voice of the voiceless

read the story of his life

new respect rising from these words

intrigued to know more about

the voice of the voiceless

sat down nine o’clock

opened On A Move

didn’t close it until I finished it

unbelievable that someone

could do so much good

with his journalism

to expose corruption

and help victimized people

could be shot framed and convicted

of murder and now awaits death

a story of a target to be silenced

not a cop killer truth be told

truly the voice of the voiceless

look it up and read it up

free Mumia and free The Truth…

sticky afternoon

beginning to break a sweat standing

still no breeze

chill comes one day then humidity the next

two minutes feel like hours

could be days before

he is allowed back into the population

finally the electricity is back

and the ceiling fan spins on high

takes the edge off the stagnating air

this sticky afternoon...

sugar high

green bottle afternoon sugar high

above the busy street

and car alarms blare

making sure no one is sleeping

this afternoon the sun plays chase

around and through the clouds

here one second gone the next

time you hear the sound of the wind

pause and see into your thoughts

green bottle and a little smoke

turn the afternoon perfect

as the sun shines down like the first time

this year has much to offer

but what do I do but waste on the porch

looking down who's got anything to say

everyone in their little circles waving back and forth

trying to catch a glimpse of when the sun shines down

into their lives for a change of scenery

do they even know what they want

green bottle and a phone call to make...

way out there

it can be hard to understand

the other side might be right

away he is wrong

move from the edge

in a voice too scrambled

to hear or there might be

another side as well

with someone who is right

in front of everyone who will look

into an eye opened at all times

are going to change if it’s allowed

enough for all to hear

and now slightly proud

what’s been put in print

words no longer remain

only in the brain sealed

the mind might change

if given the chance

to sit in the sun

burning through the morning clouds

they don’t stand a chance

when it comes to what

is said and heard repeatedly

making stories out of thoughts

and things might make you want to freeze

actions until further notice

every bud in the trees that hang

from overhead to over heard

like the songs that the birds sing

from way out there…

reached deep

reached down deep

blue above wind all around

as if in water

still dying of thirst in the mind

headstand just to straighten

things out number nothing

getting them here remains the only

problem unsolved like a mystery

amusing on lookers like a traffic accident

without purpose writing with what comes out

pay no attention to how

and don’t ask why it won’t make sense

still common enough

to make one read no audience can hear

where he sits only cats and birds

can comment with song

that’s if they can read over his shoulder

it’s quiet out in the sun no relief

cool breeze blowing smoke back in his face

the other direction is slow

and his fingers can’t stand the cold

air in April an oxymoron

like living the weather in New England…

died in San Pedro

all the words get lost

when snow returns to April

showers too cold for most to handle

his head could nearly explode

with information how many million

situations seated squarely

across the table set for one

might show him he is not always wrong

way down the one way street

he knows too well been stuck in the headlights

he hasn't moved an inch

someone will turn him the right way eventually

going back to where it might all make sense

probably not as he rethinks his path

stopping as his lights dim

in the presence of another

sometimes it is not supposed to matter

it it makes sense

it's just life and people just don't seem

to care about the words

scattered dying in the streets of San Pedro

rebirth in the east at nineteen

unknowingly choosing the pen

and smoke over bat and ball

how many are really disappointed

possess the painting

sitting on the floor once again

no eye contact

what could the thoughts

be after all this time

only visiting a painting

place once called home

maybe not long at all

or long enough

he knows the song

well enough by now

everyone else is going

here and there

and he remains stationary

still sharing a laugh

from time to time

is it the goal to possess the painting

he doesn’t feel the same

about the sculpture he sees

can’t get eye contact and

no one allows him closer

than arm’s length…

two different faces

how does it make sense

when you step back

out of you for a second

see him and don’t ignore the thought

rapid return and two stories unfold

one on the same side of the table

once heard saying he was

favorite writer or something

yet never a free moment for the friend

he is not trying to accomplish anything

and probably doing a good job at that

seen both of the faces

not even sure if it is known…

should have known

417/2001 420pm


he's right in thinking

it's amazing he is still here

the wind blows

from all directions

seeming to point to the end

of his pen forgetting he could never

take on responsibility

within a structure

that has so many cracks

and loopholes to get lost in

the shuffle of qualified persons

forgetting he could never

be taken serious

on any level the playing

field any questions to those

who really give a shit how many dollars

the store can make

it's as if he

might never make it

in the cruel business

world with nothing

to lose he closes his eyes

to the future dreams

within the dirty walls

thought to be thick

with everyday people

doing everyday things

and this should be enough

should have known...

more than he thought

it’s late and he’s not really here

he musters some energy

makes a call

he says hello

the reply says everything

he feels it might be

excitement he hears

so far away

possibly dreaming

back to when everyone

right around the corner

now everyone is gone

the shadows trick his mind

into thinking it’s not too late

he is more awake than he thought…

on the death of your father

remembering what
was it
made me think of you
might lose a step or two
much on shoulders
give me some
times the strong must be weak
to be strong too long
time since you rested
your head in the bed
it must seem surreal
life stretched out
like a puzzle
enough missing pieces
the full picture is hardly ever seen
thoughts resemble
dreams resemble
memories and tears
might flow for no reason
or they will get stuck
behind eyes caught in a stare
climb to the top step
bring it all close and let it go
every time you think you might burst
from the inside filled with sadness now
remembering what was it you said to me
when feeling lower than ever thought possible
don't despair hold head high in the air
too many around can't ask what is fair
nothing is
imperfection stumbling and getting right back up
even when you are down
not out in the cold alone
never alone always in our hearts
connected endlessly...