Day 3

"The Question of These Wars"

"that's what's wrong with you white people"

and i'm just supposed to let that one go
because it came form the mouth of a child

ignorance is the only thing
that will keep them knee deep

in bullets
in crack
in lack

and i try to give each of them
words
solid words
that turn opportunity into concrete

words and ways
but how can i
how can i we you them it

become more than that
when times like these
i have to brush their lack off
indirectly

direct it into
direct into it
into something

usable
feasible
tactile

for that click from :34 to :35

at this age
in this time
which battle
are they even in

-A.P. Greco

Day 2

"With Fear and Wonder"

her skin silked between sheets
the line of her spine

flip to the side
my other brain

flashing
always flashing

twitch right

please let your tongue find the sweat between my lips

twitch left

and leaves rough their way through a cracked window
to find dirt caked tile

sticking to a thousand sheets of paper
writing assignments without names
penned with red
marked with finger tips
greased with

twitch right

lost again in the brilliance of her hair
curls twisting between my finger tips
oiling the drying pours
as her breathing warms my ear

twitch left

"you a nigga fool"
through silver and gold
caked in salted grease
and they begin punching their fists at each other

in words
in words

"Come back to me."
I never know how long I've been gone
when she looks at me like that

with sex on her teeth
fear in her stare
and wonder in her tone

-A.P. Greco

Day 1

"And I am Sick at Heart"

i.

i hear her screams in the ripping of tape
off white painted cinder-blocked walls

stuffed into their ears
into ashen hands
dustless ashen hands staring
ever so sweetly

black knuckles bleed into concrete

(and that's a metaphor for you to just figure on) as i

stand before you
speaking to blanketed walls
informing roaches in corners

clutching my sides I Stand Before YOU

a tree branch
scratching at glass

ii.

i took this chance
in order to love us as us is loved by them
or is there something else to say about it

like bees digging hills in our front yard
like the polar drift paint still dried under my cuticles

like leaves dancing

or the noises you make when you sleep

i took this chance
and i am sick at heart

-A.P. Greco

The Fool's Day

Tomorrow it begins. I actually have to listen to my insides and start writing again. One poem a day for 30 days.

Thank god I am on Spring Break this month.

I just hope I can handle the stress of getting it all together. Of actually being able to write something of quality each day. I'm pretty anxious about the whole thing. I have no idea what I am going to write about. I have no set in stone theme in mind. Or even something like a soft and dented one in mind.

Am I going to write about teaching inner city black kids?

Am I going to write about the stresses of my job and its effects on my family life?

Am I going to write about my marriage?

Am I going to write about my role as a step parent?

Am I going to write about my mother?

Am I going to write about politics?

Am I going to mix it all together like i usually do, but somehow in some genius way bring it all together?

This moment is so incredibly unreal to me. I have no ideas. I have words. But how... how can I bring these lack of ideas and turn them into things?

-A.P. Greco

New Poem - Composition

"Composition"

when the sun is orange and low
squinting into every inch of road
and a song’s notes
play their way past Monday’s wax
and down into a full chest

the scent of your eyes
in green mountain air
thuds and thuds and thuds

and i sing

and i write inside my fingers’ skin and i gotta get this down i gotta get it out

and i sing

and i sing to what could have never happened and i sing to the fear that if it didn’t and i sing to the memory of thinking i’d never touch your lips again and i sing to falling into your arms each night and i sing to “when can i kiss you again” and i sing to the day we breathed air as one

the first time

and i sing to every mile since then and i sing

and i sing
and i gotta get this down

down and out into the fleshy part
where no one else can see
where everyone will see

that part that makes us whole
again and again

that part where parts become particles and every solid square fits into a space
a space filled with

a place to sing
a place to stay

our memories
our constant

built
within and around and through and amongst and into
every note every stroke
of ink

Following My Heart

Currently listening to: "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" by Elton John.

At the moment, I could really use a cigarette. I don't want one. I don't need one.

But, ultimately, I could really use one.

I'm not all about publishing other people's business. It's not my place. So, I'll try my best to follow my heart here and NOT get anyone else pissed off by saying too much.

I will place "you" or "him" or "he" or "she" or "her" or "it" to the side, and, instead, use the lovely pronoun, "I." Afterall, pronouns are my specialty.

I can't expect to not be helped. I can't expect to not be worried about, especially when I'm not following the best path. I'm following the only way I THINK there is. Why do I think this? Because withering away into nothingness is the way I should live? But there is nothing else for me, is there? That's the most ridiculous way to think, and I need to snap out of it.

I may think I have snapped out of it by doing this or doing that, but I HAVE NOT. They can still see it in my eyes. There is no possible way to place a forcefield around myself without ANYONE noticing.

I am not that good at this. I think I am. But I am not. I am not fine. I can't fake it. I can't be looked in the eyes by all of them and tell them that I am fine and ok and taken care of.

Seriously, who am I kidding?

I ignore pleas. I ignore the hands, thankfully regretting that it's just not me to take them. I will stay here in misery and act as if I am the happiest person alive. Or the happiest person I can be.

This is no way for me to live my life. This seems to be the ongoing theme here. Life really is NOT supposed to be this hard.

I need to stop shoving it all down into the pit of my colon and breathe. Breathe in the air of those who love me. If not, I am sure, that they will all face me at once and I will be in hell. Then I will really have a choice to make.

____________________________________________________________________________________

My mother, Becky, is a little woman. She's blond and everyone finds her pleasant and sweet. She is, usually, until she isn't.

Anyway, my mother loves to say the sayings that get the majority of the population through life. They are predictable and cliche.

Like this one: Don't throw stones when you live in a glass house.

Typical, but it's one that I try to live by and one that I push onto others. If I am to push any message (since we Christians are so well known for doing that), it is this.

There is no time or place for hypocrisy. Don't offer help if you will not accept it when someone offers it to you. Don't love and worry and not expect to be loved and be worried about in return. Life doesn't work that way.

Granted, I may be only "almost" 27, but this I know.

Cut the fucking shit out. It hurts like hell. It hurts me. It hurts everyone that loves you and cares about you.

Don't run from it. Just accept it.

This will make you a hero.