On Monday, the garbage men didn’t arrive and the sun hid behind the unbiased clouds, the jalopy on Crescent Road sang a piercing tune, the widow across the street glared at old photographs and the newspaper was thrown into an oak tree, and the mime laughed until she cried
On Tuesday, the wallpaper pleaded guilty for bad taste and the cinnamon rolls were hard as hockey pucks, the taxi drivers were riding unicycles, and the truth cracked the widescreen TV’s, the preacher’s sermon was written by an atheist and the raven sipped on the concoction just like humanity has for generations
On Wednesday, there was no lumber at the construction site and the henchmen counted their bullets, the playgrounds are now empty malls, California morphs into an exotic island,the register is as desolate with dust, and the politicians are suffering from withdrawal of greed, the drug pushers reside in mansions, and the moneyless become the majority
On Thursday, prejudices and pregnancy rise ten percent, paradigms dissolve and systems fail, symbolism becomes a lost diamond necklace that no one wears, ignorance is a bag of sugar that millions consume, education is no longer a pillar but now a pile of rocks, authenticity is rare and mindsets are stuck in a ten by ten box
On Friday, fools prance on the sidewalk and allegations disperse, heathens scoff and judge, Christianity wears a band aid that you can’t see and God is playing a violin for non believers, no one drinks the water they paid for and the porn that is free rest in their palms, the backward society is quiet and the questions are camouflaged in the answers
On Saturday, plagiarism is on sale and sarcasm is a $10.99 subscription, adultery is on the side, and sincerity was removed from the menu, I can pick up a prescription for a lack of integrity and sell a bottle of lies, the catatonic grin is plastered on every mannequin and the rain washes away the stench of civilization for a split second
On Sunday, the fears turn into rubble and the conscious of mankind fades like ink on paper, the echoes of society feel like a non stop siren, the static in the air tarnishes souls, the earth is decimated by dollar signs and all that is hidden, and the agendas are carved into invisible laws, and the cycle continues without stripping the labels
Television is a disturbance of luster and plentiful Television is a scandalous invention Television is a disruptive mechanism clogging your arteries Television is a vacuum sucking the cells from your cerebellum
And the imagination crumbled And the ingenuity succumbs And she seduces hour by hour
Television is nerve gas crippling your legs and motivation Television is a apparatus blended with hype and inferior hogwash Television is a machine gun of information with a steering wheel Television is a junkyard of contraband with sounds of justification
And the mind evaporates And the muscles sit And she seduces hour by hour
Television is a volatile substance with a grin Television is a crutch with a bomb chained to your feet Television is a fifty two inch rectangle civilians idolize Television is a glass religion with no faith
Selected poems from each of Braeden Michaels’ first five books of poetry:
“The Raven’s Poison” – a full collection characterizing and describing all aspects of the human condition and emotions.
“Stella Walker’s Acquaintances” – character poetry surrounding the friends and acquaintances of a widowed woman as she reflects upon her life.
“Unpaved Crossroads” – poetry which depicts various scenes and moments in time, with a common theme of specific place throughout.
“Growl from the Sun” – a collection of political poetry including Michaels’ magnum opus of the same name, opining governmental and civic current events.
“For You, Love Always” – heart-touching and emotionally moving poetry for lovers.
From the mind of Braeden Michaels, drink from this cup, the raven’s poison, a concoction of his collected poems all about the human condition. Imbibe in the rainbow of emotions found in the soul’s colors and taste the bitter aftertaste when you’re drenched in rage.
Indulge in the reasons beneath dripping lust before absorbing all the ways we experience our wide-ranging flavors of love and finish off with a sip of self-destruction. This is us. Humanity. All the layers stripped away and arranged for your pleasure.
With bureaucracy, cities are filled with coal black odor and oily propaganda With a nation split, curbsides are weeping ignored tears With silent voices, the suburbs are submerged in delinquent credit cards With unlocked screens, cybersecurity is ringing in their ears With devastation, vacant buildings are filled with cynical vagabonds
Within the letters from Johnson Boulevard I can feel the thunderous chill I can feel the drops of poverty hit the ground
With phobias, the empyrean is brimming with frozen echoes and hallucinations With trampling chaos, wallets are vacant and figureheads spit out quarters With melancholy, anklebiters and adolescences lose a pinch of oxygen With blatant defamation, freedom is pulled and slapped With misinformation, points of view are written with a vindictive tongue With fraudulence, whispers and blackmail are sleeping in a king size bed
Within the letters from Johnson Boulevard I can feel the winter’s nights subside I can feel the battle’s fire descend
With deceit, finger pointing and raised eyebrows come with nail biting With money laundering, hands of indulgence are shaking With bombshells, ammunition comes in diabolical forms With sleep deprivation, insomnia is staring at the eyes of the moon With coercion, manipulation is a bouquet of addictive flowers With anger, the dust is swept away under a hand knotted rug
Within the letters from Johnson Boulevard I can feel the pride sparkle like a star I can feel the graveyard’s breeze glisten
With commentary, opinions shuffle and parade in the opaque air With disregard, wings disintegrate and laughter is tossed in the dumpster With hopelessness, arbitrary symptoms turn into a derogatory spell With disinterest, the jargon is masked with ill conceived agendas With double talk, the carelessness tone is at full volume
Within the letters from Johnson Boulevard I can feel liberty silently falling from her cheek I can feel the compassion scream as the ink dries
I glared into a faded photograph of our founding fathers, where dogma was priceless,the ink used to place the period behind our Declaration of Independence spoke volumes, where freedom wasn’t part of a cliche or a sales pitch, where dreams were bright as the clouds on the Fourth of July, where individuality was embraced but businesses thrived from the word capitalism, when tax was minimal, but as generations progress with a letter from the alphabet, the labels make the period disappear,traditions were once cherished, differences were honored, education was a foundation, face to face communication was imperative, and tears from the moon never fell into the cracks of the sidewalk of Washington Street
I carefully placed the collectible portrait between the pages of one fifty seven and one fifty eight of my history book, nonchalantly I sat on the curbside, glancing at the emptiness, no bumper to bumper traffic, no obscenities lashed out, civilization working behind rectangular screens, nominal movement, and goods can purchased with the click of a button, inch by inch, decade by decade, the zest is thinning, the lawmakers relish in spending income that isn’t their own, hankering over tax brackets, salivating where to raise outlandish charges, pulling a percent from this pie from the chart, manipulating statistics, storytelling and fabricating, patiently waiting to feel the tears from the moon on the sidewalk of Washington Street
As I walked down Washington Street, I recognize too many boarded up buildings, morals and ethics were pennies that jingled in in legislators pockets, make no mistake “we are shrewd burglars that don’t need to break into your house to steal from you,” no bureaucracy is willing to save a dime, “Let’s not pretend, we love to spend” is the proverb for thieves in two piece suits, I can recollect the carpenters that hammered every nail to the bankrupt superstructures being unemployed minutes after the task was complete, the cosa nostra and baby-kissers are no longing working against each other, the henchmen and handshakers are exchanging recipes for disasters over a bottle of burgundy, chuckling, smoking Churchill cigars, reciprocating filthy and racist jokes behind doors of the dungeon, but hours later standing in front of billions with both hands together pleading “togetherness, one, unity” reading it from a teleprompter, fumbling through every word, and the sound of the crack pipe falls to the floor, the camera moves in a split second to ensure the puppet is protected by the exclusive, but let me remind you the stooge who can barely walk up a flight of stairs received eighty one million votes, let the confidence ripple, and the thunder in the catastrophic sky pierces a million ears across the globe, as I walk toward “The Devil’s Backbone Tavern” I could see the lightning whisper danger, my feet froze on the sidewalk of Washington Street
I entered the tavern and could hear the introduction of the spoken word from Ramsey Parker, a local townsman, with a raspy voice, with his arms swinging, a theatrical display…”Welcome to the the insidious circus, where the clowns are incoherent, and the ramblings labeled as a speech are gnarled and tangled, weaving in and out of grains of truth, silently signing executive orders to vaporize the capital air, beware, apathy is a tattoo on our forearm, endless pages of calculating distractions, categorized and classified, blindly swindled, if you disagree, childish tantrums will be heard, lack of respect and cohesion, popularity plummets, approval ratings dismissed, impeachment being tossed around like a softball, no hardball here, afraid to rock the sinking ship with a stumbling captain who is meant to be an oar thrown in the ocean of disgust, humanity struggling to keep their heads above water, if we throw you a life jacket, we own you! Safety wasn’t a priority, designed for the survivors to be a minority” Ramsey shouted at the top of his lungs “Wake up America before it’s too late” grab your weapon, freedom, parade Washington Street, bark at the moon and pray it doesn’t cry
The sipping regulars clapped their hands, even the bottles of bourbon and scotch are pointing fingers, the mice on the thirty year old floor scrambled from the outspoken rhetoric, the shadows on the wall nod their heads, the bartender wipes down the hallucinations over and over, the optimism shrieks like a ghost, the misfits in the booth exchange civic points of view, babbling on about equal wealth distribution, working twenty five hour weeks, bellowing over exhaustion, taking orders from convicted illegal empty headed authority figures, the bystander on the left is a former navy seal listening to the nonsense, a man who carried laurels on his back, with eyes like a sniper, capturing detail like an artist, shrugging his shoulders walking away, discomfort is drank on the rocks, while truth is an invisible spot, heading for the door to leave a place of familiarity yet smelling a stench of wrecking change
Author and poet Braeden Michaels delves into the many-layered political realms in his newest collection, Growl from the Sun. Beginning with his fourteen-page magnum opus of the same name, he confronts and denounces modern society and the politics of the day. No stone is left unturned. There are no sides, no labels, only raw emotion and unbending truth. This gritty selection of poetry is sure to provoke introspection and deep conversations for any who dare open its pages.
Dandelion skin, your consequences hang from your eyelashes your backbone has an invisible crack your tenacity wallows in the closet your cheeks are filled with solitude your apprehension feels like a heart beat
Grace from within witness’s a glimpse
“I can’t hear what you are saying, I’m too busy fading”
Dandelion skin, your affliction surrounds you like a cloud your sheath carries an uneven stigma your serenity is deep in your lungs your perseverance sleeps with obscurity your illusion is smeared and splattered
Grace from within is numb and worn
“I can’t run from the silence any longer, I can finally see parts of me that are stronger”
Dandelion skin, your uncertainty plays hide and seek your strain trips over your kindness your sway crumbles in your defeated fingers your delusions disappear in the fog your trance whispers in the shade
Grace from within has the answers
“In this garden, I will blossom and continue to grow, the grace from within will finally show”
With inflation, a blockbuster blast reeks carnage With inflation, we depreciate the minds of a exasperated society With inflation, a ruckus erupts and commotion explodes With inflation, economic indicators are ignored and bullies are savored With inflation, an empty suit lacks comprehension and consequences
And Tyler Boulevard will lose its character And Tyler Boulevard’s existence will turn cold
With inflation, pennies evaporate and the cost of living rises like a hot air balloon With inflation, the prosperous hibernate and the money laundering is glaring With inflation, the embassy’s schemes are outlined with chalk and paint With inflation, the fear monger salivates from a haunting distance With inflation, the downward spiral staggers and the nations posture weeps
And Tyler Boulevard will lose its integrity And Tyler Boulevard’s remains will shiver
With inflation, the Capitol Hill henchmen’s stench is pungent with greed With inflation, the arrangements and the intentions are to eradicate the foundation With inflation, the crowded distractions come from all angles of the compass With inflation, the animosity drips freedom with a blaze With inflation, civilization works with a handicap and walks spiritless
And Tyler Boulevard will lose its luster And Tyler Boulevard’s shadow will fade
With inflation, corruption is at its highest peek and the lows are dwelling in caskets With inflation, it’s number eighty nine in the radical bill to change the landscape With inflation, the intellectuals want us to be a copycat of Venezuela With inflation, the middle class will disappear in the snap of a democratic finger With inflation, the earth will sit on an axis as the sky will read its eulogy
And Tyler Boulevard will be crippled for generations And Tyler Boulevard’s demise begins with those who live on islands
I am the color black wrapped up in a midnight curse torture dripping down my bleached face gripping on to the endangered lies whispers growling in my prejudice ears sorrow was a door to throw away my beliefs clutching on to the skeleton chain tomorrow weeps from my skewed perception, stumbling in the waterfalls, praying to blurry shadows and the sinister moon, I sip on the poison of a poor man’s cup and I hide in the mist to make me blind Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black severed from the spinning rainbow buzzards flying around my dying tree decaying stains, fumbling in the dark crawling toward the vibrations of the stigma haunted by my twitching nerves anxiety and insecurities boiling on the inside grief jumbled, agony waltzing carrying heartbreak over my shoulders I quietly stare into the atoms of my distress molecules sizzling, bloodstream crying depths of discomfort, circling headaches and I seek grace with a pitchfork and knives Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black ripped from the sobbing vermillion sky distinctively malevolent, serene and ill tarnished and frozen, inside the frostbite slightly obscene, smothered in vile a predator within, carrying a tarantula grin vertigo parading, obscurity blending corrosion running down my esophagus A diabolical mind dipped in scarlet oil walking with a criminal like scent cemetery gray with a pinch of graveyard dirt a night crawler climbing in your memory spellbinding oblivion, twisted secrets Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black unhinged and sadistic salivating from the burns, scatterbrained, splash of schizophrenia, thousand microscopic splinters in my cornea I’m a child of the fifth obsidian scarecrow untouched apricot skin, labeled as a dead end, hunger promenading, brisk spasms lightning smacks across my crimson back fractured, friction is my lifeless mother I live in a atmosphere of short breaths and gasping for oxygen among my bothers consistently sucker punched and jabbed with crude remarks, self esteem is hollow Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black characterized as the lustrous sin specks of halcyon, spots of carmine symbolizing annihilation and wreckage disfiguring truth, a heinous sparkle I strut with apocalyptic and corrupt nerves veins filled with cynicism and suspicion doubt trickling, hyperboles drooling nonstop fiction rolling off my slanderous lips sugarcoated fabrication stewing I’ve shaped my ruthless tombstone Viciousness is my fathers favorite drink I’ve learned to slurp vengeance Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black stamped as a disastrous villain I smirk at tragedy and illuminate within magic, identified as a slithering savage I slap hope with a monstrous hand distinguished as liquid monstrosity I despise faith and lurch in your nightmares venom is like loose change in my pockets I’ve exchanged bitten conversations with corpses in my slaughterous backyard quietly, I am the joker who plays with satire and explosive irony, kiss the rage on my cheek, I am the gift you are afraid to open Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am a connoisseur of analogies and a lost paragraph. The expectations are nonexistent and the inconsistencies are bloodletting. I’ve washed my hands in rain and rinse them in agony. I hate to stare in my complexion of mediocrity. I walk around with a fistful of aspirations and cough up restlessness. She keeps the awakening truth inside her shell. She ignores the knock on the door of confrontation.My knuckles are shaking. I spell out my fantasies in luscious ink as she pretends to read them.
I am the cerebral nighthawk that dances in the moonlight and dreams like a joker. I follow the road without a sign, just the sound of dragonflies, and the heartbreaking temptations.She’s made claims that I have acquaintances and sidekicks. She’s joined in holy matrimony with a introverted cynic who’s dying on the inside as the second hand moves. She holds in her frustrations and the fears stuck to her palms. I play with riddles and hide between the ten feet conundrums. I play with her subconscious and the ghosts that appear in her sleep. The end is just the beginning and the beginning is just a part of the end.
Author and poet Braeden Michaels delves into the many-layered political realms in his newest collection, Growl from the Sun. Beginning with his fourteen-page magnum opus of the same name, he confronts and denounces modern society and the politics of the day. No stone is left unturned. There are no sides, no labels, only raw emotion and unbending truth. This gritty selection of poetry is sure to provoke introspection and deep conversations for any who dare open its pages.
Author and poet Braeden Michaels delves into the many-layered political realms in his newest collection, Growl from the Sun. Beginning with his fourteen-page magnum opus of the same name, he confronts and denounces modern society and the politics of the day. No stone is left unturned. There are no sides, no labels, only raw emotion and unbending truth. This gritty selection of poetry is sure to provoke introspection and deep conversations for any who dare open its pages.
Author and poet Braeden Michaels delves into the many-layered political realms in his newest collection, Growl from the Sun. Beginning with his fourteen-page magnum opus of the same name, he confronts and denounces modern society and the politics of the day. No stone is left unturned. There are no sides, no labels, only raw emotion and unbending truth. This gritty selection of poetry is sure to provoke introspection and deep conversations for any who dare open its pages.
Author and poet Braeden Michaels delves into the many-layered political realms in his newest collection, Growl from the Sun. Beginning with his fourteen-page magnum opus of the same name, he confronts and denounces modern society and the politics of the day. No stone is left unturned. There are no sides, no labels, only raw emotion and unbending truth. This gritty selection of poetry is sure to provoke introspection and deep conversations for any who dare open its pages.
Invincible Verses 