urbansonnets

I'm giddy, back like I never left it;
early or later I was destined to
come and give back to the ancient spirit
of calm, clean, contented and fiercest you:
I mean me, I meant "History" in quotes,
and capitals, chattel, cattle and fees,
charged against us people without votes,
till we one day channel those holy seas:
I mean See, steeled in velvet waves like tongues,
which ensconce our  weakness in rhetoric,
washing away the golden ladder's rungs,
kissing goodbye dark thoughts unhistoric:
I can feel this passion flow in ripples;
catch a wave before your bloodline triples.

Mumps on the side of my face, I mean neck,
as I span the distance from Greece to Spain,
when I crunch the page but turn back to check
if the heroes inserted feel the pain:
Like Alexander, I have gone too far,
from Macedonia, to France, Spain, Persia,
you are what you speak, you speak why you are,
but pages turn words into nostalgia:
What does this all mean? Well, ask the Sheriff,
the reeve of the Shire, Christ bearing or not,
as unctuous prophets may bribe the bailiff,
you swallow so hard before you are shot:
But the firing squad will give you the time
to swallow and breathe, to write down and climb.

I just saw the face of defeat two times,
not my own, of course, but one more tragic,
fixed in the heart of this land, its laws, crimes,
and credos: therein lies the black magic:
More frankly, there is a status panic,
amongst the nominal "joes" that conflate
an image of wealth with worth so basic,
that they lose conception of joys innate:
Giving light to consumption as culture,
the hollow hagiographies of past
appropriations–heads down like vultures,
soaring with no ground to break the fast:
I saw the two-time face first look away,
then chunk a deuce, lost–an "urban" display.

A small milestone achieved in this high art,
turned street, made rubble, across the spectrum,
different hues of reconstruction that dart,
in and out of time, space, from the rostrum:
That is, I dissert, dissect from a mount
so raised, that I'm really too far to touch,
so hear my words, let the distance amount,
to a gap in space, not life, as such:
Detached parallelism is the name,
and bridging breaks is my bread and butter,
so ask me again, I'll tell you the same,
that life's a joke, and you are the other:
I mean, the butt, the but, who, why and and,
against which I trace my name in the sand.

To stand is to remain, to unveil time,
To reveal the folds underneath the smooth,
Flowing wood of the spot, you skipped the line,
And you towed it toward the hint of new truth:
In sonnet form, the joy between the lines,
The depth of every breath taken and spit,
Unspooling memories of higher times,
Of nasal sameness, of the same ol’ shit:
Sorry for cursing, my man; I’m just real,
Whether in verse or in vita I’m real,
Like we all are, I just stress my appeal,
Over the real fake masses; time is teal
In Old Mexico, did you know that, man?
I learn real and truth to teach them, to aim.

I feel and take in beauty so deeply,
That I don’t know whether I should resent
Or represent it. Or read it neatly,
And write an analysis to present:
At conferences of studious niggards,
Of “culture”—quote, unquote—though it’s different,
When you re-present a group disfigured:
By “culture”—quote, unquote–, its cultivars,
Its transfixing fixes and its gazes,
Its monstrous breed and their undying wars,
Which make out of blood and ink their mazes:
A labyrinth, puzzle, or endless board game,
Crime, money, life, quiz—it’s all a wordgame.

Gray morning, gray glove, gray presence, gray love,
Good timing, great colors—green gray contrast,
And the day slinks on down from up above,
But the sun sleeps ‘neath the cloudy ballast:
I really do feel that this describes me,
But the sun is my mind under cotton-
Ball pressure; all dreams soaked up so snugly,
To astringe the dark flesh that’s forgotten:
But suddenly, the sun peers out smugly,
And I feel an explosive change in me,
As the palettes of colors so ugly,
Absorb new hues of gray and green cleanly:
Green trees make a nice contrast against gray
Skies and grey clouds as the light breaks today.

The window opens as if by design,
And the breezes trickle straight through the screen,
With a sincere desire to confine
The haughty spirits of a heart so mean:
While furious thoughts rework the mindframe,
In which an imprint stood of time so real,
Until the specter of more of the same
Made moments once pure make movements unpeel:
Though throughout this thorough litigation,
Somehow, new blood began to flow inside,
And inside the frame, insinuation
Began to creep out of where faiths reside:
Where the wall is empty, just look harder,
A sharp vision might make you a martyr.

I’m a peninsula in an ocean
Of salty currents and bloody noses,
And the taste of blueness, brine and roses
Lingers and halts the uvular motion:
It just dangles there, swelling and shrinking,
According to how sick I get—too much!
Sometimes, I want to cut the fleshy string
And release—never feel a single thing:
And flow in space in a time all my own,
And grow in grace, in a bed so lush,
According to how sick I get—too much
For comfort, knowing the rooster has flown:
I dream in so many colors sometimes,
But these visions are ours, hers, his, yours, and time’s.