tom wopat, this one's for you

a piercing light burns through you, the morning sun on fresh fallen dew, the young sleeping their minds anew, i am here to cut through, my words melt steel and metal bars, i can cut through the thickest of brick with a paragraph of prose, i taught the art of war to a man named sun tzu, my katana bore at my side slicing through my enemies hids, it is a verbal battle founded upon pride. like the thorns on the changing faces of a rose, like the thickest of mucous released from a man morose. i have killed, i have laid my enemies down in bleeding heaps, it seems as though they yearn for more, even as i see them crawling towards the hospital door, i see it on their faces; scrawled upon their hands: "i need enlightenment" they cry "i need enlightenment they say as they die."

i am surrounded by a bleeding sea, it's bleating cries call out to me, i scream back at it, i raise my hands, i shout as i flail alone upon the sands, i kick dirt in the face of the sea, i kick dirt in the face of those who bleed on me. the greatest of americans have yet to be born, the greatest of songs have yet to be sung, so we bleed to hear that glorious hum, we bleed to add up to the sum, we bleed to build a future, we bleed to inseminate the egg, we bleed to construct a world. "rise and shine" her mother said, but how can one rise and shine when they are incubating the future? we must incubate, innoculate, motivate, and ultimately give birth to something great. there are no edges there are no sides, we give birth to shakespeare and wordsworth, we give birth to something that works, i give birth to words, i put worth to words, wordsworth has worth. consider the dictionary, a conglomoration of verbs nouns adjectives, and conjunctions. i ask the dictionary to define tomorrow, to define the sorrow, to define the toning cries of he who dies, i ask the dictionary to define freedom, to define the undefineable; it cannot. the countless pages cannot define red, blue, green, black. the pages can not define negro from necro meaning dearh, yet the darkness escapes itself, the darkness escapes death. throw the dictionary aside, forget the tears youve cried, forget the trials and troubles, the sign of the beast "666" is written within it, slay the beast and be free and sinless, your torch lit, the darkness escaping itself.

you aske me what i hate, you ask me what i dislike, i hate the man who lives by those MTV bounds, the man who never leaves his home grounds. i chase the wind perchance to fly, i follow the rainbow in hopes to not die, i run after an army out of ammuniation, i run for the future, i run for my mission. my mission to break the brain cage, to free the mind's slave. i run to sleep, and in sleep perchance to dream, i can quote shakespeare, basho, or coolio, i can quote chuck-d, or john lennon strung out on PCP, but what good would it do me? what purpose would it serve? how will i teach those who need to learn? i see the jungle, i see it burn, i see the emotions painted on the faces of teenage mothers. they leave their apartments to see their mothers, teenagers in their time. their baby-daddies in prison, in the marines living overseas, they raise their sons to be baby-daddies in their times, grandmother by 35, great grandmother by 50. son of her daughter, bleeding for the future, bleeding for the americans yet to be born. we have broken the chastity belt, the phalic gods are now demi-gods, yet we still remain seated atop mountains of ciggarette butts and broken chevrolets. observe the suns rays baking all of these for the ozone, he leaves. i follow the breeze, i dance the waltz of the wind, dance to see and perhaps for others to see. i see the spray painted walls, i see the artwork of the illiterate. i see the art work of the abominable brown bomber, the black mafia mindset that rolls down the street booming bass beats from oldsmobiles, and speaking of their baby mommas, teenage fathers, teenage mothers, teenage sons, teenage daughters, rhyming to educate, rhyming to accelerate, rhyming to find ones past. i am not being paid to rhyme, i am not being paid to rap, i am not being paid. i am not making monetary gain, that does not bother me, all that bothers me are the rose colored glasses you view the world with. observe the ghost-dog, observe pegasus, the centaur, observe the mythilogical beasts who speak their words to aristotle, to sophocles, to the writers of ancient histories, to the scribes who script the lives of these who lived so long ago. writers like guthrie, coltrane, insane. telling their tales to those who heard, delivering their songs to those with ears. i observe the beat-boxer on the roadside, giving his soul in a def-jam form, the letters L-I-O-N inscribed on his neck. his life as the lion, his life as the king.king of the jungle, the ominous black bomber king who walks as an egyptian, breaking the chain and not wearing it as fashion, but wearing his enemies skins, he is victorious as he feeds off of the blood bled for a future, a vampiric lion king n the street corner. yes he is homeless, yes he is alone, but in his homelessness his thoughts roam free, he is free to be, free to see, free to show all that he knows of life. and of this world? "critics treat me like i got a gun, yet i'm not licensed to have one." his words have worth, a new bohemian.

there was a pond here there was a forest, there were ancient tribes hunting the land, searching for game in the forests of home, of their homes. there were lives, there were always lives, lives of tribes: mohawk, mohican, iroquois, pontiac. subsistant existance, existing to exist. raped and robbed, raped of land. raped by societies, what are these societies? we are these, we are these who stole their homes to put projects over them, to put mountains of pavement and mountains of brick over them. where is the mason? where is the bricklayer? he is deported, sent back to his native mexico, heading towards the border. cities edifying glort, festering below the surface, rotting beneath the skin. i say to you: throw it away, shave the skin, cut it off, cut off the brown and white. , cut off the dark and light, let the blood flow for the future. sitting on a doorstep drinking a 40' everybody knows me as "yo shorty! yo shorty! yo shorty!" hearing their verses their words are worthless, they lay like dog turds on the ground, collecting flies never to make a sound. i feel the pain of their sting, my ears they ring, like the of wasps as they float on wings of black and opaque. i am that spic, that brown dark flake. but "where my niggas at?" they were lost in time, they were lost in reason, trapped in rhyme, my niggars have died from time...bleeding for a future.

Very nice to see that people are writing in Creative. Anyway, when I said I'd post something, I was gonna post a bullshit poem I wrote years ago about a man who ate too much potato. When I find it, it shall be posted.

Will, post some more poems. You have such depth to them. You remind me of Carl Sandburg, and some of your poems remind me about the industrial revolution..sort of like the poem "Chicago" from Sandburg.

MistressDragon said:

Will, post some more poems. You have such depth to them. You remind me of Carl Sandburg, and some of your poems remind me about the industrial revolution..sort of like the poem "Chicago" from Sandburg.

Click to expand...

heh, thanks though i never thought they had much depth. here's one of my older ones:

at the innermost core, the nuclear reactor, the explosive subtractor, the minus sign of life. he who takes and leaves nothing, he who sucks and sucks. a vaccum powered by the broken dreams of the ghosts that haunt the highway. the shattered remnants of something imminent, my pencil blaring it's subwoofer capabilities. like t-1000 i am arousing, i am building up, like skywalker with my lightsaber i am making the cut, like kunta-kente i am rebuilding my hut, the roots of starwars terminated. the movies of the mind, the ones we've watched at times. the rhymes of hollywood directors and their mercedes-benz dreams, of their hummers in the suburbs, of their sunset strip; america's clit, one good lick sends us rolling, pure oral pleasure some would say, the orgasmic films we see from day to day, the plotlines and stories all heard the month before.

the words of prophets written upon bathroom stalls, written upon brickwalls, call signs, tag-lines, pick up lines, phone numbers for hot sex, forgotten numbers of a forgotten woman. she was marked. "i hope she doesn't press charges" the man says throughout his catharsis. the marker wont wash away "i put it in her, it stays today." she can claim to love, but her husband of five years cannot touch her. the slightest touch on her inner thigh makes her cringe, makes her stop. her erotic notions shattered by that night, when her yellow skin was placed against a brick wall. the beast with a five o' clock shadow made her call out to the police, yet no sirens rang out. she went home torn and bleeding, her mother told her to wake up. her sister called her a slut for sleeping, for unwillingly sleeping. i have seen women in slumber, i have seen their dreams asunder. she woke up white clouds caked between her legs. "the marker will wash off" he said, yet it stays like a brand on a cow's hide. her vaginal walls stretched as she cried, mother never pressed charges. her number on the wall, asking men to call for sexual deviance and pleasure, yet pleasure can not be known. why did she leave her home? the night-club lights called her to a wood piling. she met a man named terrance, or clarence, he followed her for sport; her asian eyes hiding a pirate smile. she was happy and free, she was young and far from promiscuous. she was in advanced classes, traded contact lenses for glasses, young, smart, attractive, torn. the phalic rat followed her, watched her long black hair touch her wrist. he longed for a passionate kiss, a stolen french kiss of a sexual dance. he could never have it so he took a chance. finding her in the back of the club, the dance floor full. eyes not watching, music too loud to hear screams through the bass beats. a grab, a grapple, and loss, a running man lost in a crowd. virginity lost, hidden under a zebra pattern shoud; 1987

she came home and hid her bloody panties, he carved her name into a wall, and a fake phone number for men to call. he went home without remorse, she went home trying to find her course. she found her bed, found it's warm embrace, the tears came down on feather pillows stuffed with ABC afterschool-specials. she cried, she died, her brother on the couch. she told him what happened he didn't care. she told her mother who told the world of nail and hair salons. she kept on living, got married to kevin; a man of respect, and to her sent by heaven. yet they could never kiss, they could never touch. the phalic tongue of that stranger still felt between her legs. he laughed for a while, his deed done, his testicles emptied into his victim. then he stopped, his mother should know, his mother who was never there to see him grow. his father who beat him and touched him the same, who knew him by several filthy names. he ran away at 13, again at 16, and again at 20 after killing his father. " i hope she doesn't press charges." he says over and over again, tears running down his face, his deed the same as his fathers, commited in the same space, in the same place, committed and he was born, born out of moments of sexual filth, born on the streets where his mother was killed.

the girl on the couch her brother beside her, he grabs her close and feels inside her, there is pain and misery, and heart wrenching sickness, brothers fathers, forcing sisters and daughters around with phalic rule. there is no reason, there is no rhyme, sexual cravings taking over the mind. i am not the son of sha-clack clack, i am not bound by chains, but i am bound by the echoes of my brain, by the things that keep me sane, by the battles strategized and planned out in my mind and here it is words that have been used in time. painted on the walls, painted on that same bathroom stall, painted.

I dont like them that much at all.

Those are really passionate and deep. It has a frightening truth to it, but it's beautiful in an emotional and sad way. Art is the expression of the soul, and beauty is defined by emotions, images, and words..whether they are happy or sad. Keep Writing, I like your work.