I want to forget my present 

The decision I just made,  this moment 

The rules have bent,  it's complicated 

Rues of the Cain, my punishment 

Enroaches this terrain,  incognito 

Straight,  on my bike, Suzuki 

I race to what end? Infinity

Come hell or high water, I'll bleed to be free

The wind, the sky,  atmosphere 

Whispered to me, "you're almost there."

As the noise accelerates to my change in speed

My feet,  the road,  mesosphere 

Pulled away my heart vane shells

Until faith drops the mike

I phase to the spectrum of the solar flare. 

lavender lingerie

lavender faerie

pale blue with a tint of mauve pale purple pupil

daisy paisley

magma macula

igneous gorgeous

lotus cottage

pink silk

buttermilk paintwork

rib cage birdcage

hummingbird hummer

tulle wings

tulip clothe

sweet swathe

(K.M.M.)

My $10 phone goes off. The alarm, it's 22:00, bedtime. Sitting in the driver seat, I do the usual preparation: Recline the passenger seat, lay the blankets out, then plug my phone into the charger. Now for the worst part. I turn the key twice to crack the windows. Instantly, the snow makes it's way in. Yes, it sucks, but I'll be shivering either way and this way I don't have to wake to white walls of my breath frozen to the windows.

I crawl into the backseat, getting as comfortable as I can. Once under my comforter, my stomach growls on cue. It growls less and less each week, as if it's beginning to realize that 50¢ bread from the Mexican bakery is all I can afford and growling is no more than an unwanted reminder.

I keep still. The finest thing to occur in my sleep is to find that perfect angle to stop the streetlights from sprawling across my face. I take that back. If the car was driven recently enough that the defroster cleared the rear windows, that's the finest. The view, it gives me hope of a better day like Gatsby to his green lantern. Luckily tonight was sparing, a whole grand view. I dream of making it out okay: Live to be 18, get a job, find real shelter..

06:00 and a cop knocks on my window. Time for the bundle of lies, again.

I wish- I could

scream and yell

until my body

burnt out,

much like the

madness of a

balloon,

as it thrashes

into the midst of air

spiraling into its own

hysteria until it hits 

the floor with its 

deflated, formless shape.

Born to be kind; he's a Gay Black Man.

Taught to be humble; he's a Weak Black Man.

Raised to be spiritual; he's a Phony Black Man.

Influenced to be a leader; he's a White Man Not a Black Man.

Inspired to be creative; he's a Lost Black Man.

Told to be strong; he's a Cruel Black Man.

Cursed to be different; he's a Messed up Black Man. 

When the world defines you. Your story is written. When you define yourself you become the writer.