Thursday, May 19, 2011


Photo by Michael Johnson

I now understand the veil,
The one that covers our faces and our bodies
And the religiosity of rehearsed obedience.

I now understand the veil,
Mere fibers that transform the mundane
Into epic episodes of false grandeur.

I now understand the veil,
The failed American Dream and
A romance novel set in an indigo sky.

I now understand the veil,
A shell used to combat shame
To fool the foolish.

I now understand the veil,
Hidden turbulence
With a platinum credit card.

I now understand the veil,
Distant relatives' likeness in which
We have reluctantly become.

I now understand the veil,
We threw rocks at each other
Because feelings were too difficult to articulate.

I now understand the veil,
Blueprint successes marked with
Status measurable only to a corporate sponsor.

I now understand the veil,
Longing to be free but
Hiding just like me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


In desolation, he appears under my wood sash and screams incomprehensibly to my no-soul. I'm startled by it so I leave home for one of the last times even though I'm clinging, to go meet up with Rita the rational one. She always has something comforting to say about the comings and goings of things, and usually adds in a tidbit about why Bodhidharma decided to make it out East to round things out. I'm shaking says me, shaking all the damn time and while this makes me feel discomposed, she assures me that it is only natural. Rita is swirling her iced tea with her pinkie finger, a look of contemplation in her eyes, focused on a point unknown or unimportant and I am anxious. You know, she says, after some time, returning her pensive gaze towards I, you are clearly being watched. Her sentiment only increases my uneasiness and in respectful turn, my stare becomes glossy in thought. I don't like the idea of being exposed, I don't want to tell a story, I don't want to be the reality of reality, and I sure as hell don't want to be watched. In instantaneous, educated conclusion of my own understanding, he reveals himself again. He musta followed me that rat. Clearly cloaking my existence was not on the crow's agenda and I would soon be forced to find complacency. Rita's pursed lips attached to a cigarette like an extremity glowed as she spoke. It cant be that bad, can it? She said. I concurred and thanked her for the company of another human being and excused myself. Alone, I hiked up Post and fumbled for my keys before they would become useless, sat on the floor of my soon to be empty home, and waited for him to present himself under sash once more.

For One Stop Poetry

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


Rough Draft for One Shot Wednesday @One Stop Poetry

What is it like to be a slave to your NASDAQ?
To have, have and have nothing of value,
Miserable at the core but 'cha got stuff and on the
Outside and to me, you have everything.

'Cept the buggaboos
Pesky splinters under fingernails,
Undercover agents who seemingly
Infiltrate personal security, sole purpose to obliterate.

What is it like to be so scared all of the time?
I myself, am afraid of the postman,
Do you lose sleep?
Do you forget to notice your breath upon awakening?

Is life meant to be viewed in 18 millimeter,
Black and white with dust embedded
In the film introducing a faint, filmy, fog,
Masking tangibility.

What is it like to create unwanted stories that eventually become truth?
Do children learn from television by osmosis?
She is such a bad person, so needy with no needs at all.
No, it was his upbringing, he said...that's why- coddled too much.

She had a bad mother, sister, father-
That's why there is war and he didn't pray enough
He didn't pray, he didn't pray enough
And here she is, story already told with irreparable branches.

What is it like to have a voice but use it only for self interest?
What is is like to have a voice and use it for hate?
What is it like to have a voice and do nothing?
What is it like to have a voice?