When It Rains

When it rains, all the pieces fragments broken chips of my life suddenly have meaning.

The feelings and emotions rise up, bubbling at the surface, anger love joy and depression boiling, overflowing at the core, so no shrink can handle the pay check

the pain of not knowing and fear of losing drip drip drips in my body creating a running river of shit no one needs.

That Saturday night when we kissed in the water, drops of rain gleaming on our cheeks like sweat, no obligation, shear blissful ignorance

there’s no need to think, just listen to Him cry, each shower a baptism, each drop a blessing

I’m ten thousand feet up, soaring over cities swimming in clouds, no need for worry or work, and all I can think about is the rain

the emotions in my body seep out of my mind, finally, being exposed to air after centuries in the tomb.

I’m ranting, I’m sick, I’m tired, I’m done, I need some coffee.

I don’t want money, fame, success or happiness, all I want is you

your beautiful smile, your kissable lips, your warm embrace, your deep sweet eyes, yourself and you.

I’m not great, I’m not even good, but I’m here and loving, in love and in love with you

I’m skinny, tall, and awkward, I’m cheesy, clichéd, annoying, and boring, I talk funny, stutter, rant, and don’t make sense, but hey, I got you once didn’t I?

No one’s perfect, not even you, but no one tries either, so I’m trying and wishing and praying that you hear me.

Puddles, streams, water covered pavement: step splash, stomp splash, skip hop slide splash, a depressed smile upon my face.

When it rains, I walk, think, try to forget. As if the rain drops would erase all the painful memories, and infect my brain with a perfect world

but I don’t want to forget, I want reality not happiness.

I hear the first drops pounding on the roof and I know I’m awake, this is real, this is life.

No sunshine can legitimize thoughts like this. So bright and fake, giving most an artificial sense of happiness, the perfect weather, but no, reality is rain, dark, dank, damned dreary days are what lie ahead.

It’s your life, your choice, and if you want to live in the sunshine all your life, that’s your decision. But when you’re ready for real love, I’ll be waiting outside in the rain, ready to sweep you off your feet.

GK

Life

On the shores of the Bay, a man stands, physically exhausted, emotionally dead.

His tired eyes squeeze out the holy water of sorrow, the ultimate damnation of depression, doping diving drowning

the rocky water beneath the cliff calls out to the man, as if preaching to the congregation in his mind, nearly ready to testify.

This man who lives by the book, cries by the book, sleeps by the book, and curses the institution’s name who issued the book

who falls to his knees waiting for a sign from the greater who inhabits the oblivion, living breathing, trying dying.

He listens to the devilled lecturer teaching the biological facts which take away from the psyche, from the being, from the soul,

the man who craves the burning, dry high taste of mother earth’s marijuana, the crisp, drip sip of her partner’s brutish beer.

The legality of youth and suppression of freedom, why have the right to speak if one cannot be heard?

His loving parents watch him leave, lose his faith, and lose his legitimate self, searching for his fathered religion that he is meant to follow.

His Friends, companions, society of peaceful observers, watch wait wish wisdom of the world would wash down the waves of worshipful silence.

Sh, listen, the pounding of the lover’s organ trying to escape, the jumping, and fighting, to escape the jail cell of his ribs

his love is not of her, tis the idea of the perfect companion, the always prepared mistress, a wife, a friend, yet his mid educational institution of immaturity lacks that which he wishes to obtain

for that he prepares his sign of retaliation:

Let the thumb rest a while, the pointer has no need, the pinkie’s just a hindrance, the inverted finger for which billions of vows have been written drawn toward the palm, while the middle gives a fuck you to all humanity.

Fuck you love, the almighty poison which drives men from heavenly ecstasy to hell like misery

fuck you god, the starter of wars, the puppet master of life, and the guiding force behind the world’s pain

fuck you world, the place of piss-drunk prodigies, center stage for the awful ensemble to ruin the only venue available

fuck you self, the pain in my brain, the fucked up person he is, the man’s fucking conscious, fighting to fuck off his thoughts.

There’s no need for the poor feeble man of the ocean to feel this unholy pain, why not the celebratory longing for pussy, rejection of cock, need to fuck, it’s the human experience so why waste it?

Give me some weed, give me some drink, give me some deaf self-righteous and miserable shrink, so I can finally tell my story, don’t judge me, don’t fucking judge me, so here you are.

Read this poem, bleed this poem, feed this poem, need this poem, this poem is not for me for her, for you for he, for his of hers, for dick for cunt, drunk or sober, living or dead, it is for everyone and anyone.

As the man breathes in he steps, breathes out he runs, holds his breath he jumps, a scream of delightful fear and he falls.

GK

What is a Poem?

What is a poem?

A poem is something that lets me be me, lets you be you, lets everything be everything.

A poem is the blush breeze and perfume steam of the earth’s blazing breath.

A poem is the naked magic of one’s imagination, anything that they are or that they think.

A poem is desiring to explore the embrace of her soft dark smile, sacred broken kisses, the throbbing heart of my poetry blazing across oceans, sailing on fire.

The ghost of myself staring into my eyes upon the fever red smoke of eternity.

A poem is a young child laughing through the windowless glass of the universe, angels who fall, demons that rise.

A poem can dance, a poem can sing, a poem can bleed, a poem can live.

It is the secret that every man knows, always surrounded with joy and sorrow,

A poem is the emotion of emotion.

A poem is tangible, not to touch, but to thought.

A poem is a prisoner, a poem is a jailer, a poem is rich, and a poem is poor,

The wild brilliant color of poetry is the call for revolution; it brings peace to those who have lost their belief in forgiveness, it forgives those who have lost belief in peace.

 A poem is a question, and it’s an answer.

The question is not what is, but what isn’t. What isn’t a poem?

GK

The Journey

Step after step after step, the continuous journey, starting anywhere, but going nowhere.

With every step, I get even closer to nothing, no knowledge of where I am or where I’m headed.

Every man I meet, blank face and staring with a neutral mask of nothingness sprawled across his features, like the mime of humanity.

He walks falls runs crawls, looking for reason but committing treason, against what his ambitions has lead him to pursue.

The result, the solution and purpose of his quest, the answer to man, not self yet him.

The body not the soul, the man not the being, what differentiates the human from a mineral is the concept of ideas, feelings, emotions, human beings must have these qualities, without our beliefs we are 

just that, a rock, cold and motionless.

Open your mind, my mind is free, without worry or fear just write, pen and paper, fingers to type, let your heart sing to the world, accepted or not, you will be heard.

The purpose of speech is expression, emotion, my poetry in motion, touches those souls that are ready to except real pain and joy in life.

So whatever your journey, wherever you are going, whoever  you meet, and whatever you do, keep pen in your hand and some paper by your side.

The end of my journey is near, my walk of struggle come to a close, and all I have to show for it is this, my writing, my thoughts, and my life.

GK

The Truth About Skinny White Kids (A Spoken Word Poem)

Hi, I’m white, and I am god...damn...skinny!

I know by the look of me, I’m supposed to be one of those losers who can,

Recite 150 digits of pi,

While playing dungeons and dragons,

And listening to Jared Diamond on books on tape for fun.

But no, I can however,

Recite every lyric from 10 different underground rap songs,

While doing flares,

Spinning on my head,

And beating Kobe, LeBron, and Dwyane Wade at NBA 2K12 with one eye tied behind my back!

I am sick and tired of sexy, muscular, tan surfers with sexy foreign accents,

Who don’t own shirts and get 20 women just by saying hi!

The Skinny White kids don’t get enough appreciation!

And so, it fall to me,

To stand up for the weak and pale population of this world and say,

We are the new Leonardo DiCaprios,

And we are taking over the world!

We’re those nerds creating websites,

We’re the pimply minimum wage freak who hands you your happy meal and asks “do you want some ketchup with your order?”

We’re the masterminds of Facebook,

The internet,

And Old Spice Deodorant!

We are everywhere and we want some respect!

Not only are we everywhere, but we are damn sexy!

Some of the hottest girls alive are married to skinny white guys!

Bill Walton! Hugh Fucking Hephner!

Hugh Hephner gets more girls then Brad Pit, 50 Cent, and Snoop Dogg put together!

We are the heart and soul of society,

So you better respect the skinny ass white kids of the world!

Sure we aint Gangster, we aint fly!

But we’ve got swagger for days!

We don’t waste our time wolfing down Double Whoppers like it’s our job!

We stay inside and drink apple juice,

Through curly straws,

And eating wonder bread sandwiches,

That have had the crusts cut off by our mommies, who also adds the special ingredient, love!

That’s stupid you say?

Childish?

Silly?

Well how the fuck you think we get names like McLovin huh?

Because we love so good!

So Usher, Hugh Jackman, Ray J, King Henry III, Rocky Balboa, Andre the Giant, and Arnold Schwarzenegger...

Y’all can get in line to take on the power of us,

But I promise you,

Our Asthma induced, pimple covered, near and far sighted asses,

Will kick all your butts to the moon!

And we will take over the world!

Then everyone will be smarter,

Funnier,

Sexier,

Whiter

And that...much...skinnier!

GK

May, 2011

To Allen Ginsberg (inspired by poems by Allen Ginsberg)

All the accomplishments in my world, and all my ambitions have been crushed because of you.

your beautiful prose, and disturbing imagery make me cry and weep because I know I will never meet your literary genius.

the metaphors, images, sentences, absence of punctuation, improper grammar, yakketayakking screaming vomiting, your beautiful emotions of disturbed evil.

the simple subtle serenade to your one deep love, creating romance out of harlequin speeches of suicide,

the disturbing beauty of demanding instantaneous lobotomy.

the sex, drugs, religion, death, boxcars boxcars boxcars, and the natural honesty of jazz or sex or soup.

Since when have potheads and junkies been called angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection?

since when has political commentary consisted of the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism?

and since when has someone been so fearless as to say what he means, and mean what he says?

none before would have the courage to create such social unrest, and refuse to conform to conformity.

semen, cocksman, whoring, hungover, red eyed in supernatural ecstasy, fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, leaving the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago.

what can I say?

No such beautiful horror can ever be achieved by someone so nobody as I am.

your Howl for perfection is met with a cry of admiration, where I say love, you say dear sweet rosy unattainable desire.

how do I change and become as perfect a proseman as you?

how do I change and formulate such a perfect political outcry as go fuck yourself with your atom bomb?

I cannot change to become the perfect poet, because the perfect poet has already spoken the holy words that will be forever echoed in heaven as the perfect Howl of all humanity.

-Santa Cruz, 2011

GK

I'm My Own Narrative

I don’t need you. You have let me dangle out on this cliff for too long and I am done. I thought that there was something wrong with me all along, but you’re the one who's fucked up. You will be sorry you ever let me go, and when you come running back to me, I’ll just say I told you so. I thought you were the one I need, but the one I really need is myself. I’d rather know who I am and not have you, then be with you and lose my identity. So thank you. Thank you for making me realize that I am my own person. I don’t need anyone to define me; I don’t want to be someone else’s piece of work. So you know what? I’m done plagiarizing baby, I’m a fucking original. So go find another heart to break, while I sit here, content with the solitude. Have a good life, without me.

GK