Unsmoked Meat.

How many times can I fall 
for a different version of the
same mistake? 
I trip & I tumble,
then I stumble, 
my self-worth away.
What can I do to feel brand new,
revive the smile on my face?
I've been broken down before,
but this can't endure another day.
I'm free-falling, and failing to be free.
I am living life inside a bubble,
and I'm in trouble, but I stay humble,
to save myself from the insane.
See, I've been down some streets 
that seek to steal the shine right
from these big-sad brown eyes;
conquered all my monsters,
defeated demons, and danced 
with dragons, darling—
I've dared the darkness to be brave. 
Cracked, and I crawled, in combat,
collected every single crown, 
to claim the war in my own name.
Correct if you think I commanded
mountains, oceans, seas, and lakes.
I caught the criminals before their crime,
ambushed the armies at their gates.
Yet still, somehow, I seem to stack 
my odds against the victory, the 
sweetness of success.
Slipping away, I stumble, 
singing sirens to their deaths;
so stubbornly, I sacrifice my 
own need for luxury,
to secure a stranger's desire
to dress to impress.
Each opportunity to raise my spirits,
seems to be a chance I take to rise,
to raise the securities of someone else.
A sequence of silly me, the saint who 
stains his own soul for the salvation of 
society.
I am not their goal, 
their toll is not with me.
Unable to make them whole, 
I am not any more or less unholy. 
So although this is a series of
the same old same, stuck in a loop 
that's on repeat, it seems to self-identify 
in different ways, 
it's appearance may change 
but it plays an old familiar. ancient game.  
Unless I learn the lesson, 
there will never be a new subject, 
sentenced to suffer stuck, like supper,
in some spider's web. 
Smoking I smoke and I
I'm smoking I smoke and 
I'm smoking I smoke 
I'm smoking to stay sane.
Puff and I puff and I'm 
puffing I puff I'm puffing
I'll huff and I'll puff and 
I'll blow the house away.
Foggy, 
it's dark
and it's gloomy, 
this haze that is looming 
leads to another cloudy day.
I weave, 
and
I wave, and 
I rant 
and I rave, 
I'm riding out 
this wave.
Slipping, 
I slide, 
I trip, 
I fall 
into the hungry mouth 
of an open grave.
And if I recall correctly, 
I crawled directly 
into this cave.
I used to have it all, 
the money, cash, and coins t
that I could crave.
But that was before I learned 
to burn, to bend, to break 
in order to be brave.

Jetsetta.

You can catch me on a jet.
First class, 
flyin Emirates,
VIP,
nothin less, 
blazing trails, 
makin moves, 
settin sail,
feelin cute, 
private booth.
'Cos you can call me the don,
di me "el diablo"
Corleone; godfather,
but Italiano mi no hablo.
What’s a capo to a paco?
A cannoli to a taco.
Locos vato, roboto,
so domo arigato.
I'm the Moses, to ya Musa
Billie the Kidd on appaloosa,
not a snake like you, medusa.
"Muey piquante, like papusas!"
Send you postcards in the mail,
souvenirs from every destination,
sun-kissed locations, and hot spots 
That got names with different 
pronunciations.
I'm Carmen Sandiego, mannnnn—
they be like, "Where in the world is he?"
Catch me if you can, 
like Taz, i got you feelin' dizzy.
Better move fast,
you know I gotta do this quickly,
before I  blast off:
blink and you might miss me.
So, bon voyage, bitch,
I take off and text you flying kisses.

Panoramic.

Window shopping often combined
patience, and flipping price tags to find
out what cost too much, or not enough.

And the identifiers on cleaning products
had saved my life on more than one innatentive moment. 

Without nutrition guides to remind me
that my thighs are getting wide behind me,
I'd have ballooned at least a decade ago,
since sugar and I were quite the delicious duo.

But a label that has always irked me,
as though it were meant to hurt me,
was the one that could prevent me,
from potentially meeting a kindred spirit,
simply because they did not fit within the margins of my sexuality.

Never one for restrictions, do not prohibit me unless you'll suffer my performance, labels are for soupcans, so why do I need to be butter basic boring?

Taught to love and see beauty in all of the human race, it seemed much simpler to satisfy my carnal desires with men, than to appropriately court our counterparts for a coveted first date.

So, it stayed this way for quite some time,
as I thought I'd silently assumed a side,
until I realized energy, and chemistry meant more to me than body parts outside.

This internal identity crisis induced panic subsided once I embraced the panoramic; why limit myself to appease the rest, when I could be inclusive of every gem that made me sparkle best?

Fuego Was Her Name.

Fluidity, that laps away at
favourite finds; a predatory,
poisoned ivy vine, that spreads
like somber hues, and sorry news,
a secret song of sadness,
that snags on softer fabric,
catching it inside its icy-grip,
that tears and rips, like turpentine.

Anger like this, is guillotine,
that races wildly to cause a scene,
enraged by novelty, an offence
much worse than commodity.
And as it melts, to ooze out
from the room, just to retreat.
It swallows the signs, and
all the lights that line the city
streets.

I swear it gets so vibrant bright
and blinding white that you
would think the world had
self-combusted, caught on fire,
taken up pyromania-inspired
admiration.

Scarlet reds then black again,
orange-dead, like ashen dread,
burnt orange, just like the sky
during an atomic bomb,
yellows so bright and stark,
it starts to spark, then white again,
like roasted dust from cigarette butts,
and all the ash is all that remains,
of stories told, and memories of
all the nights we'd ignite, under
the lights that line the city streets.