Showing posts from July 18, 2010

Divided by the Cost (slam)

Anytime I say the word “laughter” I want you to laugh out loud, okay? “Laughter”…

4,731 U.S. and Coalition forces killed in Iraq divided by the cost of the occupation to date, equals 200 hundred and 78 million, 500 and 99 thousand, 800 and 82 dollars per death! Add in the number of Iraqi civilian casualties and the number of Iraqi Police killed and the individual net worth is around 1,284 dollars! By the time we leave here tonight, the net worth of every single human being killed in the Occupation of Iraq will be worth less than… 0 (zero)-

1, 2, 3, yellow pine, aroma aloft, the stench of a war crime I’d watched. 5, 6, 7, these three boxes suffered the horror of a million gutless tongues, the marching numbers are a mausoleum of shattered year. 11, 12, 13, they track existence down and crush it where it stands and they wait and wait and rapidly they spring- 16, opening fire, winding the clock of flesh with invariable death, and the laughter? Well it calls out for another set, so politic…

Rush Hour Traffic

It was after noon, because we’d just had lunch. She asked me to walk her home, but I had to get back to work. She was a dear friend of mine. Other than that, all I can tell you is that it was bright that day, not a cloud in the sky. I can’t tell you more than that because that’s all I know.

She could’ve told you the weight of his fist on her mouth or how his anger leapt out and the impression it made on her soul, but I can’t tell you that, because I don’t know. She could’ve told you that after a week or so her broken skin would creep back over the abrasions and only the gaping holes in the walls would attest to his maddened decorations and she could’ve told you how her heart would become a hungry child when his rage fed upon her fear. She could’ve told you, in her own way, that she knew, that she pleaded, that she prayed that his crimson rage and fist-fallen fury would grow weary and just walk away. Or how when he wasn’t even there that his hands still scratched at her breasts and th…

End of Hunger Love Song (slam)

A boy I knew when I was a kid was so skinny we called him “handrail”.

His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and no one ever saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays with his flop-over and his raw potato in an oily paper sack
where he’d savor every little bite as if the executioner waited with his ax.

I want to write an end of hunger love song where all the high note’s are composed of delicious meats to coat the hungry dreams and low notes are made of half eaten happy-meals, but not emptiness, and with endless verses carved from full tummies of sleep!

I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shattering truth down like dried bones and clinched fist, a silent breaking, minds masked in private pain, man’s own howling and craving and loss, his bane. So please take note of the end of hunger love song and elevate it’s joy to an immeasurable tallness, lift starvation beyond the tapering gaze, our bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle with.

In the e…