raw happiness

god damn,
I love sushi.
every roll has layers of delicious
salmon, tuna, yellowtail, sushi never fails
raw happiness prevails when a piece enters my mouth and melts in a moment of zen
sushi is the cure to distress,
it is blessed by samurai ninjas in heaven
a perfect fit
god damn, I am fiending for a hit of that seaweed covered, mouth-watering goodness right about now,
right about every moment of every day
I go out of my way to maintain a stable sushi intake
miso happy when the plate arrives, the waitress smiles and sets it in front of my lustful eyes
chopsticks in hand, I devise a plan:
Alaska followed by rainbow followed by ginger drenched in soy
pure
joy
next up spicy tuna and spicy salmon,
a dip in soy sauce, followed by yellowtail and scallion
then wasabi loaded, sashimi re-folded
I'm getting full, can my stomach hold it?
Yes it can!
with honor at stake, I empty my plate and take a break.

god damn,
that was good.

the perfect meal,
every roll has a unique feel
in the hierarchy of food, sushi sits on top
I can't stop
addicted
sushi leaves my personal finances conflicted
like a sumo wrestler on a diet, I need more
I need an upgrade from a sushi boat to a sushi skyscraper,
in reality and on paper, sushi is supreme
in my stomach, a dream come true
god dammit it sushi, I'm just gonna come out and say it
I love you.

smile

the flood is coming
hands together, pray
the world will close
and it will take you
and me too
to another place, dark
and quiet
so pray
it will happen anyway but pray
the flood will come
today
or tomorrow
and you will be dead
and i will be too
you, with a smile
and i too, with a smile
the flood will come
and we will be two smiling fools,
under the waves.

tread marks and dead rabbits

I pop my ride into first gear
and peel out into the woods,
raising dust into the air
the rabbits have no chance
not fast enough, dead rabbits lie in my tracks
I leave tread marks on obscure paths
a buffet for animals who normally hunt these rabbits
today, the work has been done for them
by my 4-wheel drive machine
with enough horsepower to equip an entire Roman Army
and of course luxury leather
damn that shit is comfortable
to sit on and ride through the woods on
and leave dead rabbits in my tread marks on
while listening to Rage Against The Machine on.

hope, eventually

tick tock
the bombs drop
blood spills, oil fills
wells and pipes
women cry
men scream
children dream
tick tock
round the clock
guns and bombs
empty palms
end in sight
nowhere near
in the streets
death and fear
tick tock
Middle East
freedom fighter
terrorist
CNN
al-Jazeera
criminal, or people’s hero?
all day, every day
war that never goes away

tick tock
losing hope
tick tock
growing dope
tick tock
Uncle Sam and Taliban
leaving bodies in the sand
all year, every year
on the ground and in the air
in the cities, on the streets
hardly any food to eat
peace outside
fantasy
peace someday
or anarchy?
people pray and people hope
but their hopes
hang from a rope
minutes hours days and weeks
tick tock into centuries
my one hope is to be wrong,
to see hope grow wide and strong
only then can this war end
only then can these scars mend
until then, the hope for peace
hides within deep enemies
they are one day bound to see
hope ends wars, eventually.

[photo lifted from scrapetv.com]

Layers Part 2 (Grand Canyon)

Somewhere in the distance, the spirit of a Navajo chief sings a war cry.
His face shows self-assurance and strength
"We will defeat these poisonous visitors" he says to his flock
But in his heart, there are layers of questions and doubt
"I love you with all my heart and I will die for you and our land" he says to his wife on the night prior to his last battle.
He never says good-bye, but she understands.
Somewhere, between the layers of the Grand Canyon, his spirit watches the river stream carve deeper into the Earth, and smiles.
"They could take my life and extinguish my people" he whispers into my ear, "But they could never take me from my land."

Layers Part 1 (Jerusalem)

beneath shawarma stands with armies of people lined up for a taste, there are streets replaced by new civilizations
the romans had it all until they got swarmed and saw their churches reformed into mosques
after dark, ghosts rise from between the layers of Jerusalem, which one by one reveal traces of ancient places
bricks remain from walls while the temples they were built to protect are long gone,
conquered and rebuilt into the image of the new king
whether it's caesar or skeikh, they all wanted a piece of this place.
so they came and went
leaving eternal footprints in the sand to remind us they were here
between the layers of Jerusalem
they were here then like we are here now,
and one thousand years from now others will come here to see the layers we built
and the ancient graffiti we left in the old city of Jerusalem.

barcelona love

substance cannot be measured by size.
the narrow streets of barcelona have more substance than vast boulevards and avenues
this land is españa and catalán fused, beautiful and majestic,
everywhere markets thrive in alleys and local kids play futbol under clothes hanging from little balconies
the warmth makes me forget VISA's currency conversion fees
barcelona
I love it here.
substance cannot be measured by size.
the red bricks of barcelona's triumphant arc juxtaposed against palm trees and parks make my eyes marvel,
but not at first glance
this Arc de Triomf has substance beyond grandeur
its simple red stones are manipulated to create subtle beauty – one that Napoleon would have turned his back to and rightly so, because substance cannot be measured by size.
barcelona may not be a small city, but its magnificence lies in the little details like street performers on the side steps of an ancient cathedral dating back to roman rule, playing Portuguese tunes on classical guitar,
stroking the violin, and singing…
singing in a way that permeates my mind
completely
every note contains more substance than 20 faceless jersey streets,
the singer like the city is tapping along to an invisible beat,
and I can't help but feel that barcelona was my home in a previous existence…
it may be just an infatuation,
but something simply stands out about this city
perhaps it's the fact that antonio gaudí loved barcelona so much that he spent his life making it more beautiful and more vibrant than he found it
or maybe the phantom footsteps of young pablo picasso café-hopping between exhibitions of his first art
or maybe it is something else
like, perhaps I am just another silly tourist from the United States of Architectural Banality,
and this change of scenery blinds me to barcelona's dark side.
maybe, but I doubt it.

amsterdam

this poem began in Amsterdam, land of canals and green plants
where men like animals attack psychoactive chemicals
and space flavored cakes make AM waking up easier said than done
in Amsterdam, I feel the presence of Rembrandt and Van Gogh
as I digest pizza dough that made my personal dough deposits decrease by several euros.
there are dildos everywhere I look
even little children seem to have them in illustrated books
it looks like the Dutch alphabet is:
D for Dildo
I for the second letter in Dildo
L for the third letter in Dildo
so on and so forth.
this poem began in my hand while the other held a piece of cheese, delicious
my eyes feasted from watching an armada of rental bicycles outnumber cars five to one,
under the red sun where to my right dimmed windows supply local sights of all sizes and colors
around the bend, a medieval church stands high with red fluorescent lights reflected in its windows,
I try to think but vowels are missing from my memory,
instead I see graffiti-covered walls and train tunnels that blend orange spirit with coffeeshops spinning
caramel cannibus
Amsterdam's rasta presence is felt like red light windows by fiends strolling the narrows,
liters of beer are poured and then barrels,
invisible etiquette melts multiple brick bike paths where it looks like time took a hit and allowed itself to pass slower,
like a jagged Jamaican flower re-rolled with more skins than invisible jets in the sky
i attempt to fly and escape this plain state of mind
but instead,
this poem ends where it began and I drift toward another cafe, if only to feign interest in the food menu.

paris

paris
is known as the city of romantic elements and a historic presence of royal essence,
a city blessed by saints with stained window palaces dotting the map like arabic alphabet characters,
where my stress is sacked like last morning's baguette
and the tourists we met are are fed the same diet…. of seasoned snail
paris
is faster than email and slower than homeless criminals posting bail
I can sense art around me without fail
it breathes out classical brush strokes,
ceasar would be proud,
if he walked around these narrow streets.
alive
with countless moving feet
alive
every roof with a chimney
alive
draws out warmth from within me
alive
street performers and directionaless roamers pulsate like a cardiac rhythm while
fashion creates trends like making striped sailor shirts blend into the background
alive
cafés face the street and people sit, talk, breathe, and live in
paris.