Would that we had a plenipotentiary
(Would that we knew what that was)
Perhaps we'd empty the enemy's penitentiaries
~ by the end of the twenty-first century
Categories:
penitentiaries, fantasy, giggle, word play,
Form: Rubai
Tides will lecture us, obtrusively, to our faces,
& it's moments like these we unearth
probity in outlooks and lookouts
to crack the skulls of coconuts. some lives
have small windows, & we, like hounds, look
out & bayed full moons, through panes. & pain,
bringing the high to where the last line
is breathed and we are plumbed. & this
takes fix after fix, to cultivate depravities,
gifts & slumlords, spitting from penitentiaries
the rats & their humans. I saw a few.
This is the kind of stools we sit on
when there is more than blood in our veins
Sometimes guitars sing to us, but the lines ...
are flat, shattered lives. In death,
there's no dreaming, just dumb sleep
Categories:
penitentiaries, addiction, angst, dream, drug,
Form: Narrative
Quarantined in the corner of a country
With strange tongues
And worthless resources
With cheap labor & cheap lives
Cheap children & even cheaper sex
Quarantined in the corner of a country
Crazy with religion… talking…
With strange tongues
And worthless resources
With cheap love & cheap guesses
Cheap sin & even cheaper penance
Quarantined in the corner of a country
Coo coo for cocoa puffs
With strange tongues
And worthless resources
With cheap ads & cheap actresses
Cheap plots & even cheaper climaxes
Quarantined in the corner of a country
Canonizing cops
With strange tongues
And worthless resources
With cheap shots & cheap riots
Cheap punishment & and even cheaper penitentiaries
Quarantined in the corner of a country
Coming Clean
Categories:
penitentiaries, abuse, angst, class, conflict,
Form: Free verse
I can hear the wicked shots rangin',
Hood stars on the avenues hangin',
You hear the sounds of the ghetto
and loose change in B.U.Ms[brothers under madness]
metal cups clangin',
That poverty noise is 1 of the hood anthems,
Bailbondsmen collectin' hood ransoms,
and crooked police we can't stand'em,
And we're fed up with continuous violence,
All the dark clothes reunions
Too many moments of silence,
And R.I.Ps are another ghetto sound,
It doesn't matter if you're
Red,Black,White,Yellow,Brown,
We need to put the metal down,
The penitentiaries call some in elementary,
They don't know at a young age & eventually,
End up locked down where jailed sinners be,
I've been a witness to many gun tunes,
They're gettin' shot on the spot
No more meetin' up at high noon,
Death hits the community like a typhoon,
The devil's the evil artist to start this,
He has them tryin' to prove
whose hood is the hardest,
While innocent bystanders
are like movin' targets,
So I shed a tear for some better years,
This world is cursed
So I write a verse for every hearse
until my ears & my head is clear.
Categories:
penitentiaries, hip hop, poetry, spoken
Form: Rhyme