Flight Lessons For A Terrorist

Warmed by the familiarity of
Inside-out in comfort.
Sewn together by pain.
Incessant rocking on worn out knees…
Everyday a little more chipped,
By the ice pick of



His love was dealt in fistfuls,
Taking shape as bruises.
Her pseudo love was sheltered
And justified in her excuses.
And now,
Arthritic ridden hands
Are left to deal love
To the children born of
Their broken daughter.

Beautifully Broken

my body is covered in hieroglyphics; not a single lie is told, each mark bears the truth. each smile & tear, each battle from youth, each teacher & love lay over my flesh like a map of my path, the glory & the wrath; the passes & the beatings, the meetings & the leavings; all the times i lost, along with every win; pictographic memories all sprawled across my skin. yeah, i’m held together in stitches of ink, if you don’t like my flavor, then don’t take a drink. i proudly wear my scars & stripes, the story of my life. i am a storybook cracked wide open, telling the story of how i became, beautifully broken.

My Favorite Song

Scents ring out like sirens,
Drawing me back to the
Music of your skin.

The lyrics in your eyes
Dance across the sky
Each night as the sun sets.

And though I am bound by your beauty,
And struck down by your rhyme,
You are my only freedom in this world…

You, my favorite song.

Your Light

There is a light that emanates
from thoughts of you
which sends embers of
orgasm through my psyche.
Your smile touches me
deep down inside
and tickles the
clitoris folded between my legs of
inspiration on the left and
brutal truth on the right.
Climactic acknowledgement of
spent love,
growing love,
slow love,
deep love,
unconditioned love-
pushes up and brims out of my heart
with force unstoppable.
I am lit by your light.

You Are

You Are

You are my son, my moon, my bright shining star. My intentions for you are to grow deep, rise high and reach far. I want for you a heart filled with compassion, strength and courage; a life free from all forms of bondage – be it greed, hatred, substance or oppression.

For you my child, I can only speak the language of action and see that you grow up full of love and hope that you are never jaded. I will share with you my love of the pursuit of knowledge and all of its fruits; teach you that success can be personified as one who puts purpose before power, character and community before cash and spirituality before carnal instinct.

I hope you stay grounded, humble and kind. Stay close to the creator, Mother Earth and most of all, yourself. Never stop seeing yourself in your neighbor. Always remember that the creator gave you such strong hands to heal and build and never to hurt.

You were made to do big things in this world, son. There has never been another like you in all of creation, nor will there ever be again. You stand on fierce and mighty ancestral shoulders. Carry yourself with dignity and honor…and most of all, be gentle with yourself and others ESPECIALLY when it seems the most difficult thing to do.

Too Young To Be Old

How can it be
That you and you and you
Possess the audacity
To flap your lips
With your tongue like a whip
In a loud self convincing
“Try again please.”
On hypocrisies
Across the seven seas
You’re like a kindergarten class
Adding peas
Like minds
Dyslexic logic telling me
That you agree you shine through me
And all of my overgrown
How can you all count to three
And then like magic
Laugh into me
The impossibility
For my young and tired eyes
To have ever seen
Of substance
Anything of beauty
Any damn thing
That could ever
Mean a thing
For me
Or for you
Or anything
That could ever bring
A lingering
Important kind of meaning.
You say,
I haven’t lived enough to see
The life that lives outside of me
And I may never age to know
What maturity brings
What it really means
To be “old.”
But when the telling is told
And I’m the one teaching
The only one speaking,
The marks of my branding
Compassion and understanding
The crash of their landing
And force of their demanding,
Scotch-taped together,
The lone person standing…
You will learn what I say
That yesterday and today
Age is age
Just a measure to gauge
The years that it took you
To stay stuck on the same page
When I am libraries ahead
With the heart and the wisdom
Of an old soul instead.


Your world was pulled out from under you.
Died in a car accident off the “K” Street overpass.
What a shame that a boy had to die and you still don’t realize what it is that you do that hurts us into hatred.
We are not the reincarnation of those kids who died.
We are not your second chance to fuck it up.
I am not my mother.
You were not the womb that hugged my fetus for nine months-
That 14-year-old stomach intense apologizing for the sickly love that made me…
The sickly love that would break me.
You were spiteful in your fostering grandparenthood,
Bathing my youth in ice cubes,
Then drying me off in dollar bills…so that your hands would never have to touch me…
And every time I shivered, I got slapped with a bill screaming double time,
With interest, for the lack of gratitude that I never fail to provide.
I owe you this disease back:
A viral reconstruction of the cum shot you made me swallow,
Before my life was flipped around,
Spread open wide, and gang banged by the biggest tragic shafts;
After you became the actress-
The type-cast-two-faced evil villain…
Basking in your delusional illusions-
The practice made perfect expert at impromptu,
Believing your own reinvented memories;
Crying genuine Visine tears.
I owe you all the ill-ass-backwards empathy you gave me as a child,
The lollipop pillow pacifier, double dipped in anthrax:
My sweetened slow death suffocation that I lived in like a hospice-
Or my mothers overcrowded casket, with a straw…
Your social high society pity plan to murder me with the suicide that Dr. Karma prescribed that pain you claimed, even though it came before you;
The unnecessary pawn shop pink slip that can only be paid back in abuses.
I owe you back all your relentlessness, for all the love you kept yourself from feeling.
I owe you reciprocated hatred for every time you looked at me, calling me by my mothers name, still believing I was her.
For every time you dangled foster care in my young, lonely and starved face-
Like a warm meal, teasing me with the threat of a way out that you would never let me take.
I owe you an about face for every time I should have turned away from your fist, from your anger, from your spite…from the unhappiness you bred and took out on me when we all became exhausted from our collective karmic concussions.
We were so wrapped up in each other that we allowed ourselves to be laid to rest collectively; cramped together like sardines inside this box of blame…
Leaving only enough room for you to shake a proverbial finger at me after I flip you my middle payments-
Two for the price of one…a clearance rack sale that saves me the breath of having to speak “fuck you.”
Fuck you for every thought that you let pass through your head that said I would never amount to anything,
For every time you said you’d never help,
Two more for every time you help out your hand two inches short of helping me…so that nobody would know that you: were the bad guy.
But, what goes around, comes back around again,
And one day you’ll find that the hand you held-
Was actually holding yours.
And I’m sure you’ll find that
Will always return to give you back all the “good times” you sold your life for.
And when you’re old and lonely and more banged up than my Pa’s screen door…
You’ll know what it feels like to freeze for reparation
And starve for love,
And live, like dead.
Falling apart as you’re breaking from from the cracks inside your wrinkled script,
You’ll be a mosaic in reverse
When I water down my cut off my Scotch Tape reaches that keep your act together
And rip the audience away.
Someday you’ll know what I felt like as a child-
Living down antediluvian confusions;
Apologizing for faults that were not mine.
And even worse yet,
Someday you’ll know how incredibly deep the breathing bleeds inside your lungs,
And the insane sting of sacrificial splinters that numb your fingers
When you’re scratching against the cheap wooden casket lid,
When you’re still alive, with a heart, suffocating in a grave-
Screaming dog pound puppy hope, unable to articulate in words,
The plea I’ve plead, to resurrect me from the grave that my childhood was tied inside by the ropes of your nightmares.
Because the heart of that child has scratched through that buried box,
Apologized for crimes that someone else committed
And solicited the acceptance of so many dolled out abuses-
Just to be of use.

Raspberry Touch

I creep toward you, led by curious fingers,
Searching out smiles and raspberry touch.
My mouth envies yours,
And my lips long for a lesson.

If you have anything to offer,
Offer honesty.
If you have anything to need,
Need me.

I can only smile and watch your beauty,
Words are too cheap to describe you.
Thoughts fly through my head,
Like a freeway with no speed limit.

If you ever get cold,
Let me cover you in my warmth.
If you ever search for safety,
Let my eyes be your home.

I find beauty in your words,
No paint and canvass could compare to you
I get lost in the fantasy of a single kiss,
I am found, melted in the fever of my want.

If there is anything worth holding,
Let it be my thoughts.
If there is anything worth saving,
Let it be my passion.

Comfort are the many clouds, pretending to be animals,
Harboring your voice.
Piercing is the desire for your raspberry touch,
And painful is the beating of a sullen heart that’s always craving more…

…for we are never satisfied.

Cover Girls

Women who’ve lived unfortunate lives and hold their breaths under pumped up breasts, as they hide behind that caked on Cover Girl brick wall masks; willing to be broken by some dick more interested in anal sex than her first name…or front teeth. Faster than a jack rabbit to fuck the same mental sickness that sealed itself in a secret kiddy porn slumber party French Kiss–forced down her play dough sex.

Some uninvited lust always piggy backs these girls to third base before she’s even old enough to know what it means to be at bat. Women who hate baseball because it takes too long to pitch a fastball and also because they always get clipped by curveballs when she finally agrees to deep throat that tag-team-double-header.

They just make themselves into trading cards; defended by sickly stats; too cheap for a protective sleeve. Climbing into shoebox, after dirty shoebox…rubbing themselves raw. Chasing the most taboo acts of sexual deviance like their lost childhood innocence…simply for the comfort it brings to be held by the hands that trade her…

…myself included.

Doses of Suicide

You bury your face into my neck like the groove of my clavicle was designed for your head. Your lips travel the distance to mine and you slip me your tongue like a venomous snake bite. My lips are paralyzed, stuck to yours for a split second. Hugging to the crackle of clove cigarettes, I keep you near, liquefy my words, and breastfeed your poison back to you.

For three years I’ve swallowed down desire: your words tainted with land mines. I only write because my tongue has been tucked away in a secret spot, because I’ve tucked away the hopes of finding someone else whose kisses can wash away yours.

Don’t tell me time will work things out because I’ve sacrificed enough already. See, this love has an expiration date, and honey, its gone sour. What’s in me will make you sick to know that I can play these games too.

If you l only knew, you’d quit me; take those lips and walk away. Your land mines are just nicks from a rough shave because my three solid years of dedication have taught me to split the atom with my pen…cultivate the biowarfare within; wrap my broken heart in a poem and mail it to you in a letter like a pretty packaged bomb.

My eyes are needles under your skin, in your veins, feeding you all the heroine you never wanted to look at…much less try. Yeah, that’s heroinE, with an ‘e.’ The heroin, the heroine, the opium, blended with the HERO, in mE. Baby, I’m a drug; suicide, in doses…a mere addiction if you’re strong.

So watch out with those kisses, ’cause I know what Janis was talkin’ about when she said, “take it.” But I’m only gonna warn you once: you make think you’re stealin’ my heart ’cause “it makes you feel good,” but if you take too much…this love can kill you.

Mary’s Not A Virgin Anymore (v.1)

Keeling at the altar of shoved down regret, I light a cigarette candle of confusion for every sin I was too drunk or high to remember.

The singe of forgiveness embraces my lungs like the long awaited hug from the arms of every death I’ve managed to escape.

In this religion, Mary’s not a virgin anymore…she’s just one more youngster learning the ineffectiveness of the pull-out method, and the genius in the perfect ass-saving explanation.

Too bad it only works once though, because they say he’ll come again…and I’m sure he will; after all, they usually do.


It’s so easy to
Get lost in the
Things we choose
To let define us.
Though, rather than
Letting the divine
Value of a cause,
Concept or person
Be deciphered by
Your willingness to
DIE for them,
Try instead, measuring
Their worth by how
Willing you are to
LIVE for them…
That’s the more
Vicious dedication,
The true sacrifice.