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When 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
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Direct 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. Her 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. It'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.
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.
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) Sometimes 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. |
Christopher-Michael
Poems, Haiku and rough drafts that probably won't get much stage time. Archives
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