Who do you think I am?

the idealist or the realist,

the teacher or the student,

who has the lesson to share?

the politician or the rebel,

the bass or the treble,

dropping knowledge is a sweet science,

whether it comes from the street corner,

the classroom,

the backyard,

or the Baby Boom,

it is tactile,


and irresistible,

equivalent to a Piñata being struck,

violence brings reward,

sensitizing the masses,

paper mache-apart like we are,

computers don’t warrant a disconnect,

am I correct?

possibly a hypocrite,

putting policies in their place,

below my militant boot,

not militant…ambitious,

as passion squeezes the juice,

I mold it into energy,

distribute it!

to the sea, the trees, the earth,

and set it free,

like all the recognizers out there,

you and me…


Imaginary Infatuations

Women are figments of my imagination,

the closer I get to them,

the less I understand them,

these imaginary infatuations,

they sing to me,

a siren vocalizing her seduction,

her seductive song,

hearkening back to simpler times,

a party to synergistic thoughts,

in the activity of popcorn and cinema,

or intelligent conversation,

naked voices colluding in concepts,

or memories with commonality,

a shared space,

the time we spent together,

either it’s a lie or a hidden truth,

one which neither of us can see,

because there were no gifts exchanged,

flowers or chocolates,

watches or rings,

the silence between us is uncertain,

a portrait painted with mixed signals,

a canvas convenient,

a brilliant contradiction,

one where we reflect even in rehearsal,

across rooms as strangers in the night,

but the laughs don’t deceive,

the talk flows like water,

through the cracks,

upon reason made solid..

in a world unlike us.

Bottom to Top

From the bottom to the top,

I strain to ascertain the difference,

whether the lens is concave or convex,

I shape word choice into a solid object,

arriving at two options:

a club or a knife,

both injure…

but it’s the choice that counts,

spatter or bruises,

can a tongue ever be as sharp or blunt?

I think so..

I’ve seen verbal carnage laid swiftly,

maybe I’ll take a Mason jar off the shelf,

and use it to store abhorrent phrases,

then bury this refuse underneath me,

where undesirables will be forgotten,

because I refuse to tell a soul,

even though my soul is alert,

the damage is done,

albeit temporary,

Solace is elusive,

for the guilty remain..

in the same state.


Me vs. Me

My worst enemy stalks me from afar,

he knows my every move,

he can’t be reasoned with,

he only desires my destruction,

despite the pressure on these shoulders,

enough to break my collarbone,

he plays on my weaknesses,

akin to a viper,

he strikes with rapid ferocity,

fangs elongated!

my pain is tucked inside,

recycled as fuel for the next battle,

in this philosophical civil war,

on a field…

my own reflective consciousness,

each pulling to be the agent responsible,

holding me behind,

an uncategorized product,

of episodes rewinded too many times,

coherent enemy of mine,

I have a strategy,

I am coming to get you,

or is that me?

I tire of living under your code,

one I bludgeon my identity to crack,

march atop mortars to reclaim,

it doesn’t matter how much skin is broken,

I’ll defeat you utterly,

that bloodthirsty side of me.



Thinking about moving on,

in every sense of the phrase,

embrace chaos theory,

mundane is what it has become,

shaped itself into something unrecognizable,

circles met by avarice or lack thereof,

guilty of taking a backseat,

content to be a passenger,

on this highway called life…

behind lanes of traffic,

what a calamity!

a clusterfuck in alligator shoes,

trampling the potential…

they always said was there,

why do they say such things?

where’s the proof…

an expert in plateaus,

nonsensical words,

presenting monologues which distorts ambition within,

misdirect the seekers,

wary and conflicted,

so many adjectives would modify,

this declaration of escape,

as years bleed through the hourglass,

how one is defined…

is challenged to see,

the relevance,

in the center of it all,

freedom sounds nice,

according to people in the loop,

from angles not perceived,

like ants reaching for the sky,

they exhibit less meaning,

than the soul who cannot reconcile,

posed on the edge of capacity.


Dreams on Wheels

Let me start by saying,

I want the impossible,

I’ve never known how to get it,

but I try,

each day with good intentions,

to deal in pain,

was not on purpose…

the more time went by,

the harder it became to quit,

an accidental addiction,

one filled with trivialities,

one my skin itches for,

in its absence,

I distract myself,

a dream on wheels,

rolling fiercely on a race track,

fed by blind passion,

starving my logic,

transmuting into circular fission,

an Adonis stands before me,

holding ambrosia,

offering an irresistible deal…

my personal Heaven,

the law of attraction governs,

euphoric in its guise,

once I occupy the same space,

I am transfixed,

locked in free fall,

detached from Physics’ rule,

akin to an astronaut,

and I adore it!

this uncontrollable feeling,

a yearning…

which I ultimately resign to,

drawing me in like an appetizing scent,


as I take another bite,

it tastes similar to the first,

I vie to savor the indescribable,

convincing my inner pragmatist,

that I can’t get this dish anywhere else in existence,

that I’m better due to this indulgence,

that the dream isn’t a fib,

then I suddenly awake,

left wondering if it was real.


Comprehending Rhythm

My heart beats at an unfamiliar pace,

it is calm yet quickened,

the scale of each palpitation is strange,

my pulse is synchronizing,

at a tempo which begs questions,

one that I do not know,

maybe I am thinking too much,

the awful trend I establish is to over complicate what is,

maybe life (the way it is) is too simple for me,

evaluation and synthesis usually take over,

building walls along foundations not even formed,

destined to fall into a bottomless pit,

as a result,

I am motivated to develop “hope”,

in extent,

I am often guided to an escalator,

moving in reverse,

the poet in me aspires to scribe a soliloquy,

the boy in me runs off to his room and slams the door behind him,

the man in me simply wants to do “the right thing”,

and listen to this slight tremor in my chest,

in an attempt to comprehend this rhythm…


The Wood Farmer

The farmer carries his produce into the fore,

he surveys his surroundings,

he wants no one to see him,

secretive almost paranoid,

he knows he has something special,

as he heads into town,

he covers his bounty in a shroud,

he keeps up appearances with everyone in the square,

a good man hiding in plain sight,

pleasing the masses with his soothing voice,

a crowd forms,

making the farmer into more,

more than he’s accustomed to,

then the foibles flow,

he scrabbles to get away,

the limelight does sit well once the Sun goes down,

he seems changed by the angle,

the way his face is illuminated,

the crowd simply stares,

as he backs through the dirt road,

he becomes camouflaged,

as he enters the forest,

he likens a peaceful hill,

she calls to him,

he answers by treading to her peak,

he stops to soak in the  view,

the shroud is removed,

and a sapling lies beneath,

infantile and innocent,

the farmer digs into her earth,

planting a sacred gift.


Living Revolutionary

The rebel in me is revving,


…and clear,

once again,

stirring the pot as usual,

generating controversy,

like a nuclear power plant,

glowing and dangerous,

hazardous materials here,

close to Chernobyl perhaps..

suspicious looks everywhere I go,

the enemy is contemplating my demise,

due to the sheer force of my will,

palpable enough to break down the Wall of China,

they thought it would halt my hustle,

they’ve never seen anyone like me,

or my brand of adversity,

I’m a living revolutionary,

defining my struggle in flame,

making a statement,

a trail of opposition in my wake,

and you’re the last worry I have,

because the rumors are true,

that I stand out among the followers,

as powerful connotation fill this cup,

I’m nothing less than a legend,

no exaggeration needed,

my skills speak for themselves,

the quiet ones often strike back,

when no stuffed shirt is attentive,

with an impact so significant

that politics can’t hold water,

my verdict is that of a guerrilla tactician,

a man skeptics want no part of,

the rebellion begins here…