Beautiful Struggle

dirty little pieces

what happens when words fail,

left unsaid on the kitchen floor,

dirty little pieces to be picked up

and thrown out once they've expired.

sentiments and desires unspoken

wadded up, crumbled to the ground

like yesterday's dinner crumbs.

i wonder what your crumbs would say

if i swept them up and kept them,

shoving them in my pocket

for safekeeping.

trash to everyone but me.

freedom

you can take my body,

beat my mind,

batter my soul

with no remorse.

but as i lay,

ravaged, in rage,

my mind is free,

my soul's away,

floating free,

untouched by your

stench, your sickness, 

reeking of hatred,

consumed by cowardice,

bathed in fear

mixed with loathing.

in this moment

you may think 

you've won 

and conquered,

but your body 

and soul

are the truly

imprisoned.

confined by ignorance,

caged by illusions,

haunted by anger,

restricted to misery

and killed connections.

my soul may be

slightly shattered

for some time

but love lives on,

and i am free

to float on.

recipes

wondering where the years turned to limits,

when our lives became maps and markers,

a series of achievements you measure in money,

marriage and your latest career rank.

my latest ideas and projects suddenly juvenile

in the glare of your adult sensibilities,

my enthusiasm an unneccessary garnish

on the cake of your well-planned life.

each ingredient carefully measured and recorded,

no surprise twists or recipe spins.

when did your dreams become his dreams,

your thoughts echoes of commercials,

measured in shiny things and diamond rings,

the right coffee table conversations

and dinner companions, sprinkled 

with accumulating accounts,

built upon predictability and math.

but how do you calculate the moment of despair

when your child comes home tattered and blue,

or your spouse disappears, ruining your whole recipe?

what do you use to ease the pain,

when everyone around you is set on gain,

numbers and plans, building the same lives,

that cover up when passions die.

 

middle class monotony

something about insanity
sets my spirit free
shovels away expectations,
sparks my curiosity.

the humdrum knife of routine,
silently stabs at the soul,
with Nazi-like consistency,
to-do lists, grocery trips, dirty laundry.

middle class wares,
TV stares and commercial flares,
a plague upon America,
creeping into homes,
dulling the senses,
putting price tags on love,
limits on affections,
medicating pain into apathy,
and eroding true pleasure.
hacking at desires,
twisting them into afflictions
to be cured, stuffed in a drawer
or indulged in an orgy.

but when the mind sheds the skin
of social norms,
suddenly the truth,
love and creativity,
saunter out to play.
carnal desires tumble forth,
scattered with spirits,
garnished with pure joy,
mixed with anger,
sprinkled with sadness, 
dotted with ecstacy,
leaking out loneliness.

a potent concoction,
crumbled by prozac,
disapproving stares,
and manufactured desires,
sucking souls into "normalacy."

 

just me

I'm not your plaything

to be tossed aside when you're bored,

not your 24-hour therapist,

or your knight in shining armor.

I can't save you from yourself,

or soothe away all pains.

i'm not an airbrushed fantasy

to be turned on and off at will.

i don't take payoffs,

glittery gift bribes or fat out lies.

i don't play when i'm feeling down.

i'm not your cheerleader 

for every fucking problem.

i'm just me,

a shattered soul

with unending dreams,

trying to love

as best i can.

my groove

hedonistic tendencies,

wrapped up in these memories,

fighting with iron discipline,

grappling with guilt-laced liquor.

i may like you today, tomorrow, last week,

but who the fuck knows what i'll think yesterday.

what went through my mind last year or next.

can't stop my mental dance for you, baby.

twists and tumbles, sideways glances,

spun on a whim and a will,

stronger than my ties to you,

feet forced forward whether yours follow,

the tunes tumbling out with no refrain.

baby don't call me "mine" cause it can't be so,

i wouldn't dare call myself "mine,"

so i'm not fuckin yours.

so excuse me baby, 

i've got a dance to do.

 
 

haunted

speeding down the highway,

careening through the turns,

haunted by the memories,

pushed on by the purge.

tank after tank, swig after swig

of gas station concoctions.

the trips blur together, 

thrown out straws, empty containers.

highways merge in my mind,

Tupac melting into Maxwell,

The Roots floating out the window.

Green highways with painted skies,

mountains rising around me.

crossing rivers, looking at lakes,

still haunted by the need,

to keep my foot on the gas,

pressing onward, unsure why,

but an old pro at how.

sinners ball

My soul sees no end in sight,

treading these greasy streets,

Stilettos casting shadows

in the flickering light.

 

Fuck, I’ve been down this road,

it ain’t pretty but it’s familiar.

Flickered ashes, well-worn walks,

passionate flesh mingling,

bathed in hard liquor,

hard like the dancers’ eyes,

empty like the bottles on table tops.

 

Desires careen throughout the place,

some freed from a leash,

others habits, demanding nourishment.

Souls searching, some on auto,

others out for the cash,

some for pure pleasure.

then there’s the thrill seekers.

 

Searching for something,

everybody’s got a fuckin story.

The villains come out to play

dancing in the moonlight,

and my soul joins in.

 

city of souls

The greyed out buildings blend together,
broken windows splattered across abandoned warehouses.
Driving by on the elevated highway, toward the east side,
the strip club mecca and bombed out factories
of East St. Louis no longer pangs of shame.
Strength settles in, an unexpected companion,
as I eye the Arch and neon riverfront casinos.

The graffiti bleeding on walls, peeling paint signs
and empty streets no longer cause for embarrassment,
Still somber but signaling something,
Concrete flags of peace 
and signs of survival
littering the streetscape.

My ancestors joined the millions
who tread these streets,
shuffling to work at the car plant,
long days spent at factories,
callous hands but mild hearts.
The once-bustling downtown,
now simmered to a slow hiss.

the city of little distinction,
no one's travel destination,
no one's dream place,
the bleary-eyed town now
an overlooked half-child.

once among the biggest in the nation,
now overshadowed by its
big city cousin,
but continually humming
through steamy river heat
and dirty-snow winters.
its souls softly glowing
with a life of their own.

The muted clothing, sensible shoes
of day time transformed
into lively pubs, electric ball games
and beer-drinking nights.
The city nursed on a brewery,
suckled from infancy,
birthed by two muddy rivers
and some weary souls.
The workers plod on,
through centuries of pain,
lulled by love, family and loyalty.

These are my people, 
not the glossed-over images
gracing the silver screen,
or the colorful characters
commanding headlines. 
not the well-respected intellects
or the beach-loving crew,
not the high-powered suits
or the plastic eye candy.

the loosely lived-in city
devoid of hipsters, shiny things
and serious buying power.
never commended,
rarely recognized,
and often ignored.

but continuing to shuffle
and stay alive, asking for little,
surviving a lot.

beyond borders

i want to escape these check-marked boxes,

make a beeline for the border,

into a land without borders,

where we all share and don't really care,

who has what or how they got it.

i want to feel passionate love without pain,

asking nothing of each other, yet giving lots.

i want to skip back in time to innocence lost,

wade through the self-loathing and disgust,

to bathe in wonder, awe and dreams.

i want to write meaningful words,

that resonate in centuries,

freeing the minds of even 

the most embittered souls.