Trodden

I pick the path of poison
The treason, the reason for applying ointments
to the backs of roiling prison inmates boiling
in shack-cages posing like pistols smoking
and runaway desires clamber to sting, annoying
Where young black males meet Robert Bales
impaled on a battlefield for the most recent meal
of skittles, bigotry, and white-flight appeal
The path of derogatory, intense auditories
bomb blasted teenage bodies rotting under
acid-wash hoodies and concealing hormone floodings
In phone-call nudgings to their loved ones coming
before the final blast, where all that's passed becomes past
and the question on everyone's mind is not why
but how, after the fact, did a monster's punishment
get redacted and how justice got lapped away
like puddles of steaming urine on a sunny day
drinking the sunshine wine, gulping down brine and all
hoping that the next call is a check up, not a massacre
in the making, hoping that divides are breaking
instead of strengthening
hoping against all odds that connections are quickening
but knowing they're weakening

the path of poison
Where what you know is the opposite
of what you're hoping

Escape from Planet Vomit Crust

Or, how I sat woozy waiting in the bathroom, thinking about thinking
Or, how I bear-hugged him in front of his friends, misidentifying a snuggie
Or, how I theorized on word connections before sleeping, nursing an injured pride
Or, how I spilled out thirty dollars worth of mahi mahi, smelling faintly of rocket fuel and nachos
Or, how I spoke too loudly, breathed too sharply, and pounded too quickly
Or, how I came to understand that people won't be there for you when you need them most
Because the times you need them most are the times they can't make a difference

It's true. It's real. I thought I'd feel (for once).

This is my thought-brain discography
The collection of images, fetishes, skittish pet narratives
that squiggle in comparison to the weak utterances I usually make
and baste, roast, twist, tumble in a cloud collection of dream recollections
Imbibe fish oil, take two more, add a side of herbs, mix
See what comes out, maybe Zain's finally fixed
Maybe I can finally itch the scratch, the ill-matched maximum
That I ascend to when my mouth gets dumb and dribbles with
intellectual pre-cum, the precursors to articulate flow and later vetoed
vote recalls, see, there's a 2000 Florida scandal in my mind every time
I feel inclined to opine or wax/whine on a topic. I go from a choco-chip sundae
of undue confidence to putting an anxiety-blast cherry on top of it
and then squander it on substances, my sense of self wanes to the corruption
When I was young, I was true, but even then I couldn't tell
What they never tell you : that introspection can be hell
A thoughtless life your purgatory, and a pure mind your paradise
You'll find your slice of peace in the pieces of your dreams that you deemed
Silly before, but lately they're all you need
Those soft bursts of flash-mob streams trickling with ease
down the TV screens of your shrieking eyelids and your
ever reddening, ever hollowing, ever unseen cheeks

It's insanity, no, not the workout DVD
or that pressing compulsion to be more skinny
Rather, it's the cycle, from Whitney to Michael
Things great people might do just to reclaim their title

Once you've been king, you're cursed, you're cross
you're crucified then tossed, impaled, burnt, then lost
You might as well be forever nobody
and dwell quietly in anonymity
Than don the gold sheen and ensure
you regret ever belching a word