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Let's learn English
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
My teacher good.
He come from America.
He likes me lots and I think he good teacher.
He plays music for class and comfy chairs are.
Let us rest sometimes and waits when we are ready for learning.
He's good and nice teacher.
He let me come to him home and we talked English and we played games.
It was fun.

Desert/Dessert (Memory Poem)

Flat barren desolation before me,
Alone at last at the location of droughts and snake bites.
Take in the serenity.
Cherish it.
Love it.
Very good, until I catch the loneliness bug and start a conversation with a cactus
Or a chuckwalla lizard.
That's the sign of un-sanity and dehydration.
Didn't you bring the water? 
Damn!  Wrong spelling.
I guess just keep moving till you collapse and die.
I'm sure your body will be taken care of properly
And with respect for the dead.
Most people fear those incorrectly buried-
That's how ghosts and ghouls are born.

The World of Men never seem to learn fully-like myself-
Since many mistakes are constantly redone.
Maybe they don't.
I just like to compare myself to everything,
Being vain does that to you.
You just keep moving.
Each time I stop, it takes more and more energy to move on again;
Be that with women, poetry, school, or looking for a job.
I just get tired way to easily,
Frighteningly easily,
But the voice of reason tells me, "You must keep going on and move constantly".
So I will,
Even though my wrist is killing me and my eyes are drooping.
I'll still move on and suffer as the stoic.
That's my life,
Or at least how I believe it to be.

And then I double, triple, and quadruple check my grammar
Because I can't remember how to use a ; correctly anymore.
Or what a dangling participle is.
I toss and turn in bed over trifles:
How to get the picture up with no wire,
How to masturbate without my roommate finding out.
But thinkings as of these is the cause of brain fry.
I can't work properly with a burnt and warped mind,
But all I do is reminisce on the on the
Dumb and Serendipitous events of my life and jot them down,
Thinking I'll be the Kafka of the 21st Century.
Or the next David Kirby who thinks of himself as the new Keats.
What does that make me then?
And that's my erroneous and sporadic writing style.
Keeps going on and on and on and on and going on and on
Annoyingly continuous and ridiculously never ending.
It's a way to write poems according to Mr. Kirby.
And now I've written to the point of I might as well just keep going.
Unfortunately, I've been hypnotized to fall asleep by the sounds of trains.

The Vigil/Pittard Hybrid

I've always felt torn between the two extremities. My father's side of the family is extremely republican and right minded, while my mother's family is all about the arts and intellectual superiority of the individual.

I unfortunately have swings of both sides embedded deep within me. At times I will be totally ignorant and apathetic about a subject and mission while other times I am incredibly creative, artistic, and in love with the world of art, literature, myth, and religion

I for some reason cannot be one or the other, but part of each spectrum.

That is who I am, the dualistic creature of two very dissimilar genetic parts

Love, Your Son

I talk to you only when I need something.

Did I give up on our relationship?

Why can’t it be like when I was younger?

Those were easier times.

Now I’ve grown a little,

And that screwed up everything.

Yet you still come back to me with 

Open arms and more love than before.

Why? I don’t deserve your love.

You still smother me with yourself anyway.

I locked you in a box and ran away.

Am I ashamed of you?  No, but stay away from me.

In the distance I hear your scratching 

And see your attempted escape back to me.

“Stay Away!” I yell.  “Don’t bother with me”

You still smother me with love.

Why do I resist?  
Teach me to accept and love you truthfully.

Love,

Your son

The Ole

He wakes with aches and pains, with no comfort.

As the slug moves, so does he, quiet and unearthy.

Moving his whole to the morning routine, wishing

To be in the Past, he sobs.

The soundless air is interrupted by television news—

The worst kind.  Ignoring the politics and plane crashes,

He imagines fields of sunflowers, green grass, and 

Large oak Trees for sitting and swinging;

Chasing lizards, with the sister, he laughs honestly.

He is most sincere at this mental moment.  

Then like death, he enters the depression-filled jail cell,

But instead of traditional cylinders, there is only the

Open Exit he cannot reach; he cannot move

He is strapped down and confined to the chair, 

Not mentally, emotionally.

Is there Hope?  Or do you believe in the finale?

Goodbye then.  Good luck to you in the next life.

I will remember and tell others of you.

When I Want to Retreat to the Past

When I want to retreat to the past, back into the ancient of days,

I think of my pagan grandfathers who lived the family life under a bower.

To go back into naked nature feels free;

where we live in Eden and Cain actually loves his neighbor,

and peace on earth is not a mad man’s philosophy.

I wish to go to the lea and take my right of passage test I strongly desire.

My state of becoming is almost complete.

Stay on target, no negativity.

The voice of a braggart tells me all good things must come to an end—Damn, I was so close to the center that time.

Now, prep for the drop of excitement; the greenness has lost its novice 

and will now grow wrinkles.

“Wave goodbye to the nice tree”, says dad smirking.

I am off to an isolated hotel room in the Bronx.

Here I am taught to live in fear of the unknown, a.k.a. the frantics 

who knocked down a monument of freedom.

Goodbye chthonic nature.  

Hello cunning industry creeping slowly to the center of the page.  

I see you brought your friends: hatred, discomfort, perversity, lust, exhaustion, speeding tickets, rebels, & weak aesthetics.  

Come on in and usurp my home.  Once you’re done, could you 

leave false motivation and apathy with me?  

Please?  They’re both so houseless and dependant on me, 

and I could really use a parasite for my brain.

Well, I lost it,

nothing to do but wait until the weekend for an erroneously acute rebirth.

Through your Father’s eyes

You come into the world, confused and bewildered.

Your father holds you up for the first time.

You grow to learn the good from the bad.

Growing and learning, he sees you.

As a young child he teaches you the ways of the world,

The differences, the conflicts, how refrigerators work.

He teaches, you learn

Growing and learning, he sees you.

Life goes on and you realize that your relationship

with your father is not how it was.

But he still watches over you.

Growing and learning, he sees you.

You grow to be a young man and move far away from him.

You think life is good now that you’re free.

But occasionally you feel incomplete.

Growing and learning, he still sees you.

He will always be with you,

Because if he did it right

Some of him will be in you

Growing and learning, he will always see you through his eyes.