Reflections on Moving Glass

What makes man understand unconditional love, while realizing that one can embody a demeanor, or outlook, that is inferior, evil, unconscious?

What makes time pass by slowly under the employment of a generation before me that has lost all regard for the value in youth? And pass quickly under the sky alone or with a loved one? Infusing your time with love, or building sand castles out of sand.

Sadly, I don’t know myself. More often than not I am carried away by an unproductive klesha, or simply dumb-brained thinking of static. My empathy know bounds. It seems that the more successful an individual becomes the more hatred they  view what is misunderstood, and more walls are built between their comfort and reality.

I find myself hating the youth – I don’t see myself in them. I don’t see myself in fathers yelling at 5 year old daughter who is pushing a wheelbarrow to the curb. 

I almost cut my hair in a Cadillac arguing with crazy men. Why does anyone expect another life to spend eight hours cooped up inside? What makes people comfortable with wasting life? Our only gift.

I see grown men struggle with actions I accomplished by 15. I see them work slow, stupid, and self assured. Pretending this is the life they planned to live.

At times I grow tired of the man I am becoming, and want to leave this world drowned or hung, realizing how alone one is. Sleep stains the grass. The bodies are not breathing.

I don love my fellow American. Without much thought I wouldn’t treat the majority better than a dog. Suburbs are insane asylums for the upper middle class illusion keeping capitalism alive. White America is a spiritual ghetto. White America set on fire.

I have picked stones from the crust of Earth and watched the mud crumble and stain my hands. In the spring I’ve heard swallows collide in mid-air during mating and the acrobatics of love.

— I have hated my countrymen for who they are.

I have not known my origin. 


What comes 

I’ve just heard some rumor                                             

Don’t worry, Don’t refuse to work   

Take ten minutes, 

Taste the free 

Coffee and Turkish meat of political rebels.  

I’ll have a plastic bag, I’m walking    

To tundra – Off shelves of Luna to snickers by Tosi toast  

 Into the Pacific – My eyes are always crying.

Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?  

To listen to the lark ascending, the darkness of the sun.    

Babies cry next to empty shopping carts, inviolate  –    

In the middle of the road,    

The noon of night,   

The joy of love.                                                         

Braid your hair my daughter,   

                              Unknown girl, unborn divinity.     

Your mark’d defiance under trains   

Covered in Flipino mud 

 Where you may dig for diamonds,

 The eyes of an ancient woman

 Papa, will choose a bouquet of flowers – 

For the old Dodgers fan pulling himself across the square,   

 Dancing with Love  

White Heat.
We’re busy all day tomorrow,     

                                 Watch my cup of water tremble.            

Workshop Poetry

Don’t forget the market on Sunday, Don’t forget your Mama.

Dotted lights spell coffee behind my eyes, 

Blonde hair is braided, cutoff, and thrown away – Drowned in an awkward soda.

Cover your mouth. Her eyes dart around the room suspicious of you, followed by a man in yellow…

“You’re writing novels over there?”

Of course only the story of the dream in front me – Reaching for money.

Reaching for candy —

Should I stay with my Uncle? 

A man stares down into his green grocery bag,                              “Where is my money?”


A familiar deja vu flashing daily images

One million men across the country, eyes rolling, thinking of you – With disease,

A shining light reaches a dark mirror, hidden past crooked branches in the forest – Whose fingers peeled the scalp of a flying witch, and held her hair loosely by the nail.

A hound there, led by his master, watches the navy sky tirelessly

While gracious hunter peers past overgrown eyebrows.