Sunday, January 6, 2008

Excerpts from my fifth book A Mosaic of My Mind

The Long Walk Home

Forgot how it happened,
the detachment,
Finally letting go, escaping the entrapment.

The blades on the skin,
feeling caged in,
running forward without looking behind and waving.

Heart pumping,
feet on the concrete thumping,
running towards uncertainty, running towards something.

Listening to the wind whirl,
ready to hurl,
searching for a new world.

Being alone,
being on your own,
better than living in a broken home

Heart beats,
hearing whispering from the streets,
cardboard boxes, no more sheets.

Can’t escape the rain,
can’t escape the pain,
can’t escape your brain.

Drugs make you even more lost,
selling your body because you can’t afford the cost,
track marks on your arm in the form of a cross.

Harder to clear your mind,
fear that has no concept of time,
clean air makes you blind.

Slowly opening your eyes,
hope is again seen in the skies,
you know the truth because you wrote the lies.

Studying every word,
slowly getting over what occurred,
slowly getting up off the curb.

Realizing your life is a shame,
wondering about the place where you came,
wondering if it’s the same?

Steps backwards to move forwards,
blessed breaths from the lord,
back to the place you left, the place where you were first adored.

The day you return
to those who are concerned,
the day your life will turn.

Every addict dreams of this day,
yet to figure out what you will say,
during the long walk home, you vividly remember the way.

The Birth of a Butterfly Underneath a Bridge

The mammoth shadow of a city bridge
standing up on its giant dirty legs.
Covering all which mysteriously lives,
the homeless sleeping on their concrete cribs.
Darkness is avoided, the silence begs,
a caterpillar crawls inside steel walls.
Dancing desperately with death and decay,
getting pushed around by violent squalls.
The sound crashing on the ground when night falls,
lacking knowledge to fly into the fray.
Crunched in a cocoon, it’s time will come soon.
Adorned with armor, waiting to be reborn
under the magical mist of the moon.
The birth, twilights transformational tune
and the shape of its breathtaking new form.
No one taught the butterfly how to soar,
it learned of its special gifts on its own.
It built up enough courage to explore,
now part of the world’s beautiful décor.
Still yet to land, from the moment it flown.

A Jacket Torn

For days it didn’t move a muscle,
its life had taken a different path.
People hustled by it on their way to work
lying flat on its back, there it sat.

A dirty color denim
torn to shreds,
dark red stains, flowing veins,
signs that it once had bled.

Existing with its buttons missing,
stitches coming apart at the seams,
I wonder what it means?
Where are its matching jeans?

How many feet away could this jacket have walked?
Imagine the story this jacket
might have written inside of its pockets?
If only this jacket talked…

Its sleeves were reaching for help,
or they were simply wanting
to remember how skin felt.
The nameless frame which this jacket covered
and the soul which seemed to melt.

This jacket full of holes,
as empty and hollow
as a dreamer’s goals.

Taking its new form,
this lifeless jacket, dirty and torn.
Sitting on a concrete wall during a sunny day
or a violent storm.
More than just a piece of clothing
someone use to adorn,
a jacket torn,
by whom was it worn?

A Slightly Slanted, Slightly Enchanting Bench

On the outskirts of the city’s dirt and grime
is a secret place hidden by tall trees and twisting trails.
Put together with concrete bookends and rusty nails
is a slightly slanted, slightly enchanting bench that I call mine.
It stands there and waits for me to arrive
after my hectic schedule which ends and begins again around 5.
Painted with shadows, limbed brushes sketch over the sun’s shine.
Leaves fall slowly from the sky and never get a chance to say goodbye.
Every time I come back I hear the same bird cry,
it saves me a seat, it knows I’m on my way.
The perfect place to end one part and begin the next part of my day.
When society tries to leave me behind
the world moving so fast,
the bench is where I go to clear my mind.
A lifetime elapsed.

A Threshold’s Whispers

For at least a moment I yearn, to grab the knob and turn,
for just a peak, just a ponder, just a glimpse.
Afraid to stare at what might or might not be there, and in what form?
The door never opens more than an inch.

I don’t want to let it out, what’s still alive, what still survives.
The old chair still rocking, shhh, you can almost hear her talking.
Others come and visit, they can’t hear her sighs
or her weightless feet on the wooden floor still walking.

Nothing in her room has been touched, memories blanketed with dust.
This will always be the room where she will sleep,
guarding the gate to her legacy, to me, she has given her trust,
an honor I will forever keep.

Most nights I sit against the door and lean and close my eyes and dream
of her coming out dressed in her robe and slippers.
I press my face on the floor against the beam
and listen to a threshold’s whispers.

Two Unknown Lovers in the Nevada Night

The mysterious shapes of the numbers intrigued me deeply,
I was drawn in by the unknown.
Wrestling back and forth with the decision
as every organ in my body became overgrown.
I lifted up the phone and heard the loneliness of the tone,
it hung up in the air, almost to my ear, until I silenced the noise.
My fingers and hands were trembling, sweat stagnant on my brow,
this was going to be a night where I would be, one of the boys.
For long enough the decision swayed, the call was made.
In my mind the scenario continued to dangle
as I mentally explored it from every angle.
Lured by the curves of phone numbers,
someone had their hands around my conscience and started to strangle.

Alone in a hotel room in Vegas, my tools tarnished with rust.
10:29 the moment was mine, I heard thumps of weightless feet,
my blood began to rush, hush… Fingers massaging the door as
I gently opened, palms soaking from what I did meet.
In the stillness of the Nevada night I never witnessed such a beautiful, breathtaking sight.
Shook hands, skin warmer than the desert sand,
for years I swore off any personal pleasure
but for this one moment, I would remember how it felt to be a man.
In this Vegas dream, her skin caramel cream,
she undressed as I sat on the corner of the bed and gazed.
She strutted towards me, skin so firm, no waves,
pushing softly on my shoulder blades, her fingers grazed.
Touching every strand of me trying to find the man in me,
I stared into the eyes of an unknown strangers perfection.
Grabbing onto what holds the juices of life
and just like the Vegas strip, things began to move in an up and down direction.
Half of her body on top of mine, hands caressing her body like a pen does a line,
completely shut down, the wisdom which lives in my mind.
I searched her body looking for something I knew I would never find,
the lights of Las Vegas flickering and flashing, our oiled bodies shine.
Whether this moment meant anything to either one of us
is still undiscovered,
as my plane hovers,
the tale of two unknown lovers.

Swinging in Time

She sat down on a swing and listened to the birds sing,
her beautiful brunette hair flared through the air.
A young girl without a care in the world swung back and forth inching closer to the sun.
This young radiant fair maiden with a gorgeous glare,
her feet so light, never touched the ground after taking flight.
Sun submerged out of sight and fell into the night.

The sun rose like a flower, leaves sweaty from a nights shower,
the young girl rode the wind sitting on a morning breeze.
Never bending her knees, she kept gliding gracefully, innocently playfully.
Silent rhymes came from wind chimes dangling on trees,
I looked out the window at a young girl. Painting a picture with my brush
capturing a scene so perfectly lush.

The days passed, she continued to sway forth and back.
The material hanging from the bottom of her dress swayed, the sky grayed.
Sipping lemonade out of a glass, not aware the dead grass,
she stayed for most of her life on the swing, as everything around her decayed.
The swing slightly started to tilt, the flowers started to wilt, the swing started to rust,
the woman has now been diluted by a cloud of dust,

settling a little at a time as I peeked out my blind.
Startled by steam screaming from my tea kettle, in my direction, she stared.
The swing stopped swinging, the birds stopped singing,
gray hair, glasses, wrinkles and age spots on her skin is now how she appeared.
I looked down at my hand and saw the skin of an old man telling the tale,
an image of what time decided to steal.

The Fading Moon

Like a man without a home singing a sweet tune under the fading moon,
the center of my world is growling.
Heading underground hoping my ride will arrive soon,
my pupils looking for light pacing and prowling.

My life starts moving, conducted by a sound which has become annoyingly soothing.
Comfort is not part of my day, so I choose to stand
near a young man with white strings that sing, his eyes closed, grooving.
Clinging to a pole, my athletically, aging, elderly hand.

The dusty bolder like books in my bag make my shoulders sag.
My cluttered brain, how much more information can it retain?
My fragile, fractured, unfortunate frame I no longer wish to drag.
Inside the rumbling I hear a familiar voice, next stop, call out a familiar name.

The doors swang open loud to a gang banging crowd,
who greet you with spiteful, sweaty, stares.
Like a bull, making my way through the heap 1 by 1 as I’m allowed,
as I step over sections of a broken mirror, skipping up the subway stairs.

Not noticing how old I am becoming, the toll of all the running, I sigh without regret.
Slanting slightly upon my spot, back propped on a quaint wall, paint always freshly wet.
Standing alone next to a silhouette of a young couple dancing under an orange sky, and yet
no one else knows of the only place in the entire city where the sun will never set.

Men’s Room

Greetings, from a daily gathering of gentlemen
who conduct morning meetings underneath towers of dusty books.
A pristine perverse palace of pestilence to tidy up looks,
paved under permanent dirt is potential which lived way back when.
As you float through the door, feet fasten to the floor.
Above toilet gates are clouds which will not dissipate like fog on a stagnant summer shore.
Shaving in the sink, bathing un-bashfully without a blink, the rigorous resentful trend.
Tobacco wrapped white wet leaves, foliage which won’t flush in puddles of urine.
Sketched on stench soaked stalls are senile sermons,
tales of denial someone felt they had to mention.
Mirrors are purposely painted with filth so no one can see their reflection,
no one wants to be reminded of what is, what was and what might have been.
The little bit of life left lingering in a vagrants valiant veins,
in the Boston Public Library, a scene in the everyday life of homeless men.
Stains and the shame of unknown names is all what remains.

Long Sleeves

Lisa’s father went to fight in a war.
Home alone with her drunken mother, she tried to endure.

She would come home from school and find her mother out cold.
Lisa kept beautiful stories hidden inside, never told.

Pain bottled up, empty bottles swallowed into her mother’s hollow gut.
So much sorrow, without anyone in the world to follow, Lisa began to cut.

She changed her wardrobe and began to dress dull.
She didn’t want anyone to wonder, she wanted them to know her life was hell.

Her face pale white, clothes as dark as the night.
Gore became the color of life.

Every night with a knife she carved into her flesh.
On her knees, skin dripping tears, heavy breath, but not a wish for death.

Stress released with blood.
A ritual Lisa loved.

Never told her best friend, afraid she wouldn’t understand the blade’s feel.
It was about the hurt, but Lisa also loved watching it heal.

Sometimes Lisa would slice her skin under the stars.
Remembering how she felt looking at all of her scars.

Morbid memories of the pain in the past.
Cut all through high school and wore long sleeves to class.

No one bothered to ask, so Lisa never bothered to speak.

Time lines on her arms telling a gory tale.
Lisa will wear long sleeves until her heart heals.

Blood rolls, look, there it goes! A cover up with clothes.
Long sleeves, shadowing secret scabs that continue to grow.

The Perfect Present

It sat under a tree, a present no one bothered to see.
It was the holiday season and for some reason, this gift was not perfectly wrapped.
Its’ ribbon was torn, bent and broken, the present did not take a beautiful form.
It wasn’t decorated with holiday hues, no reds, no greens, the present was solid black.

One by one kids swiped pretty presents away, the ugly present was left to stay,
lingering until it was the only present left.
Under a beautiful tree’s gleam was the portrait of a present that looked so mean.
No one realized it contained 1 of the greatest secrets ever kept.

The lights on the tree dimmed, gone was the glow of the last child’s grin,
he believed the best gifts were taken.
What was on his wish list, in this little beaten up box could never exist,
but boy was he mistaken!

The gorgeous gifts were gone, a lonely child stood wondering what went wrong?
A Christmas song disappeared as the child looked to the heavens and stared.
He undid the ribbon, opening the only present which was never given.
He cheered! Amazed at what appeared!

A little dark box that when opened showed the world’s light, it changed the boys life.
The lonely child and the lonely present now share a special bond.
What was in the box? Never to tell the secret, so special a gift, the child will forever keep it.
A present that will last long after another Christmas has come and gone.

This sometimes peculiar looking present is patient, wrapped up and waiting
for all of us to find.
We must look past the nonsense, if we wish to see its wonderful contents
and open the perfect present, everyone else has left behind.

Bye Night

Bye night.
Morning’s light illuminated the pain,
yellow tape cautioned where not to step.
Plastic rope strangled hope
where the young man took his final breath.

12:59 a.m.
The estimated time his soul was slain.
If only the sidewalk outlined in chalk could talk,
it would tell of the murderer
who lived up the block.
A spirit screaming for help, help which never came.
His black hat walking down the street as the wind blows,
the spot where he was violently killed,
every day his mother goes, to see
flowers, candles and pictures of her son.
She breaks down and cries under these city skies
thinking about what he might have become.

The wind is still.
Grow up, he never will.
This is the he day a gun roared
over the voice of the lord.
A short lived life
too often ignored.

Jump Rope

the teacher stepped out of the room, a lesson
was being taught which would bring a young girl to her doom.

The students began touching her in the darkest places.
Mean faces filled a swirling room.
They tore her shirt and stockings, threw her clothes on the floor, until
she was wearing nothing more than sneakers laces.

Their flailing arms prodded,
her knees stuck together as she crunched down
to cover up all she was revealing.
A few girls half-heartily tried to help her,
most laughed and snickered
as the classroom lights flickered.

Cell phones
caught the scene on tape,
footage boys
would go home to and masturbate.

Held by her hair
sitting in the teacher’s chair,
feet now walking on air.
Nails scraping the board,
in a position where she could not be heard by the lord.

Fingers addicted
to her shape.
No where to escape,
wasn’t ready to give
what they decided to take.

The moment ended,
5 boys were apprehended.

Diminished her worth
while leaving memories
which could never be murdered
once they gave birth.
Full of blame,
full of shame,
boys who erased the pureness of her name.

Later that night in her room
leaning against her bedroom window,
listening to the soothing sound of rain.

Watching a leaf
slowly fall,
knowing she could never go back to school
and walk down those halls.
Couldn’t live with the guilt,
the only way to sleep peacefully
was to tuck herself under the earth’s quilt.

Hands underneath her skin
forever feeling her from within.

Tickling her throat with twine, underneath the moon’s shine,
the only way to remove the scene from her mind.
Tied one end of a jump rope
around a pipe on her ceiling,
left a note
trying to
what she was
She then
the other
end of her
jump rope
around her

The Sound of Color

is cast
aging ash.

are the only parts
left of you
to touch.

In my room
the shades
are shut
so I can never tell
whether it’s
day or night.
The body bag
zipped tight.

had smothered
assuring tears
would be shed by
your mother.

From what
you had
ended tomorrow.

of faded images
my only memories
I remember it like it was yesterday
standing in
the cemetery.

I remember
sliding into my suit
which was
solemnly stitched.
down roads
of dried up blood
which lined
my wrists.

Putting on
wondering about
the strange way
time passes.
I tried to
listen to the
priest speak
but became distracted
by mascara
streaking down every
women’s cheek.
Watching them
carry you out of
the hearse
standing in mud
which at some point
used to
be dirt.
spirits and lost souls
Eyes are closed
As they lower you
into the ground
over your casket
I held an umbrella.
On this day
I heard
the sound of color.

Audrey’s Assault

The family secret remains hidden, an act unspeakable, unforgiving.
Audrey keeps it concealed within her frivolous frame,
the hurt cannot be healed until it’s revealed, no one to trust, the truth of her father’s lust.
Once she was violated her worth was never the same, imagine the thoughts in her brain.
A father ignored the plea, halt!
Forced to keep emotions locked inside her heart’s vault,
it’s not her fault,
this is Audrey’s assault.

It started before she reached her teens, the father entering his dreams through her jeans.
Explained how no one would listen to her screams, still not quite sure what it means.
Audrey accepts what she has been given, started to believe this was a normal way of living.
The experience ends, left in the corner shivering, looking out the window at the moon’s gleam.
A father ignored the plea, halt!
Forced to keep emotions locked inside her heart’s vault,
it’s not her fault,
this is Audrey’s assault.

Told a friend about their romance, the father saying, I love you, while pulling down her pants.
Best friend told her, when you get a chance find someone to tell.
Audrey extremely nervous, her friend saying, you don’t deserve this!
Seduced by his sexual spell, the way he would yell, the way he would make her face swell.
A father ignored the plea, halt!
Forced to keep emotions locked inside her heart’s vault,
it’s not her fault,
this is Audrey’s assault.

As she got a little older, became tired of the lynching way he used to hold her.
Wished she could cure her mother’s cancer in order to find the answer she needed.
Went through this by herself, all day lying to herself, at night never lying by herself.
Leaving for school everyday feeling defeated, depressed, drained and depleted.
A father ignored the plea, halt!
Forced to keep emotions locked inside her heart’s vault,
it’s not her fault,
this is Audrey’s assault.

In a private journal she described how her father entered inside.
The internal pain she felt, every time touched, her skin would melt.
Mom terminally ill, father overpowering her with his will, stay still!
An image never to leave the mind, the way a father unbuckled his belt.
A father ignored the plea, halt!
Forced to keep emotions locked inside her heart’s vault,
it’s not her fault,
this is Audrey’s assault.

The Night Lost

5 kids in a car,
turning on the ignition, music turned up so strangers could listen.
Bottle caps on beer bottles started twisting, sipping and passing.
Everyone was having a good time laughing and joking, screaming with windows open.
Kids full of potential and passion never thought of the car crashing.
On the way to a party on Saturday night, each looking for a girl who was just right.
Passing a blunt in the backseat and like a track meet, the car started to go faster.
The driver didn’t want to risk humility, so he didn’t speak of his inability.
Everything became still at 3 a.m. as they drove straight to their disaster.
The driver lost control, the car wrapped around a telephone pole, 4 was the death toll.
In the midst of the summers heat, bodies lifeless on the concrete, none more than 20 years old.
Results from moving too fast, broken glass, alas, this night would be their living last.
At the accident scene the wind is reciting the story being told.
After the smoke cleared, 4 peers sinking into a cemetery, overhead raining tears.
The 1 survivor had to live with cold stares, every night the moment reappears.
The moment before they crashed, 4 kids with bright futures became part of the past.
Every time a young kid opens a cold beer, their souls are released into the air.
1 night of not thinking can change your entire world.
A bad decision left 4 no longer living and for 1, a normal life stops.
This is the night lost.

Urban Monk

In a crowded city it is so hard to breathe
trying to inhale air so stale.
Mixed in with the breeze
truth, lies, cigarette smoke and weed.
In a crowded city it’s so hard to believe.

Bare trees, girls on their knees,
the frail figures of drug addicts.
in a crowed city there’s not much room to grieve

Where does someone go to find inner peace in the streets?
Is there a place to experience tranquil thoughts?
I can’t concentrate with sirens, beeps
and the homeless woman who weeps.
Where do I go when I can’t escape my own heart beat?
Running from my problems, from a broken family and from the cops,
no matter how pure, into my soul the sickness slowly seeps.

Hard to not walk in the same shoes as earlier crews,
easy money to make, hard to refuse.
Peers trying to convince me to be the same, I’m trying to change.
The effects of pollution and poverty, look up at the sky,
it’s no longer painted with beautiful blues.
Everyday the papers are reporting the same violent news.
It’s in my brain, to fit in I have to wear gold chains
while gangs are my only real family.
I live in a society where there is little to gain and even less to lose.

It’s time to be serious,
this is no time to laugh,
if I don’t find a way out I am going to explode.
The cities wicked wind has me lost in its wrath.
This is the point in my life where I’m at…

While my friend is getting a gun to load,
I walk a different road.
I am an urban monk
who searches for a different path.

I Live in a Far Away Place

I’ll never forget
the way they rushed in
and intruded my space.
That’s why I live
in my far away place.

I’ll never reveal
the place where I hide
my far away place where I reside.
It’s a place
where I will never have to be alarmed,
those who harmed me, I will never have to fear.
I got in my car and drove
kept my foot on the gas
not knowing which way to steer.

in my rearview mirror, the city streets
which kept me walking in a maze.
Finally, on my skin, the long arms of the sun’s rays.

I have been on the move
for many days.
Not looking for my new home, my new home will find me.
A peaceful paradise
where the beauty will blind me.

The sadness, there’s nothing in my far away place
which will remind me.
A fresh start, a new heart.
When I first seen it, never would have been able to dream it,
coming from inside, the strumming of harps.

I arrived
just as it was turning dark.
I saw a blue jay sitting on a stone.
I live in a far away place
and it is the first time in my life I feel like I am home.

Tell Me What the Day Was Like

Could someone please tell me what the day was like?
Tell me if the sky mirrored the ocean’s reflection,
tell me if it was one of those days
when the sun shined in every direction with precise perfection?

Could someone please tell me what the day was like?
Tell me if it was one of those days when leaves stood still,
tell me if it was one of those days
when you could leave your house without a jacket and not feel a chill?

Could someone please tell me what the day was like?
Tell me if it was one of those days when sidewalks sparkled like diamonds,
tell me if it was one of those days
when you went to sleep under a summer moonlight shining?

Could someone please tell me what the day was like?
Tell me if it was one of those days when parks were filled with joy,
tell me if it was one of those days
that brings out smiles on the faces of little girls and boys?

Could someone please tell me what the day was like?
Tell me if it was one of those days when you wished there was a 25th hour,
could someone please tell me what the day was like
when you come to my grave and place down a flower?

A Boy and His Ball

A boy shoots his ball
long after everyone has went home, until no one else is around.
A boy bounces his ball
from when the sun goes up, until the sun goes down.

A boy cradles his ball
in his arm like a newborn.
The last thing he thinks about before bed,
the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning.

The ball could never be torn out of his arms,
the ball is there for his escape.
He kept shooting and dribbling
until he was no longer good, until he was great.

A boy and his ball together at the playground, it is his life,
to others it might just be a game.
It is how he is known around town,
the ball has given the boy his name.

While others are out up to no good
you will always find a ball in the boy’s hands.
The ball teaches and disciplines the boy,
it has helped him become a man.

He knows if he keeps practicing
he will be able to conquer all competition.
Throughout the neighborhood
the sound of swishing.

The ball is the boy’s sole reason for existing,
without his ball the boy would not be able to breathe.
Nothing else in the world matters,
the ball is the only thing the boy will ever need.

He shoots away his troubles until he is no longer upset.
His despair, with every dribble it seems to disappear
as the boy watches his ball, float
gracefully through air.

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