Corpse Pose

Hand Written

"Feel it, 

the sensation of breathing, 

with a new friend. 



the addition, 

but the release of a union

of muscle and sinew, 



cast to the side. 

The breath


with the support 


of the floor. 

The ground, 

the dirt below, 

thinking now


of feeling the green grass

in between your toes, 

the Earth, 

our Earth. 


Nay, she is not ours, 

we are instead Hers. 

Your breath... 

given strength by Mother Earth. 


Do you feel it? 

The ebb of the Earth, 

the beat, 

the ancient, encompassing embrace. 


Do you feel the flow

of the Ocean,

the breath of Mother Earth

made manifest?


Do you feel the presece

of the energy,

in this room, 

right now?


The energy that is still, 

the energy that links us, 

neighbor to neighbor, 

the energy of the mightiest wave


crashing onto the shore,

the wrath of the surf

felt as fury by the surfer

that Hell hath no. 


The energy of the exhausted canine

resting finally on couch

with the child who so tenderly

ran it tired. 


The energy when Autumn comes

when you're not quite done

kissing Summer



Do you feel the breath? 

Do you feel your mind 

spiraling all over this

whirl of whimisical words?


Do you feel the heart? 

Your heart? 

My heart? 

The flow of energy 


of the one to your left

or right? 

Us all, limited not

to labels


or categories, 

not by old, young, 

American, skin tone, 

the foolish boy or the sweet lady.


Try Human, 

Homo Sapien, 

try Earthling, 

giggling practitioner about spirit fingers. 



you know what? 

I do not

need to instruct, 


because I feel it. 

I feel you. 

I feel joy,

stress, searing pain, 


us joining as a whole

with our Om. 

So beautiful, 

you people. 


This is it. 

This is you, this is me. 

This is Mother Earth. 

I feel it.


And maybe you do too."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The piece I wrote for Lululemon's UNITEd State campaign, during a yoga session I sat and observed.

Nasty Reminders

I can feel this beat in my finger-tips

The tears, the scars and the rips

Every stitch every staple keeping it confined

These scars a nasty part in a helpful remind. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I am beginning to notice how dark I really am 0-0 
Feedback is always appreciated.... I may make my next a little longer but not sure im at that point yet :)

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This Friend of Mine

We walk side by side
My friend and I
As if we have all free time
To perfect our even stride

Beat for beat, we make our way
My friend and I
We laugh to ourselves
At the jokes only we can say

When classwork is plentiful
My friend and I
Retreat to the parlors below
And an all-nighter we will pull

Together we always are
My friend and I
Like twins once forlorn
Brought back by the stars

Our fights are not real
My friend and I
Accommodate mere tiffs
At end we always make a deal

So heavy is my heart to think
My friend and I
Should be separated in a year
That she will be gone in a blink

I’ll cherish always the while spent
With my beloved friend
As every hour is greater than last
And all the praising words are meant

For this friend of mine…

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is for a friend that I've made recently. Though we've only been friends for a short while she's become an intricate part of me, and I can't seem to go one day without talking to her. Whether we're reading Shakespeare to each other in funny accents or she's trying to kick my knees out, we always seem to be laughing and having a good time. This one's for you, Heather!

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Watch as the notes flow,
Starting the tapping of toes,
The beats kicking in...

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The Urinal Cake

was those people that follow you around the museum
to make sure you don’t bend over, pull down your pants
and shit explosive diarrhea at the “Mona Lisa”

was swinging from vines like Tarzan,
curing every vaginal yeast infection in town,
singing that Foo Fighter’s song “My Hero”

was flying kamikaze helicopters, dropping skydiving midgets without parachutes,
throwing empty soup cans at homeless people in Houston for a questionable, lifeless reprisal

was drinking urine mixed with gin and MDMA, eating cake while wacking off to paintings of Marie Antoinette’s decapitated body
after driving a Smart Car into Monte Carlo with faulty brakes and no muffler

was fucking the cunt of ten pence tomorrows,
slapping the fog out of today in rancid retribution,
pissing blood at Margret Thatcher’s Wikipedia page in an abandoned public library somewhere in Leeds

was wearing a trench coat,
running in circles,
flashing schoolgirls while castrating itself with a dental saw
screaming under the tongue, “HALLAYYLOOOYAAAHH!”

was babbling bibliographies, singing the theme song from the “Brady Bunch,”
eating pancakes soaked in mescaline
breathing in fecal fire on a hot winter day in Perth

THAT URINAL I USED IN 1993!!!!!!!!!

hated poetry and brutally fistfucked every poet’s surgically repaired pussy and torched every white trash mobile home in Kentucky because
IT DID NOT understand or appreciate cinquains and really wanted to punch Moliere in the stomach

flew on the wings of vultures wearing Sarah Palin’s skidmarked thong,
but didn’t have adequate dental coverage
and just let out a nasty fart in a crowded elevator

wore a dunce cap and kicked little boys in the nuts because of a small dick syndrome
that the prickly penis pump picked out of a precocious pantry in Pasadena

raped Mother Goose with gas guzzlers on the highway driving too slowly
leaving the left blinker on for twenty fucking minutes!

waded through fields of animal carcasses due to the hungry, vegan, and ashamed

marched in teargas protest, however, was afraid to unleash that secret army of sweatshop slave 11 year olds from Malaysia
who want to free Tibet with fur coats, nun chucks, skateboards, and top hats

shot people in the face with piss filled water guns all over the streets of Cincinnati;
and broke down crying later;
called the Psychic Hotline,
watched Oprah,
laughed hysterically for an hour
and then took a big, hairy shit in the bathtub before calling “Joe the Plumber”

lined up outside the mall on Black Friday- last Tuesday- in makeshift tents made out of excrement
trampled several store employees to death in a melee
and even didn’t find what it was looking for anyway

maxed out a credit card – just to replace a loan – just to live a lie

stole Paris Hilton’s right testicle and took transvestites hostage in Stockholm after removing their breast implants on the back nine of Augusta
dressed up in Bath Ruth’s uniform smoking a Cuban cigar, making noises like an orangutan with constipation

burned books with Reality TV and had Ambien nightmares of Spoken Word Poets digging ditches while wearing barbed wire corsets and dancing (occasionally) the “Spastic Cabbage Patch” sporting those four-hour erections the TV keeps on warning us about but nobody expects will happen to them, maybe to somebody named Fred or Bob or Ted or Chad, but not to them

and some city in Eastern Europe…

banged on the doors of occupied toilet stalls at the airport in Frankfurt and ran apeshit amok poking random people in the eyes, doing earsplitting Three Stooges impersonations

dressed up like Ronald McDonald and dangled Happy Meals in the faces of starving children only to jump into a Hummer and drive off playing loud, bass booming CRUNK Hip Hop music, throwing up gang-signs like Ali G or a demented deaf person on some type of mind altering hallucinogenic drug, yelling “YEAHYAH” rapidly like Lil Jon or Dave Chappelle

ate twenty black bean dinners out of a sombrero while stranded in an alley in Mexico City
where a flock of 40 year old heroin hookers prayed to IT every night out of spite,
laughing themselves delusional,
they wept later and played a solemn flute
then bought a live cobra off Ebay,
watched “Die Hard” on acid,
and read “Lazarus” fifty times in a row to J. Alfred Prufrock who was strung out on meth and Barbie dolls and was attempting to contact Robert Frost
because his neighbor was building an intrusive fence somewhere in Cambodia


brought denial to every repulsive reflection

crippled every aspiration in Santa’s satanic six block radius

Now let
ask the reader this,
Do YOU, fair reader, believe in reincarnation?
The urinal cake does…

Author's Notes/Comments: 

From late 08. Written after reading "Naked Lunch."

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