<![CDATA[ Christopher-Michael - Poems]]>Sun, 15 Mar 2026 17:19:40 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[Radioactive You Are]]>Tue, 01 May 2018 03:02:41 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/radioactive-you-areWhen you enter the room there’s a glow about you
a radiance
you’re radio active. 
 
Your eye lids must be lead
the way they always fall over the poisonous glance
that leaks from your eyes.
Tears must be heavy water.
Lead shielding averting your gaze
or maybe it’s your lies
that won’t let you look anyone in the eye.   
 
Your hands are spent nuclear rods
so hot to the touch
you burn every bridge you cross. 
 
It’s not that I’m avoiding you
you just can’t hear me through this shielded apron
and hazmat suit.
I can’t let your presence
break down the bonds
that are holding me together.
I Do Not Allow
the Destructive Natural Approach
of Domineering Narcissistic  Animals
to unravel the DNA of my character. 
 
Your mouth
a nuclear melt down
a failed Fukushima you can’t contain.
Eventually
your contamination destroys the life around you
dead fish
disfigured rumors tumors
washing up on everyone’s sure. 
 
You sway and swagger
a well constructed tower
scraping the sky
bending in the breeze
or rocking in an earthquake
while your ego is more poorly constructed Jenga tower
on a wobbly
three leg table
surrounded by drunks.
You’re fragile
your ego that is. 
 
I think
you think
you breeze into a room
a fresh laundry scented wind
but you are less a person
more tornado
flinging cows
farm equipment
and sharks.
You’re a Sharknado.  
Where you should see people
you see trailer parks
your ego a relentless wind
determined to prove we picked the wrong place to live.
 
We are bowling pins.
You are ball
so afraid you’ll wind up in the gutter
you keep knocking us down
pretending it’s just a game
you play too much. 

You think yourself                                                                                      
an unassuming buttery fly flittering on dandelions
but you be the weed
choking the life out of the garden
taking up more space than you deserve.
Who would want greener grass if we have to deal with that much of your shit?
 
Your soul is lying to you.
You are Godzilla
tap dancing in down town Tokyo
you are the bull
and SHIT!
We
are the china shop. 
 
Your ego is hard to swallow,
like poet chocking on mic.
You blot out the sun
like poet can’t see the light
of the next line. 
 
Maybe
you wouldn't be in the shadows
if you stopped
blowing out everyone's candles. 

                                                        Dedicated to who ever needs to hear it.

                                                                          ~Christopher Michael
]]><![CDATA[Tour The Sky (1999)]]>Sat, 22 Oct 2016 21:55:25 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/tour-the-sky-1999Direct your eyes
 to the skies
and see if you can find
the thin black line
where the Earth and heavens meet.

See the twinkle
of the sprinkled stars across the black expanse
 as they dance their ballroom dance.

Often times
you will find
 a familiar glow,
the lunar star stilling the show.

See the darker shades
as they begin to fade
from black to purple to a true sky blue.

Outlined in silver is shroud
of puffy white clouds
and if you didn’t know
 that ribbon of light is called a rainbow.
A bow that appears after the rains
and what it contains
is foundational,
for every color imaginable.

Still touring the skies 
with your eyes
see it glow yellow orange then red.
See the rays of light
divide the days from light
making the green stuff live
asking for nothing just wanting to give.

Now I ask you.
What could be more beautiful than this
majestic canvas
that hovers over us?

Well I say nothing,
nothing but the almighty God that painted it.
To sum this up in one little phrase

That’s giving God his praise.
 
                                                                                    ~Christopher Michael (1999)


This is poem marks the beginning of an era for me. I think this is the first poem I sat down and purposely consructed. 
]]><![CDATA[reduced & recycled]]>Thu, 20 Oct 2016 03:27:57 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/reduced-recycledHer tears fall like rain forest
acres of flowers and flesh chopped down daily.
Her pedals poisoned by the pollution of perversion.
She blooms every color from beautiful black blossom to snow white lily.
 
From human to thing she's reduced.
Passes from pedophile to pervert she's recycled.
Her virginity can never be restored.
 
Planted in the whores din l
ike trash that missed the recycle bin,
she'd be safer in the center of a lions din.
God did it for Daniel I'm sure he'll do it again.
 
Imagine living life like a plastic bottle
body filled
emptied,
soul crushed
then thrown away.

You amount to little more than trash on the side of the highway.
Look up from your low place as we celebrate Earthday,
you dread the next day
numb by birthday
no rest for you weary worn out
any day awake
or not high
is a bad day.

~Christopher Michael


I wrote this in 2010 as an example of the direction I wanted my youth poets to go.


]]><![CDATA[Fear of The Living Black Male Character]]>Sun, 04 Oct 2015 03:30:10 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/october-03rd-2015It's the last few minutes of "Fear of The Walking Dead".
We’ve been introduced to three black seemingly strong male characters.
The last few minutes ends with the murder of the friend/drug dealer.
 
I could feel the force of the bullet penetrating his gut.
The inevitable approached like a roaring train,
or maybe a tornado.
I can smell the moisture of the pending storm and bullshit in the air.
Another image of a brutally murdered
pigmently concentrated man on the screen. 
 
But that failed to be enough.
 
The friend/drug addict who ended his friends existence as a human
and ushered him into the living dead came back for more.
The anger on my tongue tasted like every good for me, but disgusting vegetable I was forced to hover over at dinner. Maybe it was the freshly fertilized dirt they grew in.
I could taste the blood in my mouth as I bit my tongue.
The image of an undead black man run over, and over, and over, again until the drug addict deads the undead.
Another brutal slaying,
an image seared in my mind like the grill lines of rancid steak.
     
                                              Yaaay!
                                                           They hired us!
                                                                                         We're on TV!

But the picture they give me,
says there is no hope for me,
in the future,
of anyone's apocalypse. 

~Christopher-Michael

By the end of episode two, all of the black faces we were introduced to where killed. I just want to know that there's hope for me in the future. Shout out to Deep from Houston VIP for the writing workshop shop that squeezed these words out of me.



]]><![CDATA[father]]>Sat, 13 Jun 2015 14:23:18 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/father

noun   fa·ther   \ˈfä-thər\

DEFINITION

1:     A man who has begotten a child.

2:     A man who shows up and takes responsibility.

3: An unwitting centurion compelled to watch off-spring sleep with the goal of ensuring they take that next breath. Staring at their rising chest as if reading Gods warranty that father will never see his tomorrows last     breath.

4:    A man that bounds out of bed as if to catch the thief in the night risking midnight sacrifices of pinky toes, on the alter of dresser legs and door jams in ebony painted, shadow scarred rooms, just to see a glimpse of his future.

When a man would rather watch the peace on the face of his child as it sleeps, than watch weekly wars, with other men, waging battle over balls.

That man,

is in love. 

~Christopher-Michael
02/12/15 
Inspired by Twain Dallas
Featured in:
NUCLEAR ORANGE (Cupid is The Devil)
availalble on Amazon.com and Walmart.com
]]><![CDATA[Swarm]]>Sat, 30 May 2015 09:42:49 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/swarm


Something happened.
I'm not sure which something it is
but something is always happening and now
I am angry
again!
I am outraged.
We are hurt.
We are mortified.
We swarm.

We buzzed with anticipation of judgements reached
but it was not the nectar we wanted.
Our honey is tainted,
we will swarm.

We will not allow the bear to spill anymore of our honey.
So we will destroy the nest before they get a chance to touch us again.
We will not target the bear that threatens are home
we will target the trees that hold up the hive
and the flowers that provide the nectar,
we will swarm.

We will descend upon our own hive and destroy it utterly.
We will show the entire world that we are not to be trifled with.
Give the verdict we want or we will destroy the flowers that support us!!
We trample over the very thing that keeps our hive in place
we will chop down our tree.
We will swarm.

How dare you,
we swarm.

~Christopher-Michael
Inspired by a poem written by Chucky Black    


]]><![CDATA[War Words (Ultraviolet) 2010]]>Sat, 16 May 2015 19:33:57 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/war-words-ultraviolet-2010
Mad props to you and your crew too it's true.
Most of you spit matchstick flame blue
but I spit yellow stars I'm bigger than you.

My lines are diamonds you're still writing granite.
Your metaphors are meteors mine are planets.
You're writing poems
I'm birthing poets.

I lead teams to victory my futures shining clearly
all you got to look forward to is your history.

So spit as hard you can and let your light glow
Then come see me. I spit ultraviolet I make young ones grow.

I PRAY for the day the pupil surpasses the master
If you think you're faster then take the pen from my palm.
Till then...
Wash your hands!
And MAYBE...
I'll let you carry the microphone stands.

I'm not fat
this ain't no gut
9 months ago the speaker bust a nut.
I'm bout to give birth to another poet.

Missed your chance to battle me you're lucky.
Best that you could hope to be is my flunky.
Now run along get some air freshener
I'm gonna show you how to make your flows funky.

There's a fundamental flaw floating in your frontal faculty
if you're thinking about battling me.
You can't afford the Phe- tote my mic for me
and maybe I'll teach you how to almost be me.

Rich might Shake but I cause quakes,
fuck an 8.8,
I make the Earths core break,
Haiti and Chile were minor poetry breaks.  

You're a Jason Voorhees poet beating up little camp kids.
I'm a Freddy Krueger poet I'll even beat you in your dreams kid.

I'm Slamzilla,
you're a papier-mâché Tokyo beggin to be stomped.

You're an origami poet just waiting to be folded.
Ssshhh… stand to my right wash your, hands here's my pen I'll let you hold it.

Whether I see you as my successor or not no matter.
Step to me B and get Shattered.
It's cute the way your ink prematurely splattered.
Cream...
Trying to spitfire and all I see is steam.
You're still training.
Your poetic diaper you're still ink staining.       

You best wear your rubber rhymes when you step to this
I spit syphilis lines I'm so sick with this.
Get your inkoculation before you come for this.
I'm going to Tina you turner you're gonna need an anesthetists.

You couldn't hold the hands on a stop watch
no wonder you're hating on the grandfather clock.
Dude you're gonna need to call the Doc,
cause you're just a quak, a lame duck,
barley new born pup
you don't even see what I'm saying scruffy.  
You can't carry this my pen it weighs a pound puppy.

 I think I left somebody out
                                                                time keeper STOP!....
NEVERMIND!!

I've already out slammed the other six dwarfs but I’m refuse to step to Doc.

All hail Jane Marie when her words start to gather
but no matter how powerful the queen she's still just a pawn.
Cause as long as the king is still standing the game can go on.

Hear ye hear ye;

            To all who bare witness to my words. Hence forth and forever more I will out shine them that oppose me like a yellow star against the glow of the candle they can't hold to me. I will spit life, till I extinguish their flame like so many wet matches for we remain unmatched. I, the self-sustained nuclear reaction. They, the smoldering embers of a urine soaked campfire. Let the sweet stench of their extinguished spark rekindle the remembrance of their fate.

Hootie Hooeth
Snooty Smooth Penz

                                                                                                                ~Christopher Michael

War Words was written in 2010 for a poetry slam battle at Killeen Poetry Slam. No poets were hurt in the making of this poem. Make no mistake I love and respect every poet referenced in this poem.
Purchase Book
]]><![CDATA[WORKING TITLE FOR MOM POEM]]>Mon, 11 May 2015 05:02:03 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/working-title-for-mom-poem
This poem is dedicated to my mother, and is titled:

“Mom”
or
“Mother”
or
“thank you for being my mother”
or
“thank you for being my father”
or
“thank you for not trying to be my friend”
or
“thank you for making me think we were rich and never letting me see the financial struggle on your face”         
(you hid it well but I know better now)
or
“look what my mother made!”
or
“the woman that painted my picture but trusted me to color it in”
or
“I’d like to believe I was worth your struggle”
or
“thank you for still being there for me”
or
“thank you for still being here for me”
or
“I love you Mom!”

~Christopher-Michael


]]><![CDATA[Fire Hose]]>Sat, 02 May 2015 03:41:26 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/fire-hose
hai·ku
俳句

They riot over championships.
We riot over injustice.
The steady drip of water can wear down a rock
or reshape a mountain.
A fire hose can create a directed blast of water that measures upwards of 400 pounds per square inch.
That’s equivalent to the full concentrated weight of a male gorilla standing in a space too small for even a pawn on a chessboard.

The fire hose
is used to extinguish a flame before its heat can be felt.
Before the flame leaves its telltale black scorch marks.

A pressure washer
is used to clean the black and grime off walls.
It’s used on sidewalks to wash away dead leaves,
animal feces
or the blackened stains left by our machines.

Fire hoses have also been used to extinguish the flame of a people whose fire was ignited by a desire to be equal,
they dared to march in streets until their heat could be felt.

Pressure washers or “water cannons” are used to wash away the black and drown out the voice.
It can flick a man off his feet like

          check

                              mate,

they killed our King. 

You can see video of such cannons hurling droplets with the weight of 400-pound gorillas,
cleaning sidewalks and city streets of people
like the black of them is a stain to be removed
with all the reverence afforded to dead leaves and animal shit.

NEVER FORGET!!

Life is a curious thing.

Animal feces are essential in the spreading and germination of some seeds.
The decay of dead things feeds the tallest trees and the deepest grass roots.
Water hoses can also bring the fluid of life to the most barren of places.

Did you know,
that the stench of feces and decaying things is flammable?

Keep killing us.
Keep shitting on us.
You are only making us stronger,
and eventually there will not be enough material
to create the hoses
to contain the water
needed
to put out our flame!

~Christopher Michael (Persona Non Grata, 2015)
 

Fire Hose is a just one of the many poems featured in Christopher Michael's first book, Persona Non Grata.
]]><![CDATA[I Know An Angel]]>Sat, 25 Apr 2015 14:54:44 GMThttps://www.mrmichael310.com/poems/i-know-an-angelSometimes Angels give up their wings to live among us.
Perhaps they envy life among us dirt preferring green grass, over gold streets.

I know an Angel
and even with out her forfeited feathered phalanges she floats into a room she’s super…
Natural,
like the super soft naps on her crown
she’s a queen.

Forsakes her wings but hides her halo in her smile.
Heaven hovers in her words.
She encourages me with just a hello .
Her hugs warm me from the inside out.

But The problem with pure personalities preferring to be people playing in the dirt
is that the soil our souls sit in has been corrupted,
subjected to frailties since the fall.

If we’re not fighting our flesh
it’s fighting us,
all out war!
The Geneva Convention should consider cancer a war crime.
A weapon of mass destruction .
The only counter attacks we have poisons the very ground we’re trying to take back.

Chemo causes the crowns of kings and queens to crack and crumble.

Our earth has low self esteem
unable to accept better.
We have a tendency to reject the best.
Ask the Lamb and the Lion of Judah.
Maybe her body is rejecting her,

cause she
                     is too good
                                             for us…

                                                                                       KEEP FIGHTING

                                                                                ~Christopher Michael

This poem was written a few years ago for a friend fighting cancer. She won that war!! Now another friend needs these words.]]>