cans of whoop ass

Its like having a thought
but no paper to write it on
Found the paper but now
Now having an old pen
And no ink to write it with
Like having the words
With no one to say them to
Having to much red to make purple
And running out of blue.

The blues come quickly just like anger.
The stay and they're sticky like an unwanted stranger.
Hanging from the bill of you hat
Coating the lens of your glasses
On a Welcome Home mat
And pulled but a high plane as it passes.

5 year old assaulted by the cement mixture that roams the streets.

Your like a toupe on a five year olds head, bothered by the, light wind, caused by the pre-meditated muderous moter, making a circular blur of shoes with not one velcro strap, but two.
Gaining speed, your like the toupe. In the wind. but on board.
Why are you going so fast. I yelled in his direction. then i whispered your head needs protection. i mean heart. correction.
Pushing the peddles faster and faster, with every arrow, green. now your floating in the air with leaves, yellow orange brown red, no green. and on this "black-then red-then black" brick wall acoss the street, i noticed fresh blood, but only in the flickering red lights beaming from his feet.
From these metal-murdering halfway ten year olds superman shoes. stuck on the bottom, gum from his friend pete.
The toupe, a witness to such a crime. already... back in time.
Much more than the gory death of brick wall. whose future only holds, bacterial molds.
Sueing this now, mute, little boy on death row sitting as a cerial cement killer while condemned a criminal.
The little boy, charges not dropped and sitting in exile forgives the toupe. this is not subliminal.

Young, the Humans die. Wake up, child, do more than just cry.

You might be the menacing toddler

asleep and abandoned

dreaming of saddles on snails and frogs with tails

dressed as junkyard dogs with painted nails

Laying on your side inside a broken down three wheeled shopping cart at Costco.

Surrounded by hot dog buns and wholesale humans. And a blue cast on a broken bone.

Cashiers counting ones and fathers with little funds. So many bodies. But asleep, and oh, so alone.

Beneath those eyelids, a vision, so vivid and complex.

Yet veiwed so simply, inevitably misunderstood.

So guilty of such innocence.

A lot like this child. We are all too young, too young to ever understand God.

Our beginning was not in our in our control, infants are undecided and odd.
In every womb, a gift from God.
A gift, unable to choose when the nourishment cord cut.
A woman, a lifegiver, a covenant, a mother.
Not a slut.

While our inevitable end on the other hand.
Is hiding in the shadows of an old ashtray or tangled in between our sheets, beige and bland.
Like death itself playing a game of "peek-a-boo" in a themepark custodians closet.
Only with far more serious consequences. Far away undertrees behind fences.
When playing backyard freezetag with lions, prayer is the first thing on my mind.
My future shows its end to be nothing less than excrutiating but nothing more than forever.

So remember,
Kiss your mothers cheek and tell her you love her before you walk out that door so abruptly,
like the last time you'll be seen alive is by the peep hole on that door you slammed in such a hurry.

Whether on the winning or losing team.
The game of life ends far too soon.
And we all die young.

So now to you, young child, so lost in slumber.
Awake. Whipe the orange dusty flakes from the curtains of your new eyes.
Sometimes you'll win against the stakes. But lose when time flies.
So rise.
And get up out of your cart-like, corperate cage, throw a fit of rage, while all of us just blame it on your age.

With such a pure heart, reasoning not to understand.
How the fuck a person's life can be judged, cut, labeled then canned.
No go ahead and push this unbalanced vessel through the crowded check-out lines.
Seems your still dreaming, face beaming, commiting every crime without fines.
Why! it sounds like music, the carts back corner scraping, raping all the floors.
As weak and unable to lift it up, as the selfish are to hold open doors.

Busting through the lines and stuffing everyone into brown paper bags, not plastic,because people aren't transparent.
And into cardboard boxes with no tags, goes a teacher, preacher, and parent.

Off into the violence and into the ocean riot
Obtaining silence with all horns blowing QUIET.

Towards these waves that make cliffs. Wind starts to rise but it's still hard to lift.
Blue cast on arm, but feels better then before. The child see's God, but they see the shore.
God surely made these waves. And wonders how brutal to drown,
cause people watch but no one saves. they just cheer them all down.
Into this beautiful ocean of water causing turmoil
Where you can't buy love in gallons, cause we don't run on oil.
Towards a point where constant waves crash,
breaking a million sea shells of memories a prostitute can never sell for cash.
Back wheel still missing, the cart's grinding corner now dull.
No one in its listening, all hearts, except the childs are only half way full.

Now, with waves mimmicking, not mocking, the childs care-free laughter
We push on, no more talking.
It's silence hes after.