no longer just me.

i forgot how sexy this type of talking, this well thought burst projection makes me feel.
bare skin on point, freshly cut grass,
and the dirty shit that sticks to me just makes what revolves around your head
from the source of these parted lips fuckin’ clean.
and, it’s gotta sound mean, the rawness of me yelling at these eyes that have witnessed the hate of the world stackin’ around him like boulders that man technoed into houses and cities.
it seems to block off the history of the sweat he loses towards saving his future life.
releases liquid but never drips off what really matters,
‘cause he understands the war but ain’t havin’ it.
it's no longer enough to absorb the words of others reminding me of how overwhelming his presence creates a presence in my own,
'cause he got me. and, look,
those beautiful, brown irises have seen the full moon blooming around his dirty steps with its specific light.
my Light, making sure my shadow stays safe till this smile kisses any spot that hasn’t been touched within the last 24 hours.
my mind yells all day and night because of this in my life,
reverberation all over temples built to breath and relax and find what i’m looking for as I listen to myself,
mixing a feeling of all of you.
satisfied don’t even begin.
I’m glowing as a woman in love, swearing good words.
alls a sudden it’s not oh fuck,
it’s oh FUCK, oh GOD!
this fucking fool keeps my smile purified, filtering these dirty thoughts to be
justified by minor romantics,
motivation perked the motions of time to continue onwards till life do I part,
and listeners,
these are the rhymes that I’m obliged to birth. My love child poem.
I don’t want to know if there ever will be a comedown from this happy flight.
finally,
it’s happened to me,
someone to fight with, instead of just fight for.
these guns I’ve crafted glow rusty, this amnesty has passed an unquestionable legislation,
simply every gear in me turns yes for your respect
and, love, all I ever really ask for is time.
time to save the bullets since peace is never ceratin,
and I sense you’re my perma friendly fire.
don’t let me hurt you to simply feel more.
understood that this adventure is about describing emotions in a believable way.
time spent with me to realize it’s us that I love, not just you, and no longer just me.

all the little tidbits i've saved in the notepad of my phone put together in a less awkward mess than when i found them....probably still work on this one a bit more.

wake up, wake up.

from the longest blink to a barrage of rapid ones
you submerge into a conscious state
descending from dreaming as you rise from bed
about to live a new day.

but will you really 'live'?

some believe that nearly all function as zombies
living each day like tomorrow's already promised
simply getting by without any bucket listings accomplished
that maybe we wake up with our blind eyes widely shut
making leaps of faith that land us on our butts
and the fact that many move this way is upsetting
making decisions destined for future regretting.

if you're one of those believes, simply try:

why walk slowly by when you can fly with greatness
to beautiful places.
sing with mayer hawthorne's soul + spit with maya del valle's sincerity
make beautiful beats like j.d. (james 'dilla' yancey), not the whiskey man from tennessee
basically, i want you to become more heavenly
because when you wake up, anything's possible
and though something truly amazing usually won't manifest
revel in the infinite opportunity
the limitless chances
the waterfall of raining possibility
and the rain forest of teeming life
waiting for you.

and the next time your day begins
don't forget

to wake up.

(by Johnny Datura)

“My visions, dreams, and ideals will never see the light of day, because if they were to be set free. The world would only stone them and cast them aside as talk of the outcasts.

Men claim to seek truth but are held back by their own crusade. The truth they find everyday is truth they may never learn to understand, and because these things are foreign to them, they turn away from the light because it blinds their eyes.

how ironic are these hands of time,

how ironic are these hands of mine."

cuz Eileen told me to =P

I love you
I don't think I told you that enough
matter of fact
and more importantly
I never showed you enough
see we had something that was unmeasurable by wordly standards 
and it was love that could not be contained
it was something to run to, to take off the strain
and I regretfully have to say that it does not remain
anymore
just like the shifting sands of the gobi dessert
or the constantly metling Glaciers of the Antarctic 
we 
have
changed
and again importantly
our love
has
changed
it is the only currency that stays current
like the currents of the ocean
it does not mean I love you less
it just means it's changed
shape shifted
to fit these times we are in
shape shifted
to match the new weve begin
molded and pressed
under the pressure that was straining to keep us together
and I am sorry
for making you endure it.
I am sorry I was never the man you wanted me to be
when I wishes were too little
and words were not enough
that change in me came too late
and our seperation came too soon
I try to stand tall but
my thoughts on I wishes
are becoming heavy weights 
hung around my neck
and it's humbling me to my knees
realizing the consequences of un-thought
through actions
and the re-actions of it all
and all I can do
is look up at you
as I fall

the coupe de grace
as my boyancy
is displaced
and my emotions boil over
spilling out on this page
and I can not numerate
or find the answer 
to my love locked equation.
see the answer I keep getting is zero...
I was searching for that height 
where heaven and earth met
not realizing that was a distance easily
reached between your head and toes
which just goes to show
that love lost is found 
but Right now I'm more at a loss
and with this my heart that I cross
I shall never deny you
of what was rightfully yours 





 

this is an old freewrite i found about a year ago...

10/18/08
6:40 to 6:45pm

my purple skies
never met the sleeves
of night time. The
sun never set in my heart,
maybe thats why the golden
flower still grows on its own island
where it sits quietly singing the
notes of the wind, hopefully it will
reach our ears again, reminding us
that love grows in the beautifullest of places
its just we have to find it where we left it,
Do you remember where we left it? behind the Tree
stump i sprayed it on, under the gravel we traversed through,
swimming on the surface of the waves, lost in the hairs of
paintbrushes, somewhere in evaporated smoke from our lungs, ingredients
to our favorite ice creams, in the caps to our biggest boss sauces,
at the tip of the needle that pleasures our ears at the touch
of vinyl, sleeping in throw pillows, in my transmission switching gears
somewhere on haight scavenging for change
mixing in apple juices and slap my face alcoholic moments
never remembering forgetting phone nights
do you remember where
we left it?
because i know that the clues lie in my heart...
maybe your the last piece...

A Woman Scorn'd: Her feministo [short story piece]

The room is full of smoke. A hazy overcast of unfiltered menthol dreams. It floats above her head resting on her shoulders; shifting its full weight into her and taking her knees for granted.She only weighs so much and the trouble it causes isn’t so much trouble, as it is claustrophobia in the works. It only took a whisper and hot breath of life to sneak into her brain, taking over the mechanics and letting loose within instantaneous moments.

“I’m paralyzed from the soul down”, she says painfully, as she pushes the words from the cracks in the fists. She never knew what she was really getting into. Three months ago seemed liked a walk… in the park…or there about. Her mind slows and catches up with her reaction. Maybe tonight wasn’t the best night to return to your reality. Her bruised trust still has his grip embedded deep in it. She began to question his presence more and more after each return.

“Tell me what you’re thinking”, he encourages. He encourages more then he’s ready for. The room fills with more haze and I wait for someone to open a window or door and let the confusion filter out. Everyone is caught up in their own, and drives on apathetically in their skin.

The dark thoughts reveal the shadows my ancestors wished to hide. It’s us. It’s who we are. It’s the malevolent, grotesque walking reflection of ourselves. Wearing a resemblance of ourselves, once pure but never the same. He was a pyromaniac. She was in the cross fire. Momma always said, "don't play with fire...or you'll get addicted. She may be in her twenties, but her ancestors grow me old. Her family remembers the 23^rd psalm, yet blind to why she is broken. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me…” In her family, they live together far enough from the city, yet close enough to each other’s demons. Love it. Live with it. Learn from it. She has become accustomed to stories. The babaylan, diwata, and Gabriela. An opaque screen connecting demons and children with angels and adults.

She talks in skeleton terms and ask that you refrain from picking on her funny bone. It’s tough, to say the least, when vultures are perched above her mind ready to swoop on any piece of heritage she compromises and tosses aside. Her shadows are her enemies; and she makes love to them whenever she can. She loves the way the body feels in the nude. Secrets and all. He knows her inside and around. She loves that. There’s no way another could and she appreciates the time it took to do so.

This room is a claustrophobic’s anxiety attack. She tries to leave, but mental games entice her. "What do I do?" manages to escape her mouth. Smoke along side the desolate or go for a ride with my thoughts? she's claustrophobic. I think I’ll take that drive.

"I can't believe you had to wear a skirt today!" Bubbling with excitement, the libations take hold of my neck beckoning a reponse to surface. Playful banter, honest dialogue, and post-dinner laughs compliment lighthearted reminiscences. He looks at me, fumbling for words like he’s playing football with my thoughts. “How can I score a touchdown with her?” he thinks, but not about sex-about redemption and retribution. At least, that’s what I assume. They’ve played this dance before, and every time he wins.

I look back at him, the street lamp piercing in, bouncing off the lake onto my windshield on to his face. I hate that thoughtful stare he has. “You’re so transparent,” I tell him. I knew who he was even though I couldn’t anymore. I trespassed on reliance, raped confidence, and strangled trust.

The raped becomes the rapist.

Fatigued-emotionally, mentally, physically, I forget what I’m saying. Mimicking air, words slip through my teeth. Unaware of the abusive hands they form, I come to. Look at him. Wait for a response. “I need time and space”. Words all too familiar envelop me like a cocoon. “I’ll walk home from here” he continues. I don’t know what I said, but the words blanket me, and like a python start to constrict my chest. Squeezing my neck, so to forebode any speech to rise. The door slams, and the street lamp seem to beam into my car so strong, as to match the anger that wins. Anxiety, fear, confusion flush my face. Every time, anger wins. “I didn’t wear my seat belt,” I think to myself. I didn’t plan on buckling up for a conversation. Now, I know. Maybe I’ll stop driving.

I’m left. Alone. Again.

I can never be honest. I will be left. Alone. Again. I choke up the key that locks my heart, weld it to my wrist, and sentence it to solitary confinement. With a past packed with unfulfilled consequences, she clings on to her pride with terror. “There’s something therapeutic about self-destructing” an ex-best friend once told me. “There’s also something therapeutic about remembering how utterly alone you really are” I realizes. In my past, bad deeds went unpunished. So, this must be retaliation, in karma’s realm. It’s the consequences to my action.There is a action, reaction, consequence [In that cyclical order]. Obviously, I must break the pattern a rapist reaps from it's victims. Rehabilitation and "imprisonment" seems to be in order.

-Jean Tolentino

Palm

won the game of cat and mouse,
too bad cause now it's over.
threesome on the mirror
for your pleasure, but i'm staying sober.
if i've interfered, you've made it clear.
sex driven, hidden, beneath your chin hair.
seven's a good number, but it's been a bad week.
ate a dinner roll just to try to ease the stomach-
pain-i-know your bloodshot eyes may not realize.
tenderize the uncomfortable confrontations with
denial-even tore the seems stitched through your demise.
twelve at night, gas light, time to pull over.

treehouse

here's something i drew for my childhood friend matt. treehouses always remind me of childhood :)

The Longest Second

Legs locked

Crippled and couldn't walk

She made my brain freeze

Couldn't think straight

Then my heart dropped down to my knees

I'd pick it back up to where my heart belongs

But looking in her eyes is inspiration to my song

Every millisecond prolonged

Regrets if I dared to blink

Stuck, awestruck-i'd rather not think

Have all my senses frozen

Beauty so precious and golden

Linked between eye contact

Keeps our souls intact

Although she's 100 feet away

My vision deceiving me, begging my eyes to stay

A conflicting tangible- seen easily so transparently 

Holding tight to this moment - her beauty I see

To surrounding objects, I'm blind

Selective seeing, my Movado's taking its time

Eyes out do every single sun ray

Streaking, gleaming through waters in the bay

But one of us will have to look another way

And look for another day 

Hoping our time hasn't ended

Connected, knowing our hearts blended

One day, maybe, we'll rid the uncertainty

But this second is perfect for me

a couple of parkbench moments-

Time/ people/ multiplying/ footsteps/ crossing
Do they excel too fast for me to acknowledge the ever present beauty of simplicity?
Has humanity overlooked me
As it leaves paper trails of cash and receipts across a tormented dirty pavement,
now a non living earth too late for revival?
Is this abyss our basis for survival?
As the wondering wind blows tugging at the surface of my skin
I ponder the conception of this social genesis
Where cell phones rule over everyday communal interactions
Millions of media images swarming the night sky competing with divinitys stars like an ultra pixilated electric black hole
sweeping across a metropolis.
I long for the return of the morning
with visions of dreams still fresh at thought,
Yesterdays troubles rested on the bedpost
assuring that this is a new day
Life’s lurkin around the curtain waiting for me to unsquint my eyes
Praying for me to see more clearly
not just thru ocular lenses but thru the windows reflecting the visions inside
Where so easily I can find the words, in the perfect language, with the
perfect definition, intention, and auditory inflection to express my wanting to simply connect back
2 one.
& my soul can’t help but ask what can be sweeter than that?
…
In meditative response
I respire
Taking in one more breath of air as I contemplate
our parallel addiction to growth.
Just wanting to be up there
high as the wise trees that hover above me
I long to have a story to tell of my own
My dreams reflect my gratitude, my visions, and positive transformations in life
Wishing to express and record
I save words in loose leaf pocketbooks as chapter beginnings left open to never finish following the pattern of infinity
I hold my palms open to receive and to offer graceful inspiration
continuing a cycle of maintaining balance
And I am learning to help myself
Pennin’ better poems and following thru
my visions of light beyond curious darkness
aware of the beauty found in stars during a true night sky
balance pushes me closer to the horizon to realize that in moments the sun will rise and I must be ready
because who else will but me