Picture this... Best of the month

[Mantra]

July 2011:



Jamhuri - I think we are on top of things.


I think we are on top of things-

You, me, fancy colored clothes, funny faith

in things brains banished and calenders covered

but we cling because they work for

us. Make-believe art, like stars spread in mid-air with the wand

my cholerism carves for us.



I think I’m a leader

of an empire in an/in none (hear what you believe more) existent

world, that make C.S’s children-books children books.

I’ve led you into lies,

painted your skies

concrete black. We look like clouds running across it;

(I?) Confused you, made you [feel]

beautiful because I am ever stuck here,

lying on your flaws



Love me because

I love you. Nothing of me, save

for my juvenile worldview that makes you.. feel forever

young, will make us.

an item in Cupid’s kill-list. Nothing but you.

because you are on top of things.

You are the leader here





August 2011:



Jamhuri-

I always sneak back in,
After the fights, to see if there’s any spoil that isn’t spoil
at all. Probably a memory of my first visit to your
house. Remember when you only had a sofa in an empty two-bedroom house
and a small carpet we’d sit on, read about love but never kiss?
I try to search your eyes if what we were before
we broke the furniture in our hearts and hurled words, like utensils, at each other
can keep you with me.
A song, perhaps. The needle probably scratched my name
with genuine ink in your heart, to Azvanour ‘s dance-able confusions,
As I pasted you in the scenes I’ve committed in my dreams-
Will Smith me- Willing to give, because you need my heart, Fonda.
I guess life happens after the credits roll up the TV
and that’s where all the bad acting goes.
Yeah, I search [your tears].
I search because if I find anything, I can dangle it
long until I find enough ways to do what I should have done
before I broke your heart
and keep you with me.






September 2011:



Jonathon-

Confetti me
a mind's race never won
locked in deminsions that resemble the one.
A tension keeps mentioning a fiction in sun
and the warmth on my skin is still feeling numb.
I'm not cold,
just confused.
I've been down this road
and jumped the bridge after being used.
I've been ran over -
talked down to this rut that digs at my chest
past the point of being brain-dead.
Through these times of losing myself in darkness
I still feel the need to find some color.
If you want to please me,
the please feed me Crayons...





October 2011:



Jonathon-

I've been traveling the states...

I've been traveling the states -
by trainwreck and track marks
stressing my neck until it breaks the sweat
on the skin near my brain.

What has the world come to?
A triangular prison interlocks my arms for a tough look.
Yet not knowing any ignorance of getting beat up
if reality was ever to find me here.

Never alone
but always lonely.
My mind races at the speed of Nascar on a drunken Sunday.
Left turn, left turn, left
turn down the moment -
you know what's playing next.

I am not a gang member with bad arthritis,
I am just a hippie in love with good acid.

Now strip for me...





November '11:



Spoken-oh-

I've been calling myself
a Jack of all trades for so long
that I've forgotten how to think
outside

the box, wherever that is.
I take it to mean that I've got to get out more
but every day I wake
in the same body
with the same thoughts
and it scares me to think
that I could one day look back,
having seen it all,
yet understood nothing.

To think others see it as just a game,
the ride
the trip
makes me wonder if they're missing out
or I'm just losing.
There's no room here for trophies though,
when your ego takes up the room
like a jealous rumour
that loves to hear its own voice
and you keep saying it
"Me,
Me,
Me"
but no one's listening, 'cause it's their rumour too.

It's what everybody wants,
until it comes true.

You are the box.





August 2014:



Split Eight - Up

stained glass.
centuries came and went
in an Amen's riverbed. on a blade of grass,
dew drops evaporate. maybe, more-
a ray of light instead, flickered out
like the sudden summer rains that spite
a tiny window's paned descent.
i am awash in you
your name is read, a lost balloon,
I watch as it strays the breadth of
my sill's broken shade- a sunset
like the soaking stain when you'd
throw your glass of red and then complain that
I never brought you flowers. or made the bed.
I cannot look away, in times like this,
but watch the sun's towering reign decay
like a lost balloon, losing air; or flowers
before they're ruined, gray. I've not improved.
The hours sink me in my seat-
like a gob of glaze in an aged mosaic,
through the courtyard view to Sunday school.
i'm awash in you. a seat i'd sink into
for hours, like rain in an ancient riverbed

"daddy, where do you go when you die?"

I cut the balloon's string, laid the bouquet down.
"undergound. like a flower stem. but you'll
wake up, away in the sky-"

"like heaven?"

"no"





September 2014:



Split Eight

when wonder waives penance & payment,
expertise laid to sleep at the frayed extent of its leash-
perhaps that is beauty.
the stars field a barrage of questions,
in line with an interrogation, ready,
and no words come to mind.
perhaps that is beauty.
then, we paused at a hillside to
watch the city retreat. flecks of dharma,
torches crashing towards the fortress casted for
the formal castle-born. ashes court the sea.
candles on the channel, chasms form a creek,
the television bleats a passion for cold receptions,
you hesitate- but i get the impression that
you would never leave.
for you, i would never connect the dots

[Mantra]

updated.