Choices

They sell tickets to war and tickets to fame
One price for joy, another for pain
If you're a little girl, your choice is between comfort and shame
Either live within society's standards
Or be forever blamed
I know acutely the meaning of the phrase, "act like a lady"
My brother and I ran around, both of us acting shady
And he'd get a laugh or a stern glance
And I'd get a reminder we wore very different pants
So this dance we learned of gender identification in our youth
Continues on as we get older, soon becoming our truth
TV shows, commercials, magazines, they helped us see
That little girls become wives, then mommies,
shopping and cleaning for their family
Little boys grew up to be whatever they wanted to be
Seduce women, work outdoors, wear suits, join the army
The epitome of masculinity
Increased testosterone equals superiority
The weaker sex has no validity
Our predefined roles favor timidity, stupidity
Open your eyes to the absurdity and lies
Gender policing is a vicious cycle of ignorant diatribes
That prefer societal norms over unique voices
We could all be alike if we're allowed to make choices.

My Brother

My brother only talks to me when it's profitable
launching into fatherly lectures
punctuated by disdainful looks
when I offer an idea that wasn't his own
He won't be brought into conversation otherwise,
providing cursory one-word answers
only if it is socially unacceptable to stay silent.
But these are tumultuous times, I remind myself, in our youth
and they say family's the only thing that lasts.
He didn't grow out of nothing, to be sure;
my mother, the creative one
who battled imbalances in her brain
with words she didn't mean and wouldn't take back,
slammed doors and silences;
my father, the high school debater
whose senses of loyalty, honor and stubbornness
meant he could talk himself into accepting any situation
to a fault;
me, the impulsive dreamer
formulating a myriad of grandiose plans
that only rarely bear fruit
all the while toiling endlessly for someone else's benefit.
My brother doubtless sees it all and wants none of it,
building his walls higher and higher
till his empire will be a thing of glory high above the pit;
and I can scarcely imagine his frustration at having to
turn and look back
to speak now to ones who will soon be far beneath him.

I Don't Have To

I don't have to.
I don't have to let you buy me a drink.
I don't have to laugh in that shy, feminine way
as you feed me a line about what I want for breakfast tomorrow
I don't have to stare at you, feigning interest
as you tell me all about your ex girlfriends.
I don't have to agree to dance.
I don't have to let you put your hands around me,
reaching, touching, feeling, groping.
I don't have to let you kiss me,
because your breath smells like bourbon
and your tongue tastes like tobacco,
and anyway, I don't need a reason. I don't have to.
But I do.
That's what they told me, anyway.
They said, "Here's what a bad touch is" and "Here's what a condom is"
and "Here's how to say 'no'" and "Why are you still single?"
And my friends and I talk about how stupid the boys all are
and which ones we want to date;
and the lame ass shit he said, or what another one did
and how we wish we could get "a good one."
But we don't have to.
We don't have to get dressed up
in the skimpy clothes they wear in the magazines
and spend an hour primping our hair and applying our makeup.
We don't have to go out to the clubs,
borrowing fake IDs and stealing wristbands.
We don't have to. But we do.
Nobody told us there were any other options.
Paris Hilton never informed us.
Lindsay and Nicole never shared with us
that a club is full of dirty, sleazy guys
looking to score a date for the night
and naive young women
who don't know they don't have to.
They don't have to give out their phone numbers to whomever asks.
They don't have to try to say no in that nice, unsure way
that makes the guys think "yes."
They don't have to leave with a stranger,
only to call their friends in the morning
begging for a ride, giggling, groggy, shame-filled.
They don't have to.
But we tell them to.
We encourage the behavior with our reluctance,
our own past indiscretions, our lack of self-esteem.
We don't have to.
But we feel incomplete, incompetent, unworthy,
and we tell each other to feel the exact same way.

Soup

There's a war going on overseas
At least, that's what they're telling me
But my mom says, "Turn off the TV."
And I sigh and resist with my knees
But these are not pleas from her
These are words of warning
If I don't sit my butt down to dinner on the count of 3
I will have invoked a war stateside
And since I'd rather not have a sore behind
And since I get a free, homecooked meal otherwise,
I guess I'll oblige.
The microwave sounds and we all gather round the table
Clean and dressed, if we're able
And Dad gets out the ladle
And my brother begins to spoon it up.
And suddenly, it's been weeks since I've had anything to eat at all,
but that soup is like a fresh kill
And I have to wait for Travis to eat it all, while I grow ill?
"Give it here," I say greedily, reaching for the crockpot
Mom gives me a look like no manners I've got
But I don't care what I ought, I'm ravenous.
Gotta steal soup if I wanna eat after Travis
And it flows sloppily into my bowl
And I start immediately spooning it into my mouth, losing control
No longer do my tastebuds linger for fragrant flavors
I don't care to have my tongue do me any favors except swallow
I imagine the vegetables and noodles filling my stomach's hollows
As one spoonful gets raced down my throat, another follows
This, I think, is the best soup my lips have ever touched.
And I'd tell Mom and Dad as much
But there's no room for words what with broth, chicken and such.
As I near the bottom of my bowl and the spoon clacks
I reposition, jaw slacked
And I tip the bowl back to get every last drop.
Once the last dribbles are gone, down my throat or my chin
Satisfaction sets in
And I set the bowl down on the placemat, look around, and grin
Let out a big, exaggerated "aahhh" to let Mom, Dad, Travis,
the bowl of soup and my hunger know
That I win.

My Skin

My skin is something I never thought about
until they thought about it for me.
"What are you?" they'd ask
as if I was a stranger in a strange land,
as if I had three hands
as if I played accordion in a hard-rock band
My skin taught me my place,
which is not to say out of place
because I still pretty much check "white" on forms asking for race
but that I was obviously a different kind of white.
It's not like this sort of thing keeps me up at night,
but it does seem to be a popular way to break the ice.
My skin started to become stranger to me
every time someone would, again,
ask me as one of their first topics of conversation
what nations my ancestors hailed from,
like I was a border-crossing gypsy bum.
Oh, it'd be innocent like, "Um,
if you don't mind me asking, what's your heritage?"
And they'd ask it so often that I'd get embarrassed
because I knew they weren't asking cause they knew Dad or Mom
or they were doing research on ancestry.com
or they were doing a country scavenger hunt and needed my mark.
They ask because they want to know what makes me dark.
To me, I'm not even all that tan
Not compared to my mom, who passes for Mexican
But I've noticed that my skin isn't pink and pale
like 90 percent of the motherfuckers who desire to know,
in the first 30 seconds of meeting me, my great-grandparents'
Ellis Island tale.
But it's not just the Norwegians, Swedes and Irish,
It's all of y'all, too. Red, black and blue
Who desire to categorize me through and through.
Hey, I can't blame you. I'd love to be an easy statistic.
That would keep my sanity at times from going ballistic
But so far, I know of no clubs or groups looming,
no stations tuning
No organizations for my heritage are blooming
No German-Bulgarian-French-Swiss-Dutch-and-Welsh Student Union
So I am assuming I gotta handle this alone.
Keep explaining my winter tan to whomever wants to know.
My skin tells the story of how my ancestors go
across cities, countries, regions and continents
to America, the land where no one's really a native
So the color of your skin is the only way to hate it.
My skin, instead, traces the path of love.
Each people, each country, coursing through my blood
I see their faces in my tears, hear words of wisdom in my laugh
Every time I sign my name, it's each of their autographs.
The path I now take reflects all of the sacrifices they once did make
My skin is the last remaining tangible ancestral deference
To prevent their total obsolescence
So it pains me to think people take it the wrong way
Like, I don't have blue, green or even hazel eyes
I must be different.
I don't have straight, light-colored hair
I must not be like you
My skin lacks the pink undertones that categorize
the majority of the white people of the Midwest
so you and I cannot be sisters.
You and I cannot be removed a century ago from the same place
You and I do not have a shared ancestral history
so, it is implied, we now know where I stand
and it is in that vaguely-defined category of "Other."
Too miscellaneous to be identified.
To extraneous to be categorized.
Westminster wouldn't put me in their purebred show
so I'll never get that top prize.
My skin has taught me the best way to get to know someone
is to close your eyes
For when you're not worried about the superficial
you can find other things to love, or to despise.
My skin is the product of generations preceding me
coming to the exact same conclusion.
So don't make my skin the question
for which you must immediately find a solution.

The ABC's

I aim and aspire to act like an acrobatic Aristotle
Alliteration on full throttle
Navigating a metaphor on a sea so smooth
I might as well be the captain of a ship in a bottle.
Believing bogus benedictions begets backwards bias
I reject Bible-beaters who claim to be pious
But continue to belittle, berate and harbor bitterness
If your god rewards that, I'll have no part of this.
Carefully crafted calligraphy changes the city's consciousness
Crude phrases without meaning lack emphasis and simple phonics
I don't mind demeaning if my cause you're mistreating
Because something as important as community deserves a second reading.
And don't demean our daughters' dreams
Cause doing so is detrimental
Don't think their actions or thoughts have no potential.
Explaining excitement, even emotion, is an easy education
Words flow constantly from our minds like limitless proclamations
These poetic ABCs are more than tongue-twisting declarations
They're literal libations
And this verbal bartender serves them up free to all nations.
I aim and aspire to liberate these frustrations
In verse.

Touchdown (VIP boot camp exercise)

Touchdown.
The team in the dark-colored jerseys
bump into each other gleefully, in that masculine, angry way
as the ball is picked up by the guys in black and white
and the team in the light-colored jerseys
glumly unstraps their helmets and slinks off to the side.
They've lost this round. But they'll come back.
I watch the dark-colored jerseys load up the football on the
little football-holder thingy, ready to kickoff,
and out of the corner of my eye I see
you, in the dark-colored shirt, load up a bowl in the
little colorful holder thingy, ready to light.
The kick comes, and the light-colored jerseys get the ball,
hustling down the field, until they get taken down,
and then they line up, facing their opponents, hut hut, hike!
And you pass the piece to me, in my light-colored shirt,
and I breathe in, and release
and the ball is intercepted by the dark-colored jerseys
as I pass to the dark-colored shirt next to me,
and you breathe in, too,
and then the dark-colored jerseys feel the power,
and they go for
the Hail Mary
And the ball goes up, and we go up, so high above it all,
up and up, and we think for a second maybe we'll all be
in the sky forever
and we'll never, ever
touch down.

Radicals (VIP boot camp exercise)

The first woman who ever said an unkind word to a man
was a radical.
The first woman to take the job of a man
was a radical.
The first woman to wear pants instead of a skirt or a dress
was a radical.
The first woman who thought she could be the best
was a radical.
The first woman who wrote, the ones who wanted to vote
The ones who, without remorse, sowed their wild oats
were radicals.
The first to not take a sabbatical
The first to dialog bilateral
The first to be named infallible
The first to go into sports, to serve on the courts
"Radical" is no longer a retort
It is a mission of progressive persistence
Those interested in the status quo need not apply
Only those insistent on not only toeing the line
But crossing over
Being radical is like playing "Red Rover"
And knowing if you, and you alone, can't break through the chain
Then you become a part of it.
Radicals didn't invent the dream
But they were the ones who started it.

Emotional crime (VIP boot camp exercise)

It was late, I was tired, and we both were perspired
So I felt inspired to take what conspired
And re-imagine it as a higher emotion
I said, "I love you." Wondering if I'm a liar
Or a petty thief hired to take hearts, break hearts
Fake something that started out on fire and slow-burned on desire
And suddenly catapult it without warning
Fake love is only fake in the morning.

News from a different point of view (VIP boot camp exercise)

They didn't name her, and that's how I knew.
Her brand-new 2-door was pale blue
Just like the car in the picture
Only this one was crumpled, flipped over in the ditch
Well, ain't that a bitch,
The news always waits to name the deceased
Until all the family members have been reached
But nobody's called me.
So I gotta read
About a girl, just like you, crashing her car, just your blue
Who she is no one knew.
But I know cause I called you
Went to voicemail
Wanted answers to no avail
And the newspaper only gave me just enough
To have me thinking this day was about to get tough.

Sounds Erotic! (VIP boot camp exercise)

Soft. He brushes up against me.
He wants it, I can tell.
His green eyes lock my brown ones, pleading.
If I don't answer him right away he continues to rub,
slowly circling me, softer, slower.
Finally, I feel myself beginning to cave,
finding him less of a bothersome nuisance
and more of a loving, caring nuisance,
and I start to want it too.
I bend over, and he comes near,
and my fingers lock in his hairy back
and I pet the cat just the way he likes it.

AIDS (2nd revision) (Written for UNI's World AIDS Day event)

Six thousand people died yesterday
Six thousand people died today
I dreamed I tattooed their names
on my body; I committed their life stories
to memory; I learned all their favorite songs
and made a playlist and played it back for you.
I dreamed that I dove into a salty pool
of the tears their relatives had shed
and 6,000 pairs of eyeballs stared back at me
as if to say,
"What can the living do for the dead?"
What can I do
as 6,000 people die today
and 6,000 more will die tomorrow of AIDS?
Six thousand? I cannot even fathom that number.
I don't even have 6,000 Facebook friends.
Six thousand people did not go to my high school
and I do not have, nor will I ever have,
$6,000 in my bank account.
So what the hell is 6,000?
Six thousand is a mother who can
no longer breastfeed her child.
Six thousand is a father who quit his job
because he grows weaker and weaker.
Six thousand is a child who watches
her mother and father slowly die
and realizes she is next.
I am not a scientist
and I can't research a cure
I am not a doctor
and I can't provide treatment
I am not a philanthropist
and I cannot donate millions of dollars
to help fund treatment
But I have a voice.
And I can either use that voice
and remind people that 6,000 people
die every day of AIDS in this world,
or I can stay silent
as I try to fall asleep
because this epidemic is like taking a sedative
Millions are dying, have died, repetitive
We are the critics, the blowhards, the cynics
Ignoring the carnage until we're the victims
We wait, count backwards 100 to 1
Till the drug takes effect, then sleep will come
Dreams aren't for everyone, not if you're poor
Or black, or gay, or your country's at war
The nations of Africa fighting for life
Just like our neighbors next door
While we lie awake at night
Bribing sleep for one hour more
That's what intentions are for
Never you mind all the killing and dying
Never you mind all the orphaned kids crying
Never you mind the people you meet
Growing thinner and older and weaker each week
Just sweep it under the rug and pretend
It's not really happening, it will all end
We can't know the cost and we can't comprehend
So we take a pill, no time to spend
For once in our lives we should take a stand
For once, be humble and lend a hand
Don't say, "I can't; it's too much to do."
What if the crisis mattered to you?

Woman Seeking Baby Daddy: A Craigslist Ad

Well, I've never used this service before,
but for something as sensitive and personal as this,
I knew there was only one thing to do:
put this on Craigslist.
Woman seeking baby daddy.
But not just any baby daddy, oh no.
This baby daddy has to ride slow
in his mama's dark green Toyota Corolla
and see me walking on the street and roll up
and honk his horn two times until I turn around annoyed
and then he'll hand-crank the window down
and say, "Wuz up, beautiful? You're so beautiful. Come here, girl."
This baby daddy must hit me with as many creepy compliments
as he does uncomfortable personal questions.
For example: "Girl, your skin is so smooth, and your eyes are
so dark and soulful. ... Are you Mexican?"
Must be freaky.
Suggest, about halfway through dinner, and by dinner I mean
after I bought us two beers at AJ's
That we should get my sexy ass back to your mama's house,
cuz she's at work right now,
and when I hesitate, you protest, "What? I didn't mean it like that!"
I would prefer it
if you at least tell me something like
"Ooh, let's not use a condom. I'll pull out before, don't worry."
But it's OK
if you just feed me some line, like you're allergic,
or you've had a vasectomy when you really haven't,
and I'll even settle for you pretending to put on a condom
and never actually having any condoms at all.
I'm looking for a baby daddy
who has it all:
he lets me take a shower at his place and use his old, damp towel;
he drives me to Burger Kind on Tuesdays and Thursdays before his shift;
he occasionally waves to me when I see him at the mall with someone
he will later tell me was his cousin.
I want you
to slowly let it filter into your conversations
that you have other children, possibly as old as 12 years old,
but it would be better if you don't tell me at all,
and I wake up at your mama's house one day
to some crazy woman yelling at you with a baby in one hand
and a knife in the other
and you're telling her to shush so she doesn't wake your mother
Ooh, baby daddy, you'd be the greatest
if you leave the room immediately when I tell you I'm the latest
and you never come back.
So baby daddy, if you're out there,
please respond ASAP.

Voices

My voice
is like a sponge
soaking up the spilled milk
to stop you from crying.
My voice
is a detective
asking probing questions
to prevent you from lying.
My voice
is a shield
deflecting others' bullets
to stop you from dying
and I'm trying all the while to collect these voices
My voice
is a Trojan horse
wrapped up in this harmless package
you wouldn't think inside held a warrior
My voice
is a Trojan condom
letting myself relax and have fun
but still putting up a barrier
My voice
is a live virus
infecting you so deeply that you'll be the carrier
and I'm warier all the while of these voices
My voice
is the day you were born
learning with each new step
that you are incredibly capable
My voice
is the day you died
relinquishing family secrets
and putting everything on the table
My voice
is life itself
messy, unpredictable
often crude and mentally unstable
and I'm able all the while to collect these voices
I hear her voice, and his voice
and my voice grows stronger
I hear their voice, and your voice
and my speech gets longer
and that he-said, she-said
becomes the you-said, we-said
and I said someone should collect these voices
even if they're actually all in my head....

I B That Poet (3rd revision) (Written for The Original Man CD release party)

I B That
undeniable voice
that gets stuck in your head
I B That
girl who gets boisterous
forgetting she's shy instead
I B That
poet intoxicated
forgetting the words
I B That
white girl assimilated
becoming a nerd
I B That
student of phonics
discovering new vocabulary
I B That
prostitute to turns of phrase
who's ready to pop ur cherry
I B That
solicitor of soliloquies
living in Ophelia's reign
I B That
type-A positive blood pumping
so the haters can die in vain
I B That
uncontrollable need
to speak only in metaphor
I B That
black-eyed survivor
after ignorance slammed a door
I B That
irrepressible spirit
in no need of salvation
I B That
flared nose, gritted teeth
clenched fists, fire-eyed determination
I B That
insatiable desire deep in
the marrow of your bones
I B That
only goddamned rational thing
that you have ever known
I B That
flutter in your stomach,
that spring in your step
I B That
sinking feeling
that this is all u have left
I B That
light-bulb idea
brightening up your morning
I B That
200-miles-per-hour wind
without an emergency warning
I B That
multiple personality
who only shows face on the mic
I B That
5-year-old on the monkey bars
who never learned to play nice
I B That
rulebreaking miscreant
never doing what she should
I B That Poet
... and the rest is understood.

Take It Back (Written for the North End Arts & Music Fest)

So now I guess I'm supposed to be
scared of the little kids
that run around my block
that have always run around my block
and occasionally yell curse words they think will make them sound
powerful and masculine and tough
because they might have a gun
and they might know how to point it
and they might know how to shoot it
and their bullets haven't hit me yet
but I hear pops in the night and in the daytime
and I can delude myself into thinking they're fireworks this time
but really, I know
that someone else has gotten ahold of a weapon
and decided to point
and I listen to the pops and know someone has snapped
the crackle of gunfire in our neighborhoods where we sleep is our fear
and even though we're supposed to be scared of that
and lock our doors and windows up tight in broad daylight
and never venture outside
and never talk to those kids or look them in the eye
that's ridiculous.
I shouldn't think that a 9-year-old looks suspicious
or a 12-year-old's intent is malicious
any more than I should hide
from a five-year-old on her training wheel bike
I'm only in my 20s, but I'm an elder to them
and I won't walk on the other side of the road
and I won't shy away from calling our your disrespect
Cause I expect kids to run wild
But I don't expect gunshots from a child.
So I'm saying this hot, cause I won't be mild:
Take back Waterloo
Take back the block
Before another victim is shot
Take back these streets
Take back our homes
So violence is not all our children will know
Take back the city
Take back the 'hood
Cause deep down all these people are good
Throw the guns away
Get your life on track
If you love your city, then take it back
Tell your kids what's up
Don't cut em no slack
If you love your city then take it back
We're all compensating for what we lack
If u love ur city, then TAKE IT BACK.

Allyson (Ode to a Friend)

She is all dressed up, and sits next to me
Because she cares about me
I didn't tell him at all, because
I don't care about him at all
And I think he might stop me.
The room is neutral-colored, like my mood
And I realize she must leave
Even though we love each other.
The time goes slowly. I want it over and done.
I try to stomach half of a sandwich I bought at a gas station
Because I was told somewhere along the line I had to eat.
I half-heartedly glance at OK! and Star and People
Each with images of what a woman should really be doing
I see the other women in this room
Later, the basketball player and I and another girl who asks
the nurse to stop telling her the details
Will recline in chairs with heating pads
Sipping on apple juice and eating crackers
As if we were lounging in beach chairs eating tapas and drinking white wine
Except the others have been swimming too hard or eating too much
Because their cramps are more severe
While I have been waiting on this moment and relax for the first time
Since I realized it three days ago
And the passerby who haphazardly fired his gun without telling me
Didn't cause me to bleed as much as they told me I would
And the sky seems sunnier now that my eyes are refocused
And the air seems clearer now that I am no longer stifled
And my mild-tasting toothpaste tastes like itself again
And though the ignorant billboards seem unnecessarily personal now
The only one who gets my life now is me
I take a dozen trips around the country that first year
I sometimes tell one more person a secret
And though I have not told my
would-be assassin how close he came to taking my life
I have forgiven him
Even as his bullets continue to find their marks in others.
And though I believe those neutral-colored walls protect me and
the cloak they provided still shields me
She remains the steady presence, the unwavering if unsure support
And she sees right through everything I try to say
Without my having to say it at all.

For Neda, from Iran

It was just supposed to be ordinary.
A simple day in the American Midwest
where we're all worried about the simple things
like money, like our jobs
like what's-that-loud-noise-outside
like why-is-this-weather-so-shitty
and we get so caught up in easy laughter and mild annoyances
that we didn't notice when
the YouTube screen told us we weren't ready
that our days were not preparing us
and we bristled at the suggestion
and impatiently clicked
and thought to ourselves that we might not have seen everything
but we certainly were ready for anything
and because an online video site thought us inferior
we had to prove them wrong
and suddenly we have found ourselves looking at a woman stagger back
and be gently lowered to the ground
and, saying nothing, rolls her eyes unnaturally to the side,
the side to which her head has drooped
and while people around her are shouting
and placing their hands on her neck and chest
and staring, and shooting video,
blood has begun to flow out of her mouth
and down her cheek to the pavement
and the shouting has become louder and more insistent
and the hands on her body have become more numerous
but no more useful
and by now, the blood has streaked her entire face
so that she is forever recognizable
and there is a large pool of blood on the street where she lies
in this crowded Iranian city
whose name no one will remember
but whose face will for many years be streaked with blood
but even though I have seen the video only once
it has burned images into my brain that are not easily erased
like blood on pavement
like eyes rolled sideways in death
like streets filled with strangers trying to stop the blood flowing from
the holes in your body
where a paramilitary drone shot you dead in the street
and though our countries are far away
and what does a Midwesterner know
about the deserts and the food and the art and the music
and it's not a big tourist destination, anyhow
and we're only supposed to be paying attention to that portion of
our world if your government suddenly gets mad at our government
and wants to blow us all into tiny little pieces;
even give all of that,
I feel that we have a shared hurt
you, for your final minutes bleeding on the pavement
me, because of my shame for watching it
stomach twisting at the sight
eyes unwilling to pull away as I gape openly at
the demise of a fellow human being
and I think is-this-what-it-is-like-to-be-shot? --
It's nothing like the easy unconscious death of the movies --
and why-is-there-so-much-blood?
and I fault YouTube for broadcasting that knowledge to me
and I chastise the people who filmed it
for being so used to seeing that kind of thing that it
must have been second nature to automatically pull phone from pocket
upon hearing the shot
and I wonder why it is that the paramilitary picked her out of the crowd
or if she was in the wrong place at the precise moment
or if the shot was deliberate
and whether the shooter was caught
and I remember reading an interview later saying
yes-he-was-caught-but
and I know the "but" means the cops are too crooked to be trusted
or else street justice befell him
and either way, none of it erases the blood in my mind
or on the pavement
and now I'm angry at myself
for trusting that I would be ready to see death
in all its untimely, unapologetic horrificness
because I was not.
It was just supposed to be ordinary
like my-computer-froze-again
like another-round-of-layoffs-is-coming
like the Cubs losing is the day's biggest bummer, but not super unpredictable
but today, I feel my chest burning
and my eyes rolling
and my lungs filling with the blood
of a thousand Neda's
pouring their blood out onto the pavement for me to see
because if you don't look for it, you won't see it
and if you live where I live, you can go around blind
but in Iran, neighbors step over your bloodstains
and I finally am ashamed one last time
as I think of myself in that situation,
walking down that same street
like it-could-have-happened-to-me-but-it-didn't, and feeling strangely relieved
because it's in our nature to avoid death
and the moon looks down on us all tonight
and the people will continue to die nameless and faceless
to the bulk of Western civilization
and that is how it must be, I shout to YouTube,
my fingers shaking as I navigate away
from the river of blood on my screen.

Merriam-Webster

I think these words are too much for some poets to carry
Maybe get yourself a Merriam-Webster's dictionary
So you can find out the meaning of "apothecary"
or "tributary" or "establishmentary" or "visionary"
Just because your pen can form crude representations
of letters forming something you heard
Doesn't mean your vocabulary is rich enough to spit $10 words
If it's more than three syllables, you'd better look it up
You can borrow my thesaurus, it's all tore up
Now I don't begrudge your lack of education
Because I know public schools in this nation
employ several forms of social and economic discrimination
And familial and societal pressures sometimes favor your
elimination rather than your graduation
But I've got a deep appreciation
For those who enjoy engaging in verbal altercations
If you're not feeling scholarly, don't worry --
I don't need a doctoral dissertation
But forget about the nasty poems
Give me cranial penetration
If you only talk fluff might as well be verbal masturbation
And my only sensation is boredom
Look, do me a favor and pick up a book
Because your words are so dumb
You took phrases that sound good and put em in a blender
and shook
But that's no fun
I want every piece I hear to make me think
I want each turn of phrase to take me over the brink
But make it succinct
Say your piece, don't take all day
And if you see me yawning
Go look up the word "blase."

You Always Gotta Be Thinking

I never thought...
But that's my first mistake, see,
You always gotta be thinking.
But at this point, I was on autopilot
Going to work, watching the ink turn violet
Across the keyboard my fingers glided
I didn't try to hide it, but
For sanity's sake, it stayed hidden.
And as my normal life unfolded as written
Between the lines something was missing.
And even if I was ashamed or sadder
Or whether it was a little of the former and the latter
It didn't produce chatter, because
Hardly anyone knew, so
It didn't matter.
And it was because of this lame indifference
That I continued to feign interest in the same stuff
When they'd come back around, though,
I acted tough
Because a woman might not come out and say it,
but she knows when enough is enough.
And it was at this particular juncture
When I thought this balloon of sanity was about to be punctured
That I started thinking.
And yes, it might have been after I'd been drinking
But suddenly, I realized that shit wasn't all on me
And I stopped sinking.
And it was like I woke up from a nap so long
You don't even remember when it started
And you realize maybe all of it was just a bad dream
And you and the dream are now parted
And you bolt out of bed happy as can be
Because the dream left you brokenhearted
But a dream is nothing, for pity's sake.
Monsters and shame are just a fake.
And just when you think it's too much for one person to take,
You wake
And notice the blue and white sky outside your window, maybe for the first time
And you think,
I never thought it would be like this.
But that's your first mistake, see
You always gotta be thinking.