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, 

 

where

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

from plug,

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

arid disgust. 

 

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 networks,

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

like banshees,

being both endangered and mystical,

as ignored cries shriek auditory canals

of those 

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

working. 

 

where laziness is praised

and having children is a churning 

business,

 

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

than credit,

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

or 

in stringent tears

wrapped around a sob story,

attached to childhood issues with

doggie ears,

aarf! aarf! aarf!

 

where the meow between a young woman's

legs, whispers to whiskers

of strays,

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,

shuts down. 

 

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

at defenseless,

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

black teen

black child 

on the street, finding it impossible to move and dodge 

multiple bullets from bullies with badges. 

 

where fathers have difficulty spelling

responsibility cause

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 

now knowing 

he isn't. 

where the matters of orientation, color, creed, gender,

and subdivisions of being HUMAN,

matter more

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

before generations 

realize they are their parents raising

themselves in younger bodies,

stronger versions

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

spherical dungeon. 

 

where the arts are just beautiful. 

where the artists still struggle,

where innovation

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,

illustrating vulnerability

and depicting the weakness

the world weighs on mind,

while I'm walking through mine fields

of ink, laughter,

and failure, 

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

where love

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

obesity, 

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

in stacks, 

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. 

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 www.fineartamerica.com

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

process. 

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

of ovation,

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 

 

© 2015 by Roger A. Smith created with Wix.com

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