Greetings taxpayers, screen wanderers, and head nodding citizens, let’s dive into the ramifications of ignoring the siren of western civilization, where the infrastructure has had a crack for generations, the colors of the flag have become evanescent, where celebrities are glorified more than soldiers, where the all mighty dollar has more value than life,
Let me introduce myself, I am the Headstone Prophet, the accountant of distractions and destruction, I don’t see black and white, gender, classes, or status, I see authority and figureheads with meaningless titles serve themselves rather than society, I see inflation and corruption welded together to spark the genocide, I am the soothsayer that is gawking at the cemeteries, counting the caskets, I wear a tattoo on my middle finger that reads “The new world order doesn’t deserve a quarter,”
Behind closed doors, the henchmen are sipping on wealth mumbling “if you aren’t rich, you will become my bitch” and the others are ranting “if you aren’t in the grave, you will be my slave,” the catchphrases are lightning and the thunder to their ears, the powers that be want division among the dwellers, they crave disunity and friction, for every label there is a asterisk and a war,
It’s time to pay close attention to these staggering numbers, human trafficking is up twenty percent, the dishonesty among politicians is up a thousand percent, the media will twist the truth fifty percent, the longer you are glued to a screen the quicker you will forget the american dream, in the end the government cares about you is zero percent,
I am the headstone prophet, I stand before you to be the alarm, I stand here to wake up for those who are asleep, I stand here to deliver the most important message of your life, I stand here to hopefully avoid counting your coffin,
Once upon a midnight fear She took a sip of corrosion Debilitating manners and quirks Fumbling through a frenzy Gliding inside hallucinations Staggering outside the commotions A recollection of mourning
Stern exchanges melting Comments and remarks growl Sentiments dressed in black Treasures whispering hush Ripping dead skin with caution Crumbling faith turns into dirt A recollection of mourning
Hunger flexing with animosity Greed panting with saliva In holy matrimony with the raven She tasted the hollow bitterness Numb and disgusted by the poison Infuriated with the toxic rants A recollection of mourning
Provoked by exasperation Anxiety wrapped around her neck Choking on sour corruption Addicted to the murmurs Inhaling the virulent winds Wounded by a malicious tongue A recollection of mourning
A catastrophic touch bellowed Infatuation hung as a disaster Benevolence was a chewed up dog bone Loneliness exhaled rapidly Sympathy was a an old rag Love was just mucus from a cough A recollection of mourning
I’ve been in love with the nectar and the sour drippings of you I’ve been captured by the glaze of your caress I’ve been in awe by the comfort and the shivers of your embrace I’ve been enamored by the never ending kisses and the affection I’ve been mesmerized by the sparkle dancing in your midnight eyes
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a second
I’ve been in love with the honey and the radiant treasures of you I’ve been enchanted by your words and glamorous skin I’ve been aching for the centerpiece to wake me up and feel alive I’ve been daydreaming of an endless love I’ve been intoxicated by the shimmering light twinkling in your soul
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a minute
I adore your compelling comprehension and character I admire your aspirations and ungodly inspirations I treasure your heart felt ballads and surreal stanzas I could fall in love with your shimmering truth
Love me like a vase of flowers Love me like a summer rain Love me like the stars cherish the sky
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the intensity and the profound conversations, I taste the connection snd showering affection”
I adore your vibrating tenderness and curiosity I admire your lion like strength and stunning conviction I treasure your silhouette rhymes and castles in my air I could fall in love with your pure intentions
Love me like a museum worships a painting Love me like a river embraces the calm Love me like the clouds relishes the sun
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the light when my shadows were in the dark, I taste the sparks and desire with you in my heart”
I lay here in unloved skin with a ghost surrounding my unwritten pages I lay here in a whirlwind aching for you to fulfill my desolation with worn out tears I lay here with shadows crying and spelling your name with my fingertips I lay here in a cloud of passion missing your serenity wrapped around with my flames
Cover me in a blistering love Cover me in tender confetti Cover me in a bold yearning
“Come a little closer and don’t be afraid to feel, let’s get lost with what we know is real, Come a little closer and give me your recklessness, Come a little closer and fulfill my emptiness”
I lay here in unloved skin with an unhinged appetite boiling within I lay here in a frenzy circling for you to entertain myflammable wishes I lay here with fantasies exploding in luscious air I lay here in obscurity of devotion sweltering on the inside
Cover me in a sky of hope Cover me in tears of respect Cover me in a weeping bliss
“Come a little closer and breathe in our scent, come a little closer and feel where our dreams went, come a little closer give me what I long for, come a little closer and see you are all that I adore”
you could be the lyric that I never wrote you could be the nectar fawning on my tongue you could be the feather against my cheek you could be the warmth on my lost face you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can taste the harmony off your skin And in the brisk moonlight, I can hear your symphony burn from your lips
you could be the melody that awakens me you could be the lily I see in my holy dreams you could be the breeze I never forget you could be the fear that I have forgotten you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can feel your poetry in the chorus of my weary soul And in the brisk moonlight, I can recognize your violins in the orchestra
you could be the instrument that sparkles you could be the goodbye that is never uttered you could be the unspoken and endless limerick you could be the sorrow that turns into halcyon you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can watch you play the acoustic guitar whispering your poetry And in the brisk moonlight, I can see pieces of myself you savor in your tragic song
Thy soul shall find itself alone ‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone — Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy: Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness — for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee — and their will Shall then overshadow thee: be still.
For the night — tho’ clear — shall frown — And the stars shall look not down, From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given — But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever :
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish — Now are visions ne’er to vanish — From thy spirit shall they pass No more — like dew-drop from the grass:
The breeze — the breath of God — is still — And the mist upon the hill Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token — How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries! —
I’m not craving attention but your lightening connection. I’m not craving lust but the magic in our distance. I desire the conversation that is entwined and pure. I’m not craving anything hollow but the hunger within your desire. I’m not craving a fixation but the beauty of your gust.
I love how you make me feel, the ecstasy burning is real. I love how the flames surrounding never seem to get low, your brilliance always has an extraordinary glow.
I’m not craving the physicality but your alluring intelligence. I’m not craving your nails but your provocative touch. I desire the thirst and the hurricane between our fire. I’m not craving your luscious skin but the magnetic pull between us.
I love how you make me feel, the magnificent sensation is real. I love how the blaze within continues to rise, your affection was always smoldering in your burgundy eyes.
For the love of tears, bloom wipe away the melancholy from your sun seek purity and treasure your crevices decorate your scars with silver chimes feel the awakening in your tarnished spirit
Blossom from your strengths and weaknesses
For the love of tears, bloom entwine your blemishes and tenacity scratch your tenderness with your nails fall in love with your endearing sympathy recognize the sparkling ornaments within
Blossom from your strengths and weaknesses
For the love of tears, bloom interweave your warmth and quiet blisters step into your discolored anguish dance with your watercolored flaws croon your lyrics of sorrow and forgiveness
Growth is powerful. Often times you can’t see how much you have grown until you look back at who you were or what you have decided to let go. I have been writing for decades and have kept it a secret. Why? The reasons why I write are endless. It’s therapeutic, mentally stimulating, challenging, a place where I can voice my opinions, and today I believe others can find others or themselves in my poetry. It can be a place of self discovery and reflection.
Generally speaking, the perspective of a poet by society is someone who is broken, emotionally sensitive, and their voice is better articulated through words on paper than being spoken. To clarify this, written words are better used to express themselves emotionally. I can relate to this part. I am an emotional person and often times I cry because I have no words at times. Today I write with more of bigger purpose. I want to show the world that you people are not broken, they are just misunderstood. They are not surrounded by the right people.
At the end of my first marriage, I took it upon myself to attend therapy. I knew there were some things about me I needed to fix. I am a work in progress, in fact we all are a work in progress and under construction. Two of the things in my marriage that I needed to work on was speaking up for myself and taking control of certain aspects of my life. I was married to a woman who was overbearing, domineering and controlling. She was also an alcoholic. On my end, I wasn’t mature enough to walk away and sought out attention in the wrong way ways. I hid my writing at this time. Therapy gave me guidance and direction.
One of the things that I learned in therapy is that my growth was limited due to my surroundings. My father is quite judgmental and critical. Once I remarried and moved away, my confidence in myself flourished. I saw that I needed to move away. I will never tell my father that because I know that would hurt his feelings. I appreciate all that he is given me and the love that he knows how to give. He doesn’t just seem to care how to present sensitive topics, and how you present them often times is more important than what you say. As I get older, I’m trying to be aware of how I present subjects as well. There is a time to be straight forward, direct and there is a time to communicate with compassion.
In the end, I have grown to try to see the world and life through others eyes. I am not dead set on being right and if I am wrong, I will own up to it. I write poetry from the clouds with eagle eyes and try to embrace humanity. I see humanity without labels. There is a long list of individuals who want the world to change and I stand in a small line where I want to change the world. Everything is perspective and perspective is everything.
I pause to deliver my twenty two bold face lies with a smirk. I pause to hand over my ten percent truth. I pause to reveal my entire identity. I pause with doubt and confidence dancing hand in hand. I pause with disgust and trepidation swelling. I pause with deceit and manipulation twitching in my indistinct eyes.
I am a certified playboy with a bronze grin. I am a storyteller with an agenda as long as a manuscript. I am the best seller with sparkled charm. I have a gift of being selfish without you knowing. I am smooth as silk and hide behind my misery.
I pause with friction and distortion entwined within the gospel. I pause with morals placed in my back pockets. I pause with principles and precision hidden in the crevices. I pause with certainty and authenticity running parallel with my darkness. I pause with the picture torn and shredded.
I have a lethal license in zigzagging and swiveling. I shelter my obscure secrets. I have stashed away my troubles, difficulties and mistakes. I suppress my clouds and fog. I tucked away my accidents and splotchy incidents. I locked up my realness and credibility due to the storm of fears. The pleasure maker in me is drenched from loneliness is too afraid to remove the mask.
I was born with a second hand smile from the sunset. I walk with a tiny wheel in my pocket that won’t roll and converse with a novocaine tongue. I have a brother that uses me as a punchline in off color jokes and a sister with suspicion waltzing in her eyes. I have a mother who was buried at the Brookside cemetery under a choked up moon. I count my blessings rather than my drops of misery. Every now and then she looks at me says “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your second hand smile.”
I’ve tried to turn off the waterfall and dive into the river of flames. I’ve tired to stare into my silent villains and face my inward wars. I’ve tried to run from the screams but I am still in this seared skin. It feels like I’m never going to win.
I was born with a tattoo of a tear on my left cheek. I fumble through the streets with my blood not moving a centimeter. I have a snapshot of my apprehension and a voice that no know wants to hear. I have a mother that appreciated the words I tucked away from the heartless universe. Every now and then she looks at me says “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your second hand smile.”
I’ve tried to shrug off the heartache and walk away from senseless battles. I’ve tried to keep my swollen chin up and to listen to the fireflies in the pitch black. I can keep running in this burnt skin. It feels like I’m never going to win.
I was born with doubt flickering like a light on the inside. I stumble throughout the darkness gripping on to the glow. I have fluttering secrets and camouflaged my excuses to try to erase away the damage. I have a mother who wore a grin throughout her scowling hours. She defied being defeated nor broken down. Every now and then she looks at me says “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your second hand smile.”
I’ve tried to lose my biographical sighs and replace my intuition with logic. I’ve tried to step into my perspective and turn my head to see another view. But all I can feel is you. I have no where to begin. I’ve learned to accept that I just won’t win.
I photographed the cruelty spoken from your lips I no longer needed your warmth I photographed the lies that reverberated in your façade I no longer needed your touch I photographed the memories that had cracks with less meaning I no longer needed your approval I begin to dream wide and fell in love with the colors of my passions I photographed the emptiness and your signature dipped in carelessness I no longer needed your comfort I photographed the deceit and the war in your stubborn eyes I no longer needed your backbone I photographed the distance you created from the lack of affection I no longer needed your devotion I begin to see my strengths and embraced my weaknesses And you faded into the tears of the wind
I found the most reckless line in your diary. “I know you can’t remember, all I can feel are the tears of September.” l was mesmerized by the details of the most piercing moments until I realized I was the subject. I was perplexed and the inner light began to fade. I found a line that shredded my heart into pieces.”You are the avalanche I could not see, you won’t be awake when I leave.” I glanced through the suffering and the realization is settling that you see me as a self absorbed monster.
You drank lukewarm coffee with a ballad crying in your head, rearranging the lyrics, forgetting all the things I said. You replaced conversation with an awkward silence and grand expectations. Perhaps you and I sat on quicksand, never making a solid foundation. You wanted me to crawl inside your mind, sit indian style, and look for your missing smile. You never mentioned, you craved endless attention and you didn’t get what you deserved. If I didn’t love you, can you tell me why I’m so hurt.
I found your latest entry in your book of fiction. “I know you forgot about my horrendous childhood, feeling lost and misunderstood.” I was fascinated with your chilling imagination with minutia painted with your fingertips. I was bewildered and the answers began to become in focus. I found a line that cracked the outer shell of my soul. “You are the villain in this horrific tale, because of you I have failed.” I am done tasting this bitter and water down concoction.
You drank lukewarm coffee with complaints, criticism, and tirades surrounding your silent skeleton. You are the playwright, weeping dramatist, and the author of colorful exaggerations. You are the puzzle, desiring me to put you together, believing in the everlasting, wishing for forever. You are numb from the waist down, with your feet barely touching the ground. You blame me for that earth shattering tragedy. I will love you until the end of time despite the fact you are no longer in love with me.
I’ve kissed your mysteries with amplified eyes I’ve kissed your dead secrets with bloodshot lipstick “And now the love story takes a curve, seeing I won’t be the last and was never the first” I’ve kissed your metaphors with agony in my throat I’ve kissed your afternoons with scalding black coffee brewing “And the now the love story cuts me deep, I’m not myself and see you in my sleep” I’ve kissed your tragedies with a sea of glitter covering up your sins I’ve kissed your lying mouth with my ignorance sealed “And now the love story is coming to an end, now my life can truly begin” I’ve kissed your piano concerto with whispers fluttering in my ears I’ve kissed your villain with accusations stripped and shredded “And now the love story fades into my past, no longer do my tears have your autograph”
Seven O’clock drifts vaudeville inauguration, tranquil introduction A breeze of pleasantries and greetings center stage, sponge like audience mixed congregation sipping on souls connecting with unbiased strangers nervously releasing free verse on a axis “I placed a chunk of the run down moon deep in my threadbare pocket no longer glistening or luminous cemented in a tuberculosis celestial sphere over a twelve thousand acre of soil filled with sulking predators, non stopping vixens, and smirking baby-kissers With a plethora of fear I packed my cobalt suitcase and changed my landscape Arrived in a view with miracles and lilies dancing around a bonfire with a beam glaring at her sunset daydreams head over heels, star striking overture forgotten piece of the crescent tumbling for love forevermore” sewn chapter left my lips with a joyful taste
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.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don’t really want to go to war.
America its them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Storm of Ink 