Poetry (Read at Ink Takes a Village night)

Withdrawing from sleep

Withdrawing from sleep

tired legs carry us junkies

in ragged pajamas and baggy eyes

through the pillowed streets

back home to the

Sandman's shooting gallery.

A house of restless souls

sharing needles full of dreams

to push off with snores,

silence the screams

and baas of overworked sheep.

Shoegazing stargazers

are nodding off with

dusted eyes and

smiling down upon themselves

in this early morning fix.

Our speed freak attitudes,

long spun, unwind and we

trip on the cotton sheets

of Lullabies and Songs of Dreaming.

Let the dragon chase you

and let the bed catch

your broken body

'cause this is not

a wake-up call,

in fact its

just the opposite.

Tow the Flagship

The concrete is calling.

So let the caravan

carry the carbon

copy (of) our mission.

With city limits

dragging off

unique positions,

— organize unorganized system —

using tail pipes and pistons.

Our mobility is

Economic transition.

Privacy. Piracy.

Rustbelt ingenuity.

"Insanity or bust."

Our history is thrust

upon us so we give

it away

along bathroom stalls

and barroom brawls,

writing like we pray.

For some faraway god

to change the way we

feel, and how we live.

But We are Primal.

We are primeval,

We are primitive.

We build our city

on kicked rocks

and only let the

pretty in.

There is the grime

we prize and condoms

full of knives.

Burnt down homes

and fields

of spent lives.

We carry our culture

in our pockets

and can spot you

if you need it.

You can read it

in the dark circles

under my eyes,

Dirt farming

keeps hope

alive.

So, leave a little dirt.

Leave a little Flint

at each stop, you see, along

the road.

We are the present,

making sure the

future can grow.

Happiness is a Warm Spoon

Let's just say:

I wake up,

unhinging my jaw

for that permanent grin.

A symbol that I deal in

happiness from a

street corner

where no church

could call it a sin.

Putting my serotonin

to the test — but only

after it's been bagged

and sold to the

sad, sober, depressed.

You need a fix?

I got laughter and hugs

by the 20 sack.

Customers rave about

popping grins like

their Tic Tacs,

dropping smiles by

the double stack.

Let's just say that (Changed)

if this was a song

the chorus would refrain

from saying anything new.

No moral to be learned,

just love rolled then burned.

Trust me,

if sadness, envy or pain rule your life,

then happiness is your drug of choice.

So come on down,

try some joy,

just buy this

and when you're through

i promise bliss.

Lumbering Aspirations

Have you ever followed

the old railroad tracks

and noticed they

are for someone else's trip?

Those antiquated one-way paths

laid for other trains

long before they ever

touched your wheels.

Narrow lifestyle restraints that lead

generations of freight trains

full of lumbering aspirations

and steel driven dreams

from one stop to the next.

Keeping you from barreling onto

new ground because you're always pushed

to pull another man's hopes.

Burning away your coal-fed days

and gaining only soot stains and

aerosol tattoos to show

you made the haul.

And if you ever follow those tracks

to the end of the line,

you'll see rusted remnants where

others turned back and the tracks ran out.

You'll see the only

chance to derail your way from

a life not yours,

to finally haul those dreams

that were much too long deferred.

Shotgun Mouthwash

I signed my name

once again and

lost another part of myself.

Because these ink drops bind

my blood and my days

to one more of a thousand

soon to be half-tread paths

that I'm more than willing

to stumble down.

And I have to laugh as I

look back and remember

my naive fears that

time was wasting away.

The years defined by

T.V., family life and

far away worlds.

Days in pursuit of

escaping a world

all too near

and a family still breathing

down my neck.

I visited Sesame Street,

fought for the Power Rangers,

helped resolve Family Matters and

learned how stay young forever.

I began scheduling my daytime acceptance

and feeding my primetime isolation.

Allowing a thin, insulated cable

to carry with it my skewed

sense of belonging. But it was

never long before time was wasted

as I hid from the risks and adventures

thoughtlessly committed by failed friends

(who never failed me but were, themselves,

betrayed one time too many) in the malicious

innocence of boyhood. I spent the same wasted

time insulating my head and my chest with

insecurity and choking pain until I decided it

was time to breathe.

So I tore out in a million directions,

falling to a million pieces in order

to become whole.

No longer wasting time, but quickly wasting away.

Alone in a crowd of obligations,

rather than alone with the insane notion

that I was living a sane life.

Weeks are now spent maddening myself,

happiness sadly staring me down as I

lower my eyes and nose to the grindstone.

I'm rapidly shrinking from the world by

immersing myself in it.

Sipping my personal poison of responsibilities

too great to carry, yet too small to matter.

So with peace uneasily looming overhead,

I close my eyes and let the pen

plead my self-destruction,

let my hand sign my

name to another obligation, while

I blindly choke back the fear that

my time is wasting away.

Ash Wednesday

Ashes to ashes,

pus to dust.

My city is burning,

my city is rust.

The trees that built

houses were

clear cut from Flint,

now our

urban forest is

sprouting flames

not

cultivating rents.

Devil's night everyday,

3 trucks can't make a dent

The city's in flames but

my motivation is heaven sent.

The ghosts of our past

stuffed their coffins

with billowing bribes

of gas-splashed cash.

Their greed chars last.

Cremations happen

fast so find a nice urn

to stash your

histories in.

Will our kids remember

this as urban renewal

or a smoldering sin?

Apathies are

industry's children.

Community is the support

that keeps us living.

The heart of my city is driven

but these scars are 3rd degree.

So I agree beauty can

bloom out of tragedy. And

fill dirt only masks heritage and shame.

"The Devil's Month" will now

be April's name.

200 fires.

Lead paint fuels funeral pyres.

39 fighters fired.

Flint, my patience is growing so tired.