Posts Tagged ‘PhotoPoem’

Last night I went out to see Infected Mushroom and Savant, it was my first time seeing either and the first I had heard Savant (who was amazing). It inspired this poem, I may still add more I may leave it here. I want to do some readings on it before deciding, but I am definitely bothered by one stanza ‘missing a line,’ but not sure what I want to add/subtract. Time till tell.

The Man Burns (2013)

The Man Burns (2013)


In that silence you can hear a pin drop,

Like the bass dropped only moments before.

Body still thumping pulsing to ghostsounds,

That drown out the reality that surrounds.


Body becomes subwoofer, reacting to bass and sub-bass,

That falls loud enough to drown out the treble and mid-bass.

The bass that falls like a thunderclap, manna from Heaven.

The bass that plays now only for me, a mental music box.


And now, in that eternal silence… lifetimes, eons, fit into seconds.

Like a furry coat fits into a handbag on your way home,

Too overheated still to wear despite the winter’s cold chill.


All around, the silence dwells, a veil covering mouth, muted speak no evil,

Stuck on introspection, pausing for self reflection in these quiet moments.

The joint sits burning in his hand, my hand, her hand, our hands.

It burns but doesn’t go out, like the sound resounding in my head.


What I wouldn’t do for a beat that grabs my heart by the strings,

Forcing me to dance like a marionette, DJ as puppetmaster.

What I wouldn’t give for a beat that massages my neo-cortex,

Producing vortex of thought, paroxysm of emotion.


And in that silence, I see the joint drop,

Like the pin I heard a moment before,

Reminiscent of the bass, but a memory

Embers on the floor.



I Am My Threadbare Suit

From far away when people see me,

They see a white man in a suit.

They see my brown hair, freckles,

And the bags under my brown eyes.


They don’t see my Portuguese ancestry.

Immigrants like everyone else,

Who came here seeking a better life,

And got it through blood and sweat.


They don’t see the esteemed privilege,

Of growing up white in the suburbs.

Being gaybashed in middle school,

To the point where you leave school.


They don’t see that my three piece suit,

Which looks flawless from a far,

Is threadbare, breaking down, and worn out,

Held together by string and staples, love and hope.


They don’t see that my eyes used to change colors.

Long ago, with my mood, when I was something

Other than somber, melancholy, beaten down.


While they may see my eyes, burning intense eyes,

And they may see the bags, signs of a soul spread thin,

They do not see what wearies me, they do not see what ignites me.


If they came close enough to talk to me,

They would learn that I am no different from they.

I am flesh and blood, skin and bone,

I am a human being with feelings and passions.


They would learn that my passions are inflamed by injustice.

By the belief that a person being in a suit makes them better.

By the existence of my privilege, and inability to wash clean.


They would feel my exhaustion, radiating a latent dis-ease.

Exhausted from working, fighting, fucking, and friending,

From stressing to depressing, and a generalized lack of release,

From saving, from spending, of the cycle never ending.


Exhausted from planning and priming, and having to make poetry rhyming

From heartbreak and back ache, the labors of love and capital.

From subprime lending and rich rule bending, and all that corporate bling

From people living asleep, walking through the charnel house as cattle.


From far away when people see me,

They see a white man in a suit.

They see my brown hair, freckles,

And the bags under my brown eyes.


They don’t see that the man is the three piece suit,

Which looks flawless from a far, but is threadbare

Broken down, worn out, held together by love and hope.

Love for all beings, and hopeful for our future


They don’t see that my eyes yearn to change again.

On the horizon, seeing something other than oppression,

In my body, feeling something other than depression.


While they may see my eyes, inflamed by injustice,

And they see the bags, the signs of an endless struggle,

They do not struggle with me, they are merely coal.