a market called time: intro
there is a spot in your space where i have learned about the intimate parts of your mind
thank you for listening always
thank you for embracing the spark in your eye
i did too inside of a market called time where we spoke about the walls and craters created by police and capitalistic structure, see
i will be waiting for the day to see you next
much like the time I will spend writing words about the ways your spirit writhes
there are four beautiful things I have found in the ways our souls collide
who’s house is this pt. 2
i believe a beer would calm me and i yell to thomas who’s petting the dog hey want a beer?
he refuses to respond and i can tell he heard me from the way his body moved and the dog moved too and i would never believe the dog could hear better than thomas who has two ears that are not folded over themselves many times over.
perhaps the dog is literate so that i may find a piece of paper to write a note on and alert thomas of my abilities to retrieve him a beer but perhaps the dog could do the same? who’s house is this?
am i asking myself or am i asking the collective conscious? i find myself talking to them more often than not, like, aren’t i writing this for them and their
understand psychoactive substances, regardless of their flavor or level of dangerousness
i believe a beer would calm me i yell to thomas
he’s petting a dog and yells back a beer might calm me also but perhaps a sardine
and i personally am repulsed by tiny fish locked in a can of guts and vinegar but regardless i pull one off of this XL pizza and say thomas catch and it hits his eye and he starts screaming loud and the dog begins barking.
who’s house is this pt. 1
i often revel at my inability to derive inspiration from the beauty that surrounds my physical body but i am often surprised by my innate capabilities to derive inspiration from my soul as it streams through these fingertips. even at a young age i pulled flowers from their roots to depict the core of their life into inky pigments stretching across canvas and that - ascended my spirit into an abrupt and never ending appreciation for life and it’s unnecessary desire to exist.
i met a man today named thomas and he has long curly hair that sits right at the base of his shoulders. when i met him he smelled of sardines but only due to the pizza that was hanging from his mouth. this furthermore convinced me of thomas’ state, and mine, as someones who had consumed several substances that night, ranging from flavorful to dangerous, im standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in my hand clutching it’s stem and sweating profusely from the nape of my neck. thomas yells my name from the living room and the chair he’s sitting on creaks loud like his voice as his cheeky body wiggles.
‘grab me another slice!’
i react slowly and the stove is now on with water close to boiled and thomas walks around the corner with a frown slightly stuck on his brow and a dog barks loud from the backyard. who’s house is this? is he asking me or telling me im not sure but his curls are swirling in front of me as he twists his head back and forth waving his body im hearing music in place of the dogs bark and the pizza box is opening with thomas’ face guiding towards it.
it seemed like i was making tea because the kettle is whistling in the place of where the pot was close to boiled and i drop an egg into the kettle and listen to the sizzle of the enamel against hot hot hot metal.
waiting for the bus : 1
im waiting for the bus to get here by watching dust devils blow around with the wind
rarely do i talk on this bus and for lack of a better word i may sit here alone with a book in my hand as these boys laugh loud and press buttons on their games. often times i feel detached from this space and i would admit my skin partially inclines these thoughts to my mind.
most of my friends in that school were either dark or light and a few white but mostly girls. i noticed that the white boys would spend time together more often than not and occasionally i could be brought in for laughter and good food around a cafeteria table.
there are torillas warming and eggs with chorizo burning those smells into my nose.
this blindfold: pt 2
i have this blindfold on that covers the good parts of my day
when we left the store i remember the sun being hot and gorey
i took pictures of your face in that light because you wore a lot of glitter
some sort of doctored magic
you pranced around on the street while i dreamt
you were in that different world that i write about
see i have an empty pill capsule stuck in my gums
and i use it to scoop up the remnants of our time
ill try and to go back there later
to that world youve created for yourself and the things you love
we go there when we smoke and talk about most things
and it feels tangible the separation from our normal existence
its kind of surreal and an illusion of acceptance
but that seems to not matter when you’re just twenty whatever
development is a game and why play you’re lost most of the time
i have this blindfold on that covers the good parts of my day
i sometimes call it school but usually homework
because my home is where i find solace in the papers i bring with me in my bag
we sit together in the living room while the tv watches me work
its soothing to tempt my reflexes for stimulation and entertainment
like a game of tetherball i usually lose and have regrets
i found it was the same with relationships
i walked in trying to find the path of least resistance
i was told it was around this corner, could you direct me to it?
he said i was subject to change once i found it, could that mean im there now?
its nice meeting you i suppose
i didnt think your eyes would be this beautiful nor your hair this long
but i expect it to be in my dreams regardless and regretless
much like these words
i am often compelled to survive by those scars carved onto your left rib
feet dangle from this bench and i kick them around as i sleep onto your shoulder
you smell like the spices i cooked with tonight
you smell like the right turn down edison street
you smell like the desert flower that was born in my pocket
i smell like rotting onions and i run as you chase me around this room
with your bandages falling off
im slipping on them as i continue running
im grabbing onto the walls that are caked yellow
from a cig thats burning through my pocket
pass it wont you?
I sometimes switch between writing prose and poetry, sometimes it’s mid line, sometimes it’s after. I remember learning poetry by myself like I was capable of learning without school. Not only as a craft nor simply a way of expression, poetry is a language of finding words inside of themselves. Since I was self taught, the people I spoke to kept nothing against the ways of my rhymes and typical time, but instead listened to me intently, or at least pretended to. I started writing words on religion like I was well read, and physics like I was well taught, but there seemed to be none of that when I approached the Standard. The Standard taught me that expression is a medium of intent for persuasion, sometimes expression is a way to supercede the Standard, but rarely. Only the a few could incorporate true expression into their lives daily; to find innovation as they walk through the murk of everyday.
sand on my back
her kisses id consider quite moist feeling the warmth of sand on my back.
her hat is shading me but
im being pressed into the ground
i lick juice from below her chin and she falls onto me laughing and holding my waist down
the breeze is salty but sweet and i feel exuberant even though there is a selfie stick blocking
and her hat falls back as she adjusts for the shot but ill catch it and put it on before
the breeze is salty but sweet as it mixes with fruity undertones stuck on her tongue and i feel exuberant even though there are children being loud and throwing
sand into the air.
my hair might catch some and she
brushes my shoulder as her friend takes a picture of us.