The Rose That Grew From Concrete

…You wouldn’t ask why the rose that grew from the concrete had damaged petals. On the contrary, we would all celebrate its tenacity. We would all love its will to reach the sun.
Well, we are the rose – this is the concrete – and these are
my damaged petals…


Why Do I Drink?

So that I can write poetry

Sometimes when it’s all spun out

And all that is ugly recedes into a deep sleep

There is an awakening

And all that remains is true

As the body is ravaged

The spirit grows stronger

Forgive me Father

For I know what I do

I want to hear the last poem

Of the last poet

– James Douglas Morrison

I was the quietest one…

Gustav Klimt – Salome

Of all those who made voyage to your port. No lewd social ceremonies announced me, nor the deaf bells of ancestral reflections.  My route was the savage music of the birds, releasing to the air my circling generosity. No ships heavy with opulence carried me, nor oriental rugs supported my body. Over the ships my face appeared, whistling in the round simplicity of the winds. I did not weigh the harmony of trivial ambitions which your hand promised, full of star-bursts, I only weighted on the floor of my agile spirit the tragic abandon which your gesture occulted. Your perennial duty was marked by the avid thirst. You resembled the sea, resonant and discrete. Over you I went, passing my lost hours. Over me, you followed yourself, like the sun in the petals. And I walked in the breeze of your fallen pain, with the ingenious sadness knowing myself right. Your life was a profound churning of restless fountains, in an immense white river, running to the desert. One day, by the yellow shores of hysteria, many hidden faces of ambition followed you. Through the waves of your tears, uprooted through the cosmos, voices leaked without crossing your mystery. I was the quietest one. The voice with almost no echo. The conscious spread in a syllable of anguish, scattered and tender through all the silences. I was the quietest one. The one who lept from earth with no more weapon than a verse. And here, you see me, stars, scattered and tender, with his love in my breast. – Julia DeBurgos

Me and a Gun

5 a.m.
Friday morning, Thursday night
Far from sleep
I’m still up and drivin’
Can’t go home obviously

So I’ll just change direction
‘Cause they’ll soon know where I live
And I wanna live
Got a full tank and some chips

It was me and a gun and a man on my back
And I sang, “Holy holy” as he buttoned down his pants

You can laugh, it’s kinda funny
The things you think at times like these
Like I haven’t seen Barbados
So I must get out of this

Yes, I wore a slinky red thing
Does that mean I should spread
For you, your friends
Your father, Mr. Ed?

It’s me and a gun and a man on my back
But I haven’t seen Barbados so I must get out of this

I know what this means
Me and Jesus a few years back
Used to hang
And he said, “It’s your choice, babe
Just remember”

I don’t think, you’ll be back
In 3 days time so you choose well
Tell me what’s right
Is it my right to be on my stomach
Of Fred’s Seville

It’s me and a gun and a man on my back
But I haven’t seen Barbados so I must get out of this

And do you know Carolina
Where the biscuits are soft and sweet?
These things that go through your head
When there’s a man on your back
And you’re pushed flat on your stomach
It’s not a classic Cadillac

It’s me and a gun and a man on my back
But I haven’t seen Barbados so I must get out of this
I haven’t seen Barbados so I must get out of this