A Maze in Grace
are we men or mice?
they, birth babies in a maze
and tell them grow up,
with surroundings strange, surrounding
and enveloping them.
the handwriting on the walls all discombobulated and arranged in a way
that home is unfamiliar,
crosses only form T's
because everything else is blasphemous
to what man created,
like media services, abortion tools, and
the homemade pipe bomb.
where sex does more than sell,
it advertises through the minds
of preteens and pretends
they can handle emotional jolts
socket, and the electricity between the two, rather
where penis punch pussy
like type writers,
tacking away at hundred page dissertations,
where saturated satisfaction turns to
where people protest
that rainbows don't
come out, but are
genetic affects of cellular condensation,
and the pot of gold
to a man, is another man's junk,
or labia wrapped in labia with vulvas
playing twister to women.
where a, e, i nor you
own schools in motherlands,
own the eyes of millions,
ears of billions,
hearts of trillions and still can't change
the onyx affect in a
pearl driven world.
where the amerikkkan negro yelps
being both endangered and mystical,
as ignored cries shriek auditory canals
who claim they wrap knuckles,
tape wrists, and glove their speech
for twelve rounds against injustice,
but that's national self-
action via the net
where laziness is praised
and having children is a churning
booming useful lucrative uteruses,
so society turns sick,
cause they can't differentiate from the ones who love cock,
and the ones who really need WIC,
so, love stroke poverty screws,
mean they get dicked.
where EBT cards are worth more
worth more than debit,
worth more than presidential portraits
printed on paperback lies
of trusting in a god
people don't pray to, when it's time
to pay bills,
but dropped down on patella
in position to give Christ fellatio
for new car, fancy clothes, and a mate.
where love has two syllables
and sounds like cha-ching,
where rent can't be paid with emotions
in stringent tears
wrapped around a sob story,
attached to childhood issues with
aarf! aarf! aarf!
where the meow between a young woman's
legs, whispers to whiskers
and aged animals no longer on the stroll and
statutory rape is as common as high school proms
and little kids being professional porn stars by then.
where 7-eleven stays open but the
government shuts down.
where bodegas selling
crack, weed, meth, guns, and death
stay open but the government shuts down.
where government officials won't shut the f__k up each November,
but the government itself,
where myocardial infarctions,
attack the hearts of others
and force tears
to run down empathetic cheek,
into the sadness pooled
beneath the living.
where murderers scream self defense
lifeless bodies of life,
while selfish jurors play with magnanimity, and pseudo-judge turns
lip in upward angle of accomplice.
where cops sodomize broom sticks
with human rectum,
where the neighborhood shooting range
is more neighborhood than shooting range,
and the black perp on the sheet moving back and forth
is a black man
on the street, finding it impossible to move and dodge
multiple bullets from bullies with badges.
where fathers have difficulty spelling
there's too much i in it,
where they kill their children,
kill their women,
kill themselves over 16% when they are short changing a future
they laid to make.
where mothers don't know they're pregnant,
and newborns are not born but killed
by she who housed them for months
and use carcass
as accessory while shoplifting for lingerie to get re-pregnant
for more Kevorkian practices.
where the flock listen to revelations
broken open by
Cronkite, Bradley or Anderson Cooper
if they still find his words straight
where the matters of orientation, color, creed, gender,
and subdivisions of being HUMAN,
than the word itself.
where we vote for unison
under a leader but don't
give him the chance to lead,
don't give him the opportunity to give those without opportunity,
the opportunity to
get check ups,
get health care,
get all things considered part of the freedom flag experience.
where social media
hosts biographies and we think
we know someone.
where hashtags are stronger than quotes.
where hashtags are stronger than exclamations.
where hashtags are the most significant thing and the rest of a speech is bullshit.
where things change and change back
realize they are their parents raising
themselves in younger bodies,
of the page before that they spoke of never turning to,
where it would've been easier had
they paid attention to all
those subliminal slaps from that
bareback woman they called
giver of breast to feed them,
that broke foot in ass
because they ruined hourglass figurine
that could hula hoop
in stilettos while
baking carrot cake and sipping moscato.
where we don't mold, make or create
cause, no one believes in magic,
they believe in the illuminati,
free masons, and voodoo,
giving energy to the darkness, the brimstone and the fallen angel,
as if we need more demonic
shit here in this
where the arts are just beautiful.
where the artists still struggle,
outside of technology can't
equate to financial stability,
though the methods manipulated
mean more than PCs
taken the place of people,
taken the place of workers and working class families
that sowed each star on that ecchymotic background,
and smeared blood in the red,
saliva and tears in the white,
cause even that is a creation of art.
where i write to relinquish power,
and depicting the weakness
the world weighs on mind,
while I'm walking through mine fields
of ink, laughter,
praying i die accepted.
where no one no longer sings songs of myself,
no longer howls,
no longer bows head in thanksgiving prayer,
no longer speaks of someone blew up amerikkka,
no longer listens to the negro speaks of rivers,
no longer looks at or even notices phenomenal women,
or gives a whole lot of hell about anyone who did.
we're not in Kansas anymore.
we're not in a place
where normality is a word. we're in one
bears nothing, believes nothing, hopes nothing, endures nothing,
and furthermore is
somewhere with the boogeyman, big foot, and the abominable snowman
spelunking in narrow crevices
seeking the thrill
outside of its own existence.
where the wretches saved,
live better than
the families of their victims,
get free education
but the free struggle, sucking corporations for tuition assistance
and are nine inch nailed
to Perkins and stafford loans,
and can't afford
something as simple as the endangered book.
where social security won't be secure,
nor for a society
that is living longer
despite the many ways introduced
to kill ourselves,
and no I'm not directly speaking to you
and gangs, and the latest fad in the drug exchange.
where one has to finance a salad
and bottled water,
but heart attacks are on
every dollar menu
clogging arteries and pockets
and force fed to infants,
nasogastrically dispersed to the sick,
and nutri-bulleted for the elderly
who have nothing to chew with
cause they lost their
teeth eating the concrete slabs of shit
shoveled down their throats
by the people in charge.
but this is home,
and the welcome mat is beneath burnt,
ashy, calloused feet,
tired of their travels and drudgery.
the journey searching for purple mountains
and the miracle of a vision restored.
no sparky with slippers in mouth,
no two point five,
no mrs. brady, mrs. cleaver, nor mrs. huxtable,
the pickets are down, no fence, just
rusty wrought iron
and the zooming and zipping by of horns and swear words
as the parkway tells you it's plight,
after partaking in
shoulder to lean on listening to yours.
this is the place we unload
both clothing and burden,
waiting for black suits and crow,
waiting for words and tears,
and dirt and silence.
where we finally realize there is no piece of cheese,
no light at the end of the tunnel,
just walls attached to grace,
attached to more maze,
unless you believe that it's all to prepare you for
a better place.
is that what you believe,
or are you just like these words,
the way we live,
no longer bothered of brothers keeper
but merely running through the maze?
From Chambers of a Beating Heart
Roger Smith © 2014
Art Design by Stefan Kuhn
Two Years Later
As New York and the Jersey shore
rebound from the aquatic disaster
of one year ago,
mind mind for focusing on plasma,
that surrounded node
and abnormally grew and decimated
land and structural portions
of a man, two years ago.
I can't sit with thoughts of those
fortunate enough to afford ocean front view
and beaches as backyard,
that were temporary displaced and had
to replace car and memories,
I was at the one year point of remembering radiation,
bald, dark, scathed skin,
the itching irritation
of temporary displaced hair,
to replace libido and drown memories.
As Bob Villa
lays new foundation and insurance checks flow in,
my old infrastructure pools and stagnates the rebuilding
Every ounce of rain is not a storm,
and every storm is not Sandy,
however every cough, every pain, every lump,
is the break of remission, and mind
can't help but realize
material things don't metastasize.
So as you choose to produce larger cells, pardon my lack
clasped hands can't clap.
The prayers you reiterate for the calm outside,
echo my insides, what for you is
merely one year later.
From Chambers of a Beating Heart
Roger Smith © 2013