Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets

You like my poem, then i'll like yours
we don't have to call it reading
even if yours could heal my sores
mine would be all i'm needing

i like your whole style of no style
nothing to do with form or function
you say it's not a one way street
when i see you at every junction

to be honest, it fills me with fear
hitting like becoming my being
then i will get roped into even more
when less is all i'm seeing

because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am.


It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of ****, but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.

Sing me your street light lullabies.
The discorded harmonies
Of light that speaks unease.
Wipe the concrete ash from your hands
Fill your pockets full of posies
Of cricket song and tree creaking in lament
Intone the notes that pass my lips
And taste them with yours.
There is an intimacy in this distance
A space filled with questions
Tangled over each other
Unanswered.

two beggars on street
asking for dollars and change
tapping on cell phones

Summer ice box, bolted to the block like a hustler’s ambition.
King of the corner. Hand to hand to every family man or,
A fiends fever dream. Metal mattress for the meek.
Chill spot on the streets,
For a late-night congregation of labeled freaks;
To people passing by at least.
Neighborhood staple. A practicing painters graffiti canvas.
Crowned with empty coffee cups turned bank accounts for the beggar.
Bent from stray bullets, but never broken.
Stalwart, abandoned bodegas
But the ice box remains.
The signature of a city that speeds away, but
Will never change.

Water Street
After the rain
Is where wayward teens
Ride their bicycles
On damp pavement
Under staggered lamps,
I never knew,
Before seeing from the 2nd floor
That 2am
Is when lost youth roam.

on sunday mornings
the streets sigh
with hideous anticipation
awaiting an answer to a question—
unspoken—
is the city dead
or not yet awoken?

it used to be that royalty
treated everyone like peasants
not much has changed
though it has been re-arranged
he who holds the money holds the power
now listen kid, cause I know you've read the books and gone to school,
but you must learn a new set of tools
you have to be street smart
if you want to survive
the fact is
if you practice
we might just make it out of here alive

went to see a wise
man on the mountain saw a
poor man on the street

I ran off on the plug
He knew what he signed up for. Never trust a man that has nothing to lose with you as an opportunity to gain more traction more steam.
I want to live like a king whether it be by getting a corporate job with a high salary or  running with ratchets attached with a red beam.
Consequences will come as they always do with any situation but we’re not here to go over any stipulations as to what’s right and wrong
I’m looking for one major lick I been plotting on running up on papi get in and out with everything he has then leaving town I’m gone.
Where I’m from people barely live to see 25 I’m pushing 30 with nothing going after this lick I’ll be 15 again and can’t feel more alive.
All I have to do is make it.