the orwellian man

The Orwellian man hooked his arm, and forced his face into
A serious box.
He sought out a pencil with his long dainty fingers
But felt none.
He couldn’t see,
For he was not wearing his thick spectacles.
“standard”
“manage”
“product”
He thought.
He clenched his teeth as he continued to search
For a pencil.
Still in the dark.
Still without his spectacles.
He thought,
“standard,”
“manage,”
“product.”
He whispered
And contorted his mouth into
The words
“manage”
“standard”
“product.”
Still in the dark.
Still without his spectacles.
Still without a pencil.
He clenched his teeth
And cursed pencils everywhere.
He found a pen
instead.

rubber gloves?

My body is a pretzel
because my mind is a stew.
I try to be careful
so I don't become a fool.

I suppose this could be stressful.
I suppose I could drool.
But I am only fearful
of those that are cruel.

The Fear

The Fear-
A poem

I am eating peanut-butter from the jar
and I don’t like it.
Actually,
I sort-of hate it.
Peanut-butter makes me want to gag,
especially in spoonfuls.
I feel the same way about bureaucracy.
The way our system has been unconsciously sculpted
innately self-destructs.
But who wants to pay attention?
Here we are, “A human alarm system” and many of the T.V. People in our world
Still
tap
snooze.
They sometimes awake groggily,
Wide-eyed
And whisper: “oh, shut-up!”
And return to their favorite program.
.
We stand
with our signs, silently crying,
sometimes
even chanting intentionally, potentially
inspiring mantras
and not denying.
The curtains close.
The handkerchiefs are passed around.
We don’t make a sound.
We whisper
frustrated,
yet compassionate and
empathetic secrets.
Passing them, (our thoughts and feelings)
from ear to ear.
And suddenly!
Roaring again!
In our “idealistic” (somewhat realistic) cheer!
Attempting to awaken all from
The Fear.
Roaring:
We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
For you
And me
And we.
See?

There was once a man who was made for the moon

There was once a man who was made for the moon,
who walked simply to a beat that was in itself his own "tune."
He had character,
he knew of despair,
he knew of everything
except the process of his own hair.

There was once a man who was made for the world,
who had the aura of travel in his mold.
He had freedom,
he knew of charm,
he knew of everything
except of people who choose to live on farms.

There was once a man who was made for the sun,
who experienced intense heat when he knew he was done.
He had passion,
he knew of hesitation,
he knew of everything
except the animation of his own great creation.

There was once a man who was made for himself,
who created everything and never asked for help.
He had knowledge,
he even had fact,
he knew of everything
except that it was all an act.

behold

behold,
The envious creature weeps for you.
she cries out in fear
And anguish
Though she can’t finish
This state.
she wants to warn you
Of herself.
she often has nightmares of
Losing control.
Practice,
Be strong,
Envious creature.

No more words allowed

“No more words allowed.”
My ears have been cut off.
Oh,
Don’t worry,
You can talk all you want.
I know that is what you desire,
So,
In order for me to save myself,
My brain,
My mind,
I have to stop being able to hear you.
Please,
Do not be offended.
It isn’t personal.
I know you don’t hear me either.

Patience

“Patience,” Cries out the universe.
The creature stops in its tracks. It looks above, it looks to the left, it looks at the ground with a vicious smirk.
But Nothing.
Nothing.
I need to re-acquaint myself with sleep.
Which has been defeated by
So many people
In the last few days.
I trap myself from the world.
And I turn on music?
I turn on the lights?
I sit,
More. And more.
No,
I should be
sleeping

We were all seeking something

We were all seeking something.
Hunched vagabonds in the mist.
All eyes,
perplexed stations of thought.
All eyes,
in awe.
All beings too busy,
too overwhelmed
to be violent.
Community.
Community.
Community.
How long will it last?

I am ridden with confusion

I am ridden with confusion,
Universe.
Yes I am talking to you!
You satisfy my craving,
Of which I am left hating.
And you giggle,
At my suffering.
screw you,
Universe.
Yes I am talking to you!
And now you allow me to see the sun
As if I could have won.
And you redeem yourself
Tricking me into thinking you are done.
Damn it,
Universe.
Yes I am talking to you!

"What more do you want from me?"

Here I am,
Not doing particularly much. I am and nothing, nothing will come. I am standing on a rock, with nothing to say. I am heard, nearly listened to from all around and I have nothing to gift to the empty ears. The empty ears of judgment. The empty ears that will always perceive me differently from I .
So

“What more do you want from me?”

I’ll tell ya.
Oh yeah, I’ll fucking tell ya!
Now sit down!
And Shut-the-fuck-up.
All I want from You,
Is
That You remove
That huge, gregarious,
GAUDY,
Ridiculous,
Obscene
Object, formerly known as “high-definition-television”
From my home.
Oh,
And please get out.

I was walking, and bouncing to the Pixies
When I came home, I had It in my mind to:
Put “I Love You” on my speakers,
Full blast
And
Sit. Or dance.
Mostly dance.
Kick my feet up, ankles
And all.

I was not privileged enough for that to happen, today.
Well,
Not until I called the police and had my home searched.
I called,
I waited,
They came,
Molested my home,
Degraded me in their questions,
Shouted at the silence,
Found nothing.
So why, oh why
Was my door found completely ajar?

And that is the kicker.
There are so many
options,
Ideas,
Theories to choose from.
And none of them
Will save me from that police-full, full-police experience.
The experience of being
Intimately patronized,
With a hand or finger beckoning.

I ventured out of my home

I ventured out of my home
Due to the welcome extra light
that greeted me past five.
I stepped over my threshold
to meet the wonders of the cool breezes
they surrounded me.
I walked towards the swings.
That is what I wanted,
to swing and read,
Read and swing
as the daylight left this atmosphere.
I walked a block, or less
I stomped
I stepped
I crossed the asphalt, formerly known as “the street.”
Towards the swings,
to read and swing
and read and swing.
And suddenly what surrounded me,
But a quiet click, or tap
And my face was painted with water droplets.
I was surrounded.
I basked in it.
Although,
I did realize
That if I were to read
And swing,
Swing
And read
while the rain trickled around,
My book would become soaked
and I would drown.

alien

(Whispering)
“What are you?”
“What are you?”
“What are you?”

Well…
I am not sure how it happened.
But somehow,
I was born into a divide
Between three socially constructed things, named “races.”
And now
I am eternally attached to socially constructed pain
And denial.
I am an alien, you know.
Yes,
I AM an alien,
An alien.

I know I am an alien, because
Of those boxes.
Those boxes on paperwork,
On standardized tests,
School application forms,
On background check forms,
On, on,
On,
Everything.
The boxes that encase other boxes
With these vague categories next to them:
African American (pause.)

Caucasian (pause.)

Native American (pause.)


As if
It was that simple.

Oh,
Oh.
I forgot
“Other.”
Other is for people who aren’t JUST
Caucasian (pause.)
Who aren’t JUST
Native American (pause.)
Who aren’t JUST
African American (pause.)

Strange,
When I fit all of the above criterion. I am
Caucasian (pause.)
I am
Native American (pause.)
And I am
African American (pause.)
But
To corporations, governments, and institutions I am still
“other.”
Other.
Other.
Other.
Other.
Other-
nothing.
Alien.

Thank you,
Corporations, governments and institutions
For not allowing me to have an identity
Outside of
other.


There was a “teacher,”
who told me to choose one.
Can you guess which one?
I lived with my white father (at the time)
So I chose: Caucasian.
I chose. She grimaced as she stared at my brown skin, and curly hair.
I cried.
I sighed.
I lied.

Sometimes I tried to see the boxes with humor.
I would choose “Hispanic,” because I knew I could pass as…
quickly turned into a rumor.
I speak no Spanish, and
Neither does my family.
There are no signs of Spain
Or South America in my ancestry.
There was a teacher,
Who told me that I couldn’t "lie,"
I had to choose the box that “truly” reflected I.
The Cortisol jumped in my blood,
And I wanted to hide
But I bent over, checked “other.”
And knew that I lied.
But it was an “ok” lie, according to the lady
Whom passed herself off as a
"teacher."
Who gave us packets of worksheets
and assigned seats.
Not her problem.
Not her problem.
Not her problem.

My lies,
My ancestry,
My life,
My pain.
My soul.
My identity.
My alien.
My other.
My alien.

So many years on this planet.

So many years on this planet.

So many months on this planet.
So many weeks on this planet.
So many days on this planet.
I feel rather existential.


I thought: “I will try to write a poem, for once.”
I realized how much that statement
Made no sense.
So now,
I am writing a poem.

But all I could think,
As I urinated
Into a porcelain vase,
That leads to another space,
Was that I have lived
So many years on this planet.
So many months on this planet.
So many weeks on this planet.
So many days on this planet.
So many hours on this planet.
So many minutes on this planet.
So many seconds on this planet.
AND
I have only lived
Twenty-one of the first “thing.”