Ques?ion

For the past two days
We've been writing in haiku.
I think I love her.

In love triangles,
there is never enough room
for the one who tells-

Her sword slashed his neck.
Staining the grass with his blood
he crawled into hell.

I could have died there,
my heart was cry'ng for release.
I couldn't let go.

My eyes didn't tear,
But I wanted them to know...
Instead I just sighed.

Yesterday I cried.
I couldn't understand it
So I fell apart.

All I've ever really wanted to do
is sit in the quad, on the grass,
and nothing.

When I had no in'trest in my mem'ry,
I lost my self, my net, my total worth.
The spoils which I spent years working to see,
Were stockpiled burned and buried in the earth.

Confused I cried for my God's interest,
To share his banks of wisdom ever saved.
I asked for light to help me be the best,
And liberate my past, I felt enslaved.

"Lord, free me from this curse, I've payed my dues!
I've loved and lost, I'm ready to move on!"
'No, check' I heard, 'your books, you must review-'
I turned my back on him and I was gone.

I robbed myself in burning what I'd learned,
Ignored my god, and now I've lost my turn.

I am growing increasingly tired of my inability to cope with my mortality.
I understand the futility of fearing the inevitable obliteration of our pugilistic people,
However, I'm unable to accept that obliteration is inevitable.

One day there will be a Utopia,
Then there will be a Dystopia,
Then there will be nothing.

Maybe by then the theories of man kind will have created an apathetic attitude towards improvement.
Will that be a product of the Utopian era that will see the greater good of man and ignore the individual?
Will we one day die, ultimately losing our love for ourselves in our love for others, potentially losing ourselves in others?

So many questions.
So many answers.
So little meaning,
if you think about it.

I just mixed some weed and codiene
now my face is numb,
my neck is twitching like the legs
of a wasp,

sting,
smack,
crush.

concussed,
momentarily stunned,
in the silent darkness I swell.

painfully unravelling,
falling,
stopping momentarily
to absorb the silence of the stone cold walls.

metal bars protruding
but only in the mind.
Only in the mind.
Again.

Love moveth me,
move it not?
Unvisited by Queen Mab,
enlightened by her absence,
I grow believing in love.

Extended arms can grasp,
so do.
Do embrace the hate of hate
so close to mine.

Before hate engrosses hate
and mind.

Iamb, iamb, iamb, iamb, iamb,
trochee, iamb, iamb, phyrric, spondee,
iamb, spondee, spondee, iamb iamb,
Iamb, iamb, iamb, iamb, iamb.

I've never found myself in a situation I could not handle.
I've been in trying situations.
I've been in desperate situations.
I've seen hell and high water,
But I've always had a raft.

Consider me equipped.

If there is a God, I say "thank you God."
If there is no God, I say "thank you God."
Because my faith is my own, and I'd like to have somebody
to say thank you to.

I keep telling myself I've lost it.

I can't dance anymore.
I can't swim anymore.
I can't skate anymore.
I can't lead anymore.
I can't love anymore.
I can't smile anymore.
I can't cry anymore.
I can't fight anymore.
I can't write anymore.

I'm terrible at math.
I suck at science.
My words are slurred.
My soul feels drained.

Tonight I stand firm,
Some admire,
Some ignore,
Some stroke my cheek,
and I'm told that someday
someone will shatter me.

We're all dead,
we're just too living to feel it.

Alive?

I wouldn't call it that.

No matter what, I feel like I'm drunk.
I can't feel pain.
I can't feel hunger.
I can't feel hot or cold.
It's cool, but undecidedly so.

I can't feel you next to me.
I can't feel her in the other room.
I can't feel her back at home.
I can't feel them down the street.
I can't feel them in my heart.
I can't feel them in my soul.

I haven't seen them for so long.
What did I do?
Why did I do it?
What was I thinking?

I wrote five letters today.
5 people I've lost,
1 person who'll always be ther,
5 people I still love dearly.

Dear old friends,

Tonight,
I spoke to you by accident.
It's all I can think about.
Thanks for messaging back by the way.
I expected you to ignore me.
I still love you, I just can't deal with it.
As for the other one, I'm sorry.
I have my reasons, I always do,
I don't expect anything back.

Dear Mamang,
Tonight,
I want to talk to you.
I want to ask you a question.
I want to ask if I've made you proud.
If you were here, what would you say?
We never truly spoke.
I miss you,
but I feel like I never knew you.

Dear mom,
I'm sorry I let you down.
I'm sorry that I will let you down.
I'm sorry that I can't say this to your face.

Dear J,
why don't you ever learn.

To my family, lost,
I miss you.
Don't think otherwise.
I'm bitter and I want nothing else but to yell at you,
and scream at you,
and throw shit at your windows.
I want to break you,
maybe then you'll understand
what you've done to yourselves.
What you've done to my dad,
what you've done to me,
what you've done to my mom,
what you've done to my sister,
and that's just my household.
I haven't seen you for... what?
I hear oca was hospitalized.
I hear it was serious.
I hear that you didn't think to tell us.

I'm broken right now.
I miss everything,
and I'm stupid for not admitting it.

I keep telling myself I've lost it.
I think I've found what 'it' really means.

what is?
what is poetry?
what is poetry?
why is poetry?
what is black?
what is white?
what is black?
what is white?
what is wrong?
what is write?
what is wrong?
what is right?
right wrong,
rong wrong
write right
till wrong
is right

I found happiness
In a pair of oxfords.

Two small,
Pointed toe
Oxfords.

Each stride dignified,
Deliberate,
Distinguished.

Each step
Clicked.
Each step
Clinched
My breath.

Ablaze,
On fire,
A fierce path led
Me

Found me,
Drowned me
In all
I’ve ever wanted.

Call it infatuation

I’ll agree.

What is stagnant?
I don’t remember.

All I remember
Is Click
Click
CLIck
CLICk
CLICK.

My soul
Her soles stole
And held me still.

Caught up in motion
Avoiding stillness
I forgot what stillness meant.

Bury her,
Sorrow that is,
In the dust kicked up
By the click
Click
Click.

We walk,
We stand still,
We move foreward
As if we were running all the same.

I used to run away,
Then run back.

Now I run away,
So I can run back.

I finally found
What I was looking for,
Where I never looked
Before.

Fast or slow I know
That a click
Has never meant more

Than it does now.

Once
I listened to myself talk.
Thank God it’s not my job.

I’ve never,
Or,
I never listen to myself.
It’s an expensive thing.

It’s vague,
A little too vague.
It’s misguided,
A little too misguided.

Miss. Guide me,
I don’t remember where I
get off.

In my memory,
It happened too long ago,
I remember learning of
Value.

Morals quarrel
When I speak,
So I talk because

Orally I am wisdom
But talk is better than
Speak.

Reflect,
Like a mirror,
Or a reflector.

My mirror image
Is funny. Exceptionally
Comedic, but only when
I imagine.

It’s a problem when I walk.
My mouth hates me.
It doesn’t stop
Even when it should.

Do good!
Do good I say!
I say do good
Because,
Don’t be bad!
God is good!

Be godly,
For once.
Be Godlike,
Do good!

Once,
I listened to myself talk.
Until I speak
Talk is cheap.

But I was

too

lazy to
write
it.

I can't sleep.
I've been staring at this screen
for more than
14 hours.

that's much longer than
half a day.
making the day
seem shorter.

I've blinked
259000 times
Which means I've winked,
if you divide those up,
more than 259000 times.

But when I blink again
I will be winking
my 259000

time

is moving that slowely.
Don't stop the clock.
It's not crunch time,
yet.

If I had a book
The face of the book
Would have no face
At all.

It would have words.
No names. Just
Words.

Words that are just.
Words that are strong.
Words that are weak.
Words that would say,

This guy loved himself.

I think that would be the title.
This guy loved himself.
Because this guy loves himself.
Because if this guy didn’t love himself,

Why would anyone else?

If I had a book
The face of the book
Would have no face
At all.

Turn off your tube,
X the videos,
And get past the face
Of the book.

Find your space,
No distractions.
No flikring
Or twittering.

Turn down your tunes,
And explore the word.
Excel on the front page,
With powerful points.

But don’t dwell on the office,
Postpone them and paint.
Frequent photos, and shops
And make movies through windows.

Bite into a mackintosh,
For a book needs flavour,
And without flavour
Words are just words.

If I had a book
The face of the book
Would have no face
At all.

Keep droppin them guns down the well.
I’m dead
Serious.

Let the mutants rise against
The guard
Dogs.

Soon the push of death
Wow this bitch needs to shut the fuk up
She always needs to fucking say something

Don’t try and be cute
You’re fucking lucky I’m faded,
Otherwise I’d say something useful
And shut you up myself.

Flashes of violence
And torture
Fly through
My
Brain.

What
The
Fuck
Is poetry?

I can’t
Figure out why
You’re talking about peace.

Don’t
Stop it
While it’s in motion

It’s a push
It is the push
Of mental discourse

I woke up from a sleepless sleep,
Awake the whole time,
Mumbling something I couldn’t
Understand.

Wakeful still,
I wandered.
My house isn’t big,
But I was lost.

Is that a hallway?
Or a doorway?
Either way,
Which way do I go?

Does that door lock?
Is the lock locked?
Can I get out?
Or do I just wait again?

These stairs never end.
They aren’t big stairs,
They just never end.
But they must.

The warmth of my bed
The comfort of my bed
They’re at the top of this.
But that’s unimportant.

I sleep sleepless,
In my cold basement,
Making love to words
And the sweet sound of smiles.

Look! A problem,
Get under it.
It’s easier than over it,
But you’ll never get past.

Climb the stairs, J.
But I love her.
So?
But she loves him.
So?
Climb the stairs, J.
But I don’t want to leave her.
So?
I’m under it, she’s over me.

Dammit man, get yourself together.
Then climb the stairs.
Get over, not under
And it won’t be over you.

That’s stupid,
You’re stupid.
Once I’m over it,
I’m uninspired.

Is this what it’s about?
No, you fucking idiot.
Yes, you fucking idiot.
I don’t know I fucking idiot.

Just go upstairs
I’ll meet you there.
You’re already here.
So it appears.

Hip hop is from the heart.
Hip - Hop is from the heart.
Hip is from the heart
Hip is from the heart
Hop is from the heart
hop is from the heart.
Hip - Hop is from the heart.
Hip hop is from the heart/
Hip hop is not in your ears
hip hop is not from your ears
hip ears?
hop ears?
Hip ears
hip ears
hop ears
hop ears
hip hop ears?
Hip hop is not from your ears.

Hip hop is bombing
emceeing,
scratching,
break dancing,
and beat boxing.
Those are the five pillars,
the tenets,
the choice of strength
or way of life
and it's not through the ears,
and even still
the pillars are not hip hop themselves.

Hip hop is from the heart.
Hip hop is not a visual,
you can see hip hop
you can hear hip hop
but hip hop is not from the eyes,
hip hop is not from the eyes,
hip hop is not from the eyes,
hip hop is from the heart.

Monopolize the industry
Wrap it up in chains,
return the fucking culture
To the pit from whence it came,

The mono-tone-Police stop in the dust and try
to stop it.

Hey now, this is my monopoly,
mother fucker,
It's been 3 fucking hours
and we're not even close
to finishing the stupid game.


And has anyone realized that we're encouraging gentrification?

W/e, I'm not making a difference.
If only the bank would stop fucking my income,
maybe if I could get the FUCK off baltic.

and maybe then I could take the railway and NOT
get sent to jail.

This isn't a fucking game,
This is a fucking genocide.

Good thing I own
and run,
the utilities,
They get rid of me and they're screwed.

Chill,
it's just a game.

most of the shit i've written has been composed of large words and oddly formatted stanzas,
most of the shit i've written revolves around my own pathetic self-pity,
Most of the shit i've written is stream of consciousy and shit like that but really,

who thinks,
like,
this?

on this day, i dont. fuckit, i dont even capitalize where i need to
or use fancy words to make a fancy stanza that even i dont fucking understand with hopes that the readers will find something deep about it.
on this day i just dont give a shit because there is not enough time to make it pretty.

aisle write it in a fucking paragraph if necessary
but since its not i wont.
fuck punctuation too. really though

anyway im not going to be profound, im not going to be nice, and im not going to be quaint
because that has never been my style and i never want it to be.

i digress
theres way too much shit that i need to worry about that i dont need to worry about that im worrying about
i really do hope you followed through that thought with me because i sure as hell did.

what i mean is, im remembering past times when i've been deeply embarrassed, both private and public
and its giving me that rush that you get when, even though the moment has passed you're still blushing.

what the fuck am i talking about? im a dork and thats all i have to say

FML

Note to self:
Fucking stop it.
Now. It.
Stop it.
Idiot.

Disappear into the abyssmal
ocean.
Surf or be swallowed.

Slow down.

Dont poke the Grizzly Bear.

He's fuckin' angry.
Slumber here, eat there,
don't poke the grizzly bear.

Black bears climb trees
grizzly bears cleep
but don't piss of a bear, idiot.

Though Uncharacteristic of
bear pokers, unless there is love
don't poke the grizzly bear.

I've been tagged enough,
I've been spotted enough,
I've lived in a fucking aquarium
looking for myself
looking at others,
as food.

I've lived in a cave forever,
now,
I'm growling in my sleep,
fucking angry.

So don't poke the grizzly bear

Fuzzy Red Eyes.
Swirling and blinking,
with black pupils.

Insane smile is making me feel uneasy,
he's yellow,no,
he's black,no,
she's... she's...
she's mexican.

But why are you worried?
it's just a smile,
which will turn,very soon,
into a frown, or
a gasp?

I taste water,
I smell weeds,
corroding flowers,
one flower burns,
my mouth waters.

Fuzzy red eyes
look outwards,
a tool of government
oppression.

or not.

Why'm I twitching?
I don't usually twitch,
I see clearly
on most days.
And laugh.

so hard I cry.

That's sand in my throat.

What's natural about this canada?
you fucking hippie.
Nothing's organic
nothing's organic
Nothing's organic
Nothing's more organic,
morganic,
than plastic.

It's getting drastic.
Your fuzzy red eyes
which you have made MY
fuzzy red eyes,
(as a form of oppression...
remember?)are throbbing.
I can't think straiter
or more obscurely

what the fuck have you done
to me?
you fucking hippie.

Yeah, I'm angry,
I can't feel my fingers.
My legs are gone from beneath me.

Oppression and depression are
a slight price to pay
in the pursuit of freedom
and happiness.

You're happy when you're fuzzy Canada.
So am I.

I am a transtextual.

I travel across man's lands
from the Philippines
to Romania
to Bogotá
to Trinidad

I can take many shapes, and forms, and rhymes,
My influence also travels through time.
Born in Europe I travelled 'cross the sea,
now I possess Transtextuality.

an enigmatic prophylactic
causes resistance to
the disease of death
there's no such thing as extinct text.

I can start wars
and stop breaths like presto
change-o
Example for you:
the communist manifesto

But change grows
naturally, but I'm unnatural in nature
So I can form to nature
if I ever
feel the need

And if you give me the chance to breathe,
I can geminate inside
A child’s brain, just as long
As a parent plants the seed.

Growth is inevitable,
From poem,
To fable,
To short story,
To novellas,
To novels,
To volumes.
Which speaks volumes
about my story.

I am a Transtextual

What am I?
I am the word of God,
I am the word of Man,
I am the word of men,
Women,
Children,

And transexuals all alike
Because I am
A light
Between the dark unknown
And Midas’ thrown
I am a transtextual alike.

This looking glass window is mine,
from within it I look out,
and without it I look in,
the wind blows through time.

The wind blows under there,
where underwear leaves stains of
blows, the come out
of looking in.
Indecent, incidental, mental,

Ejaculation,

results from masturbation
to cancer patients
leaving lacerations
in my soul
as I look in.

And so I continue my lookout,
Out at those looking in,
In at those looking out,
I shake the glass.

I WANT OUT!
I WANT OUT I SAY!

that looking glass is mine,
it protects me,
though proven to be an obstacle at times,
most times I just turn it away.

I am on vacation.
The window is on leave.

I am free,
free to look into
others' glasses as
the wind begins to blow.
lo,

Their glasses are half empty too.
They to have broken their frames.
But their plexiglass is tempered,
whilst mine is on leave.

And so I look out,
without the looking glass.
A forward trudge,
a freedom, the freedom,
of hollow protection.

I indulge in sin,
looking in, without
vocation.

Aghast,
untouchable,
because of their glass.

But the wind still blows,
I welcome her.

It's getting colder.

I want my protection, but
she doesnt want me.
It's colder, she haunts me.
I look in
-to a mirror.

slaps and lacerations
have two results.
They catapult aggrivation
and mental masturbation,
when self induced.

I'm wholly in control
of this unholy matrimony
between poems and
freedom of emus or emos
and emoetry.

for driven foreward
and updated monthly,
it takes four words
to cause more words.

cram clevage,
and leave unclean leverage

Smile.

Yes, Canada, you've raised me.
You took me from age nothing,
and if nothing but age has become of me,
You accept me.
I've wiped my tears, Oh, Canada,
With maple leaves.
I've showered in the sweet stench
Of your divine maple syrup.
I've bathed in the lush pools of the
Canadian Club.

But still, Canada, I dispise you.

Oh, Canada,
Our home and clothed land.
I am not native to you,
and you are not naked to me,
for in y0ur Rockies,
in your Praries,
in your Great Lakes,
your true essence is hidden.

I was taught to see you
as a natural beauty,
Canada,
But I see that your leotard
is the most natural thing
about you.

I've heard them telling me,
Canada is in the people.
But who are the people?
Is it the Quebeceurs?
The French Canadians,
Abandoned by France their mother,
and abandoning the people who made,
manipulated, and even forced
them in to their country?

I feel your pain,
but believe me,
you need Canada,
as much as Canada needs you.

What about the Maritimes?
What about the fishermen,
many French Canadians as well,
unwilling to leave, but unwilling
to fight for the English?
What do we do with them?
The English shipped them down south.
Killed half of them,
those who survived are now Cajuns.
But the ones that stayed.
What of them?

Oh, Canada,
what woes hath thou
brought upon thine self?

Vancouver,
the Olympics are coming,
clean up your act.
You have the best weed
The world has ever seen.
You have the most beautiful land,
the most beautiful surroundings,
and a beautiful University.
You are healthy people.
You are loving people.
But, what does Canada mean to you?

Oh, Canada.
What of Toronto.

I live in this city.
I love in this city.
I grew up in this city.
This city is who I am.
But Canada, why, I must ask,
Do you shun us?

You've shitted on us, Canada.

We will visit Montreal and love the Habs for you.
We will visit Winnipeg and cheer for the Blue Bombers.
We will scratch the clay grounds of PEI just so we can take home,
a bit of the real Canada.
But why?

I ask these questions,
not because I feel uneasy,
or ungreatful,
or even understanding.
I ask these because I want to know
what happened to the dominion.
we can blame this on
trade routes,
culture,
hockey,
or television,
but what it really comes down to
is that we ARE the Dominion of Canada,
and if we don't start acting like it,
our flag
will die.

Wishes on a wakeful walk
lay lonely along a long stretch of land,
diluting, diseminating, disappearing,
singing sobs of sweet sorrow.

Alone again amidst a mass
of old obsolete orary outcries,
mixed, mangled, mostly forgotten
but boxed in by
personal preferrence.

Cranium cracks,
fears fly freely
but out of control
they accost the mind

box slightly broken but
try to contain them
take tape, the
screams stay.

Some got away,
free radicals.
Stray stress,
a strange sabbatical.

Love the Liturgy.
Leave Lost Love Lost
and all things will come.
In Time.

The classic line
"it's broken."

No one really knows what's broken,
but when it wont start,
when it won't run,
and you've given up
on the truck,
leaning on the passenger door,
playing it off, smokin'
and a bystander approaches to help,
so as not to remain token,
you repeat.
"The carborator is broken."

This is
a simple prayer,
from a very simple heart.

I pray
for a loving 2009.
Love thy neighbour, and his neighbour, and the guy across the street, and the guy that stabbed you on halloween for a 2 lb. bag of candy. Wars are for pussies.

I pray
for a stable 2009.
The ball keeps rolling, but only because it's all downhill from here. Why not entertain stagnancy for a year, then figure out where to go.

I pray
for a safe 2009.
Hurricane Ronald and co. need to rest. Same with Tsunami Sam, Earthquake Jake, Tornado Teresa... Chlamydia Carmen...

I pray
once again
and above all
for love.

May the world find love.
May love find place
in the world.

Obama '08 ain't got nothing
on Love '09

amen.

I was thrice asked,
Where does your inspiration come from?

the first time the answer was simple,
managable,
borderline cute.

When my first grade teacher asked me,
"where does your inspiration come from?"
the only thing I could think of was,
My dad.

My dad was the best.
Old (he would've been 50, since he was 44 when I was born),
but not old (he had lots of black hair. he still has lots of black hair though...).
Strong (he could hold me down with one arm)
but not merciless (one tear would transform a spanking to a TO).
That's where my inspiration came from.

In grade 7 I was asked again
"where does your inspiration come from?"
I chose between answers, their pros and their cons,
and God seemed like the right choice.

God was the best.
Old (he wrote the freakin' bible)
but not old (he hasn't retired yet)
Strong (Genesis 6:5-7)
but not merciless (John 3:16).
That's where my inspiration came from.

In grade 9 I was asked again
"Where does your inspiration come from?"
A little older. A little wiser. Still little though.
I seemed like the right choice.

I was the best.
I was old (I was in high school. Jeez)
but not old (I still couldnt drive)
I was strong (OFSAA BABY!!! OFSAA!!!)
but not merciless (I only bullied people with my eyes)
I inspired myself.

I asked myself at 5 AM this morning,
"Where does your inspiration come from?"
it is now 6...
Consider me... Uninspired...