he-art

i want to find the wholeness in the hole
mend my heart’s deferred agility
breathe muscle and mass into it
till it beats on beat with my sensibility

lately it has been sounding flat-lines
dimming my sunshine
shamelessly stuttering my moon’s lullaby
therefore rendering it b-9
before belittling bystanders constantly vexed
who wouldn’t know he-art if it stopped
dead cold in their chests
so i’m looking to attest the tests,
arrest their underdevelopment
circumspect the madness
breathing fire through my pen’s sadness

i’m reaching back beyond myself
to begin again
be my own best friend
own heart physician
witchdoctor and prayer-circle
own emotional technician

i got red dirt clay fingers
writing words to spool thread
through heads stupidly sucking on next blood
from the living dead

but enough of butter cuts
from punk ass fools
who talk loud but never lodge
in live inside the POZ
and they won’t win a war with God

still there is nothing more horrific
than to not feel feeling
not dance when house music
has always been your healing
starve yourself of metaphors
when poetry has been your salvation
walk among rebelutionaries
who think their anger builds a nation

there were no boxing gloves
soft enough for my hardened black fists
so i dismiss the faggot diss
to bring real realness with a twist
and dare revolutionaries to dream bullets
braver than my words
come harder than the cross i bear
crucifix for a thug turned nerd

the new gunshots i pop
not jellycaps for bloods that bugg
but words i hope will heal my heart
rewrite myself as love