graffiti gandalf and god

29.1, round three, for the win.

I love this and I killed with it. That's it.

I. love. graffiti. whether it's on walls or towers,
trucks buildings bus stops it's got this power

of someone who can't take it who makes their mark
in deviant art with primal and pain and heart

certain slices of society split hairs and call fair foul
since it's not theirs and they don't know enough to care

but I see it – history is a weapon so read it, arm yourself
push your mind past the definitions divined by wealth

when somehow a woman or man with spray can
is given the handle vandal, but the banner spangled
protects ads and jangles of
“you're ugly, you're fat – that is why you should buy, buy, buy”and there's no scandal

how sad we call it free speech

look underneath what happens when someone starts clapping or tapping chisel into stone or slapping paint onto canvas – the act of creation spans this and pulls us together

so I put words down and aim them at forever

as a kid, you see I found this light inside of me, and decided to scratch at it assiduously

I found it out it was the bright shine of creativity shimmering in harmonious symmetry that I see when I pursue the activities I pursue in eccentricity, scribbling the songs thoughts sing to me so I can link to the connectivity running indivisibly like white-hot electricity through all of you, and me

this light shone bright through my chest, in cold defiance of the unknown of death – like a bellyful of beautiful

this light was all mine to have, and I could shine and plant diamonds deep in the grit and the grime that compose what we suppose is reality

I don't know what the meaning of life is, or what happens in the chapter after

but all you can do is choose what to do with the time given you, and I feel a duty to spread the beautiful, to grace to this life with time spent thinking of ways to say thank you
- so let's let our lights out to plant diamonds and pearls in the world

physics insists that we are twisted quantum strings forming things that think they're things, bringing us things to think life has no meaning – so?
all you can do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you – so no matter what else is true about you, don't you want to be glad you knew you?

don't you still want to make it more beautiful?

I say, whatever comes next, why bother caring about red herrings and our fathers to stay blessed

because surely you can agree with the idea that beauty si quite simply good, and even when misunderstood is an aim to be pursed at all times as the quest for sublime

that light that shines inside you and I is beautiful

we've got a duty to spread it, like love

if I apply for a job
and it matters not who I am or am not
but only who I am friends with
then that boss is probably an asshole

on a day that may come when one judges the living and the dead, if it matters not what I did but that I picked the right judge then I don't want to be right

I know what to do with the time given to...me

say thank you to life for this breath
let my light shine from the hole in my chest
love is what we need and beauty brings us together
so I put words down – and I aim them at forever

creativity's electricity manifests in me lyrically – I love graffiti because it means someone else gave their beauty wings

disney revolutions

started writing it at home last week, using necrophilia and a night at a hookah bar. did it round 2 last night, and got a 26.1 with a 1 point time penalty.

I get to thinking on things when I'm cruising on my bike
potentially thinking exponentially cuz I am riding like a kite
do you ever wonder why the movies
we show our kids fresh off their Similac
have so many men who just so happen
to be calmly yet passionately necrophiliac?
You'll never guess what happened today, dear diary
I'm out kissing dead girls, one sits up and smiles at me!
She's all “hey there handsome, my name's Snow White
- and I say we get married, it just feels so right
me? my luck is tight, and so is my man Charming's
last we week he went and tied the ball and chain
with that smoking undead Sleeping beauty dame
of course, my corpse-humping self said yes
it's a shame White has breath in her breasts
but I just jumped from perverted peasant to kinky king
forget the royal ring, those chilly catacombs
got so many places for my ding-a-ling!
What? Disney, come on, think about what you're portraying
there are so many things you could but you're just not saying
I'm cruising kite on my bike and maybe I'm thinking exponentially
but I'm thinking about things that are strange or changed, like
stockades - I did not know why they were a big deal
in Beauty and the Beast, Belle's father gets wheeled in
locked head and hand in the stocks right in the town square
people all around throw lettuce and tomatoes I'm thinking that's not fair
this is me in 2nd grade, so fat 4th graders hit me with my own tits
fruit and vegetables do not seem that bad by comparison
until I read about the real problem – people are rotten
if you do not have friends to watch your bottom all night
then you might end up the town bicycle
the image of Belle's father, moustache whiskers quivering
while Gaston and his merry men all ride him like a river
I can see why Disney shied away from historical accuracy
but if we're gonna get outside the box factually
then let's rock some serious revisions
get a little more optimistic with our Jiminy Cricket dreams
you notice a few things not right when you're riding your bike
whether or not your thinking is shot cause you're cruising kite
when you get low enough to see what the sidewalk cracks show
you can look inside and find the saddest crimes of our times
where the people that mind don't matter, those that matter don't mind
and everyone watching Disney sees fit to ignore it just fine
I'm ready for Pocahontas, part three – the end of the trilogy
where dreams might finally come true, where me and you are sick
of seeing the sap at the bus stop with shoulders slumped since
the shadow of the shelter is not high enough for him to stand tall
not when the sun beats 110 degrees, please, that's a well-paid week
not when this is the probable peak of his broken-hearted journey
we know exactly where it started, where it starts, and starts, and starts
I find it less obscene that Smith was thirty and Pocahontas thirteen
than I do the glossy sheen we drew over their honeymoon
where the Navi swung like elegant, blue, strange fruit
Jake Sully may have killed the colonel but a country of colonists
kicked ass, erased names and left remains rotting in piles
while the credits roll up and we roll out to skip on the bill
of the scalps we swung from Florida to Oklahoma and all points west
their tears run a river to waterfall on deaf ears, because the best
freedom we bequeath them is the choice of huffing or meth
we have a special place reserved, just for them, and when
they try to leave we know just where to lay out the
welcome to the table, dinner is at the seventh street soup kitchen
with cheerfully blunt concrete walls which callously call out
“Bienvenidos a Phoenix!” if you slow down to read them
history is not in books not when we took it and cooked it up all shitty
so colonists with cars could skip nimbly over the static in a city
riding a bike at night shows you the grit in the cracks we swept them into
if we're going to use history to come up with Disney movies
let's make a tape where dreams really do come true

Independence

This is a poem from one of my students from last year, who just popped by to show me.

Humans aren't meant to die
Science can't understand our complex designs
They say we come from monkeys
Now who is believing in fairy tales
We are made of dust
That's why when we burn we turn to ashes
Our treacherous hearts weren't made to stop beating
Our lungs shouldn't take their last breath
The thought of living forever claims our mind
And our souls knows the truth