Image for the poem Iconoclasm


Punk rock hip-hop graffiti
written on the surfaces
of the anywheres
of the city

I once saw someone say
Fuck you
to The Man’s faces
I was there

He moves when he wants to move
he said with elegance

And in my silence
I saw myself
deriving enjoyment
from middle fingers extended in defiance
and rebellious entrainment

Some of us just like to stick our tongues out
like devils
in pictures
capturing mad ecstasy
in moments

but it makes me smile

because I see myself

found in the wild

it has been a while


I can hear the music again


(I was talking to my mom today and discussing some things. She has lived a life meant for a memoir, and has communicated the desire to work in this medium. I have shared whatever insights I might have, as I see various approaches that could be taken, as well as things garnered in my research into things.  We were talking about all sorts of stuff.  One of my friends is incarcerated, and I have made it a point to show love, and we were talking about how maybe people dont understand or have sympathy or empathy and some of the aspects of colonialization vs the elements of the prison system, as well as the cultural implications and influences of this system, which is so much more than just prison bars.  It is a societal construct.  I do not subscribe to any agendas in this regard, I only uphold my own experiences in society and incorporate them into my individual schemas and thoughts, which I believe have been shaped by free thinking, research, and internal sincerity.  

Nevertheless, I suggested that she write every day, even if it is only one sentence or, one word.  And she mentioned that she had been doing this and that there was something magical in this practice.  I was happy about that.  (I told her how I would like to have like a writing colony?  Where local writers or writers I am working with can have a cool place to come and write and my ideas for the multiplicity-mediums of poetry and going to the sacred locations of the poets.)

She brought up maybe all the hardships I have endured and she stated her amazement that I made it through…

I talked about how I felt like there is a certain mind state that must be arrived at in certain circumstances, and this is no easy task, and I reminisced on some of the marvelous individuals who fell by the wayside, unable to reach this place, in my interactions with the universe.  But how there were perhaps certain effects that I noticed.

For example…  I hadn’t “heard the music” in over a decade…  (around the time I stopped writing poetry.)

I mentioned to her that I started writing poetry again.  That I was writing every day.  I elaborated on my impressions of “every day as/is a poem”.

And then I realized…  why I am hearing the music again.


And even like my heart man…  I literally journeyed through a labyrinth of the crypt.

And maybe my feelings were dead.  or.  Not dead but dreaming.  I think that is more appropriate.  (I like the way that turns).

And now they are awakening to a different dream.
Written by Cipher_O (Zero_Stillness)
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