Whatever you do in the world,

Will be insignificant.

You can sugar coat it if you want,

Say that its not true.

But one day there will be no one left,

To remember me or you.

You can be a famous singer,

Like Beyonce of Jay-Z,

Or a nobel prize winner,

Like Albert or Humphrey.

It all doesn't matter.

Ashes are just ash.

Will the world end in ice?

Or in a red hot flash?

The point of this poem,

Is not to make you sad,

But to tell you to enjoy your time,

And stop being so mad.

Stop worrying about little things,

Release all that stress and dread.

Don't worry about that broken glass

Or your messy unmade bed.

Enjoy life.

Smile at the sky.

Laugh when something is funny,

And enjoy the wild ride.

The feverish jungle, a bungalow binge,

And the apes of the valley delight.

Amassing their arson, the parsons all cringe 

As the napes of their necks feel the bite.

Oh holy banana, the manna of trees,

As the fleas seem to hop on along

Infighting, igniting the apes that are biting 

Those bees as they sing of King Kong.

A hundred feet tall is the wall of the men

And a sinful release of the spear

Escaping the bin of the hundred foot spin

Thus applying their lying with cheer.

"Ah-ooh-ah," goes an ape as the head of the shape 

Of the stone spear endangers its spark.

And some other dumb fool in his foolhardy drape

Absolutely 'ooh-ah's' his remark.

The natives are restless, confessions debate 

All the while the apes gather their dead.

Subordinate clause in the claws of their fate,

And a villager loses his head.

Removed from the neck as the bees start to check

Acclimating, debating design.

As a hive, they survive, a revival on deck

For they sing as they sting, "Apes are fine!"

A thousand or more in the chore of the sores

And the numbering, slumbering sloth 

Awakens to aid in displayed forest floors

As the bees and the fleas gel as broth.

The African sonnet of bees in the bonnet 

And apes on the Cape Horn of nine

Combine in the shrine of the mine blowing pine

As the fleas stop and drop kick the sign.

The sloth calls aloud in the crowd of the  shroud 

And a lion out of Zion appears.

The jungle's own king comes to cling; the bees sting 

As he strengthens the villagers' fears.

"Away with your play and your villainous way!

Now away, or I say you will die!"

The roar echoed more as the lion on display 

Offered each human there in his cry.

The apes and the fleas and the bees in the drape 

Of the canopy stopped, held in awe.

The sloth, on his knees, bowed and plowed the disease 

As the humans all fled what they saw.

"The law of the jungle, for all- even fungal- 

The growth underneath the dead leaves-

Must never be broken as these words are spoken

Alas, mother ape, now she grieves ...

The humans are fuming; a vengeance is blooming 

Until they destroy every land.

Avoid at all costs their ridiculous frost

For the winter lives on in their hand.

We all have united; the spirit delighted; 

And the forest exalts us in joy.

Now go on, safely roam; travel deep in our home

For the menace the humans employ 

Has been seen o'er and o'er in mischievous lore

And I doubt it will not take them long

To return to this place with a hate spilling face 

So we must all now pray to King Kong."

The feverish jungle, a bungalow's bray,

And the apes and the bees and the fleas

And the sloth, on their knees, join the lion as they please

And to King Kong they bow long and pray.

The sun doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. I’m on the inside for as long as I need be. That’s what He said anyway. It’s my fault I’m in here after all. Because I drew Him to me. Made him want me. Made him take me.  With my smell. With my hair and my breasts and my sweat. He couldn’t help himself. And I deserved it. And I can see it. The sun. Sometimes I can, yes. But mostly it’s just a shadow on the floor. My shadow. Or worse, His shadow. Because I’m not safe near the windows. And because to tilt my neck up would burn my skin, my eyes. But really it’s my insides that would burn. To know that such a thing exists! I would rather not look. And pretend that the inside is the out.  Outside is a fantasy.  A realm where I no longer exist.  Not anymore.  It's been too long.  And I have what I need after all. In this dark place. I have my own light. My own sun.  Born in darkness, he brings me light.  Blinding, beautiful light.  The only light.  That’s what He told me. Didn’t He give me the baby? And isn’t he wonderful? Of course he is. He’s not a pet. Not like me. His skin is clear. Not like me. No burns, no scars. No pain. So far. He sleeps in a bed. Not a cage. Not like me. He’s a real person. Or will be someday. Of course he will want it. The sun that is. And I can’t give it to him. But maybe someday. Someday when He’s not looking. And when I get free. If I get free. If I can ever get free. With the baby. My baby. Our baby. If He lets us. If He dies. If I kill Him. And that’s why I don’t let the sun bother me. It’s a future sun. In a future day. In a future that I don’t have. That we don’t have. Not yet anyway. But maybe my sun, our son, will meet the real sun.  Maybe he will be king of the sun!  Someday. Maybe.  Until then we live in the shade, the shadows. On the inside. Out of it’s reach. Where it’s safe. Until I can. Until it's time. For us. For both of us. To live in the sun.

She dipped her brush

into blood of her angst

and painted on canvas

a visual diary of lies.

Bare naked emotions

stripped down

to goosebumps,

breathed through earth

into my gaping mouth.

Empty walls cried out

with no voices,

days lined up

endlessly

to take their turn

in seamless infinity

of no color.

Pores of her skin

opened doors

to minute specks

of ice and dust,

an uplifting loneliness,

an illusion of purity

lost in obscurity.

Heaviness of

fraught mind

ravenous for

multi-color prisms,

awakening blue silence

of unsettled stones,

riding currents of

nightly tides.

I turn away

with backward glance,

enthralled yet repelled,

searching for

hidden simplicity

encasing

the perfect world -

the sunflower touch

imprinting its hands

on our tomorrow

as summer stands still.

D-construction

reconstruct

preproduction

repro-duck-ting

retro-ducting

dead air sucking

i-so-fuction

loss-o-function

liposuction

typo eruption

type O infusion

confused, amused

abused, refused

loose as a goose

fit as a fiddle

diddle-diddle

riddle me this

in the midst

of a kiss are you

lost in the fire

or the mist

from the mire?

trysts missed

dissed and dismissed

grinding the grist

on -

Craig's black list

a quick one

off the wrist

man seeks woman

woman seeks dog

dog seeks universe

Uranus is luminous

beauteous and fumious

me so humorous

Pluto reinstated

gravity's overrated

needlessly weighted

tween rock and hard grace

we all fall about the place

in this human marathon

mindless creation

senseless sensation

station to station

join the dots

cross the eyes

bold the tees

but good lord al-migh-ty

just cut me some slack....

don't call it a comeback

she had the prettiest eyes.

blue. green. golden shimmers in the sun.

so i held her face in one of my hands

and took them out one by one.

her mouth was loud-

the screams and cries hurt my ears.

so i showed her the lovely pain of

hearing through sheers.

she made a mess.

red water everywhere,

and she refused to clean it up

so i made a mop with her hair.

cursing and crying,

she was bitter, cruel and mean

i decided she must have gone rotten

so i cut her heart out clean.

When we're born,

An angel grows it's wings,

Pure white innocence,

A halo lights our heads.

I remember pink and gold,

Never thought that they'd get old.

Staring into bright blue eyes,

Safe night full of lullabies.

As we begin to grow,

Our halos start to fall,

We begin to see,

The world for what it really is,

A shadow of grey,

A shell of life.

Then I stepped out of the light,

I saw black and I saw grey,

I felt blood,

I heard screams,

Glimpsed a spark of light,

Wished for the music of our dreams.

When we're old enough,

Our angel flies away,

A demon takes it's place,

What once was pure,

Now is dark,

Reality becomes a cold abyss.

When we're born,

An angel grows it's wings.

As we begin to grow,

Our halos start to fall.

When we're old enough,

Our angel flies away,

A demon takes it's place.

The fabric was weaved with the cleanest hands skill ever had, made with the whitest threads Nature could offer. Hot pressed, the finished product was whiter than the freshest milk. It was priced at the cost of mind, which few understood or comprehended. Pity, the one to purchase it was a painter. Its virtue would not last long.

Travelling from the clefts of the Orient to the dry sands of Kemet, the Painter chose only the choicest of inks. His bags grew heavy upon the backs of his minions as he selected paints for his masterpiece. From the crevices of hills in many a land, the smoothest, softest pens of coal were picked. Slowly, but surely, the Painter finally reached the shack he called ‘Home’. With a carefree heart, he began to nail the fabric onto ironwood, albeit with extreme difficulty, to create what he thought was the perfect canvas for the perfect masterpiece. Alone but his unspeaking minions for company, he began.

The brushes, made from dearest hair, took the innocence of the fabric with the Painter’s deft strokes. Gently penning in every emotion his heart ever mustered, he slowly fed the canvas his heart. His fabric greedily consumed his skills, his soul, and all else he had to offer. The images forming were exquisite, till upon it, he placed a small gold dot. Perfection save that, the Painter called out in such loud rage and anguish that his minions dropped everything they did to cover their ears. The skies knew the screams certainly reached kingdom come.

The minions watched in horror as their Master ripped fabric from wood and took it to the well outside. Washed with unlearning hands, the water failed to rub it all off. No matte his efforts, stains remained, singing despair and teasing him with visions of perfection. An idea hit the Painter; a fool he was to follow it. With it, he plotted the fall of both his work and himself.

Upon the sullied fabric, the Painter began from nothing but scratch. He once more set to defile the fabric, confusing his minions for his previous work had been a golden dot but flawless. They toiled as their Master maniacally covered the stains with duller and darker colors. What ink and coal could not do, the Painter covered in scarlet and crimson. Even then, it stood out to him, cursing him with hellish songs of hidden, untold secrets. In desperation, he took to crimson and green of sage.

Agonized by the obvious imperfection, the work was repeatedly put through the same cycle as the Painter continued his search for the faultless piece. The minions stared on sadly; their Master had completely fallen prey to his work. Aside from the Painter himself, they were the last few ones to know of the fabric’s initial and first beauty. They were the testament to its former glory, glory that even the heathen under earth had forgotten. Now, the canvas was a mere polyglot of paint wasted, speaking of eons and millennia of abuse and ruin.

The Painter let out a frenzied call, speaking a tongue even the Flood knew not. He broke down the door of his shack, making way for the overhanging cliff. His minions ran out, trying to give him but alas! The last thing they heard before freezing in time was a loud splash. The bond between the Painter and those who vowed eternal fealty to him was broken and till Ragnarok would remain incomplete.

With time, wanderers and the lost laid gaze to a ruin, one that housed a single painting. This painting, without a creator now starved; its hunger for paint yet not sated. Perhaps, perhaps one day…

Day after day , I put pen to paper.

Day after day, I criticize my own writing. 

I don't know if I'm original or just reciting . 

I hope you like this. 

Day after day, I get heavier not physically but emotionally. 

Day after day, I write poems and stories I never share.

I hide them because I don't think anyone would really care.

I hope you like this. 

Day after day , I dream of being published . 

Day after day , the dream dies a little bit. 

I should look into other things, but I don't . I write and sit . 

I hope you like this . 

Day after day, I think about showing my work to others .

Day after day , the fear of rejection looms . 

I'll take most of my writing to the tomb. 

I hope you like this . 

Day after day , I pour my fragile soul onto fragile paper. 

Day after day, I try to improve. 

I don't think I'm making any progress ,  what am I trying to prove?

I hope you like this .