Tagged: creative writing

A Headstone Without a Brain

stock-photo-career-burden-and-business-stress-concept-as-a-businessman-or-worker-pulling-a-giant-heavy-metal-354040844

I bought it first.

I carved my initials

Into my headstone

Spray painted phalluses

Pulped coconut pussy

Cracked against the corners

Of my tomb

my body will be inscribed

With a religious text of hate speech

A swastika crudely carved into

My brown skin

My corpse curled around

A cat of nine tails

 the lies of ape skulls

And science

The smell of decay in botanical gardens

Marching up white house stairs

Shaving my cheeks without a head

Advertisements

Black Survival: The Toupet’s Adversary

stock-photo-hand-with-marker-writing-reject-bigotry-321129950

Poor whiteys and their

Broken hearted mistresses

Their crowns chafe on their

Expanding skulls

Like a balloon

That we all pray will pop

Like a wall, racial profiling

like the terrorists lie within our walls

like we’re pointing the finger

at the wrong immigrant.

How to Rebel From those Convulsions

stock-photo-male-hands-and-smartphone-addiction-to-internet-and-social-networks-328684343

I walk into class
Reeking of cigarettes
The cheap ones
I so poorly roll myself

I turn my back to the green world
Pleading for a spoon feeding
To see how much
Rat poison I can endure

They say it doesn’t kill you
It just makes you weak
Blunt

You can feel it hit
Like an I.V.
Electrical charges
Plugged into the outlet

They so easily find
Where the neck tapers
At the blind spot
On the back of my head

Initially it shocks
Tazes
Convulsions
Strapped to their hospital bed
Scalded, 3rd degree burns
For a reaction
As natural as death, blue skys, and insanity

I claw at the nurses
Her eye made a popping sound
When I dug my fingers in her skull
And pried it out

I gave mercy, I left the eye
She kept her dignity
It sits on her cheek
Functional

She sits, watching the children Scaring the children
Playing ball in the park
But their eyes haven’t receded either

They sit, plump on rosy cheeks
And like she once did
Before death
Before reanimation

She can see
Sometimes
A simple cleaning of the lens
Isn’t enough

* I do not condone violence against women and believe it should be punished to the fullest extent within and outside of the law. It’s not cool.

A Feminine Ball of Yarn

stock-photo-vintage-knitting-needles-scissors-and-yarn-inside-old-wire-basket-on-wooden-stool-still-life-269218337

 

*Written from a woman’s perspective.

 

Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.

Damned Potential

auto-370768_960_720

*Trigger Warning* Depicted is the sight of a young woman being rundown.

 

 

And I can see the horror behind his eyes

the trauma to pursue

Forever fleeting confrontation

 

To watch a life fall from the sky

Fall and the leaves are muck in

The gutter, scum in the rivets

On the bottom of your shoe

But there was so much potential

In crimson torrents

Face down in the crosswalk

 

 

Surviving the Cold

Father’s burden. A Poem by Coyote Poetry My father taught me to appreciate laughter and woman. Father’s burden (My father  was a Ojibwa/Mexican man in 1950 USA. He never allowed anyone …

Source: Happy Father’s day

Powerful poem about fatherhood. I would highly recommend a read!

 

winter-234721_960_720

The men that built this country

Rosebuds at the end of each barfly

The cold

Granting the fitness

Necessary for survival

The many miles

Across this country

Were planted

Under brown feet

Under the feet of an immigration

A union of the five corners

To break the back of each of our fathers

And oppress indiscriminately

The frostbite is inherited

Brittle bones

Weather worn

Losing toes to frigid time

The nails

In the hands

Of our many martyrs

Look so much

 like

Icicles

Staying Silver Ponyboy

For my father, Ross Silver

human-854005_960_720

 

A great man is not measured by his accomplishments,

By the money in his wallet.

Greatness is measured in sacrifice

It’s recognizing the work of the sole’s

At every shoe bottom

Sewn to heel

To walk out the door

To something greater.

We pass down carbon

Like treasured heirlooms

And though there are many days

Where I can’t manage the resources to stand

I feel your strength in my legs, sitting.

I’ve been blessed in this life

And for the nanograms

Lost in the wandering transition

From life into the ethereal

I’ll be blessed after.

You poor insomniac

Granting me pleasures of privilege

In the witching hour

As well as mid-day

In the trenches

And on their pedestal.

Who could doubt

The suffering

Of a scimitar back

Pressure treated

From years of brick and mortar?

Who could doubt

The callous hands

Of the forgotten working man?

Share a Shake before the End.

Hanging Smoker

To see the world through a haze of smoke

To see the dirt, the hate and the H

Under hungry, haggard finger nail

he’s choking (in) the street

he’s lying (in)to the street.

They stand around

Insectile, rolling withdrawal

Like the turtle crushed the world

Between his shell and the concrete

like a sigh, head hung low

deeply and profoundly insulted

your proudest, deceased relative

that’s all it was

but they hungered for it

clawing off his skin

decaying

tenderloin rack

stripped from the bone

penetrate, barbed cone

slurping marrow marshlands

just to prove

that it was the genes

that’s what made the addict

and that’s what made him weak.

Fingertips cutting off the circulation

one cigarette at a time.

Could I reach the page end?

before gnat beating

unconscious aortic corridor

gives out

To Choose Life

Times without number, taken in fluted reed Could be the dancer who Swore she would no, could not, hang up her shoes Neglect that spirit within who urged to move Still now, decades pass She has lost her edges, she is a filament of someone who Once danced in fury in all her youth and […]

via So quickly we forget the steps — thefeatheredsleep

abduct-wordpress.png

And he can’t tell if those are callouses at the end of her toes

Or bloated cherries, boils oozing puss

At the end of each of the fifths of her tapering feet.

He shames her from progress

As she grows strong

Towering over the people

The industries, infrastructures,

Sizing up sky scrapers,

 

He’s shrunk

Feels as a stain on the sidewalk

For the ego kept him strong

Termite infested crutches

Fire licking away at

The wood’s soft center

And he doesn’t have

A leg to stand on.

 

The footprints

Left across her malleable frame

We send Mother to the camps

Get her working in the lines,

Heaven knows if ma

Gets out of hand

Gaia will swallow us whole

 

They carve away

Beneath the surface

Rotting jack o lantern

Toss the slop in the trash

Her vital organs.

We’ve progressed

From butcher house cutting board

To scabbing through

demonstration

flanking Planned Parenthood

for the surrender

The only thing worse

To make the choice

“Life,”

Not death

Condemned

For loving the little she had

Scorned Earth and my Feet in the Mud

When things are rough, [creativity/ingenuity/resourcefulness] will keep you afloat. In times of calm, it will allow you to fly.

via Musings — Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

 

Love the image, love the message, and love the way it’s composed. We need more of this on the internet my friend.

 

And I’m reminded of the words of our forefathers

The great Emerson, Thoreau, London

The sermon of resourcefulness

And we could all be Robinson Crusoes

Drifting away on tropical clouds

High above the scorned earth

The hurricanes

I usually describe my process as working on new material, hitting a wall, then working through a self-critical phase, and then the break through. The moment when I remember why writing was the choice I made.

It makes considering the process of change. One identifies a problem, as one thinks through the process to change that problem, as one receives more feedback (more practice in their craft) they begin to understand how to work the feedback into their work, and they change.

On paper it’s simple, but I surprise myself each day over how easy it is to lose perspective.