I stop. Cause’ she done got to sweating like it’s hotter than Armageddon and forgetting who she came with. Then I get to spitting’ some game sh*t like any lady in here tonight, that wanna feel what that be like come holla’ at me if you’re just that curious. And now he’s mad at me, cause she just that curious. And done got all furious and wanna’ fight, but forgot when I got on the mic. I told him I wasn’t a poet, and he forgot but now he know it cause’ he gotta take his nose and hold it. Like this. So he don’t get his good shirt messed up.

No I am not a poet. I’m the guy on the sideline waiting for the over-thrusted corner three to come to me so I can have, just one shot. And if I make it.I’ma’ run through the park and shake Kidd’s like Jason. Or highlight my sneakers green so that my turbo’s on and run all the way home and remember that I’m grown and I left my car back at the gym.

Yo, I am not a poet. I am poetry’s enemy. I am talent undefined. Or to be poetic. I’m the inexplicable lift of the bumble bee. So don’t think it’s belittling to come to me and humble me with words like, “Algie you suck.” Cause it’s true. I suck the raw emotion out of you and transfer it to composite fibers via graphite. And if it’s that tight, I’ll let you hear it. You forced me to write it in the first place. As to not let words waste I dictate.

I am not a poet. I am unfortunately the audience member who won’t sit down and shut up.

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along the lines
the grace notes

come on
in light rain

shimmering window
too ragged the beat

repeats strong
amongst chords held

in falling versions
finding home

in fragments
assembled into song

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Self-Disciplined begins with the MASTERY of UR thoughts. If U don’t control what U THINK, U can’t control what you DO

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Tonight, after supper, the dome of the sky will open in sections
Watch the photons swarm the entryways
the exitways

All the unborn infants have shopping lists
There’s an inflammation of naked mole rats in the turnstile

A man at a booth on the sidewalk wants to sell
a pair of scissors to snip at the excess of this day
to reuse the strips of Wednes-,Tues-, and Satur-
as tickets to an exhibit for an installation of barbed wire piano strings
suspending a pastiche marionette who plays Ella—
a man-made cubist and a hobbyhorse of a surgeon
who historically deems the appendix as unnecessary

The shoulderless sun can carry the world
The heart of the world is weightless from this window
and all it wants is your body

You can go there
with your cart of hot dogs and scarves that gravity craves

I try to kiss your feet once in awhile
You try to touch your toes
and ask,
What do we put underneath this?

Neon by Cedar Mannan

Neon by Cedar Mannan

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