Humble Mouths

Raw Perspectives! Wordplay from active minds and humble mouths.

The Children

Commission me with thigh high expectations on changing the world wouldn’t you?
They all are bright-eyed and promising, not yet awakened to the negativity surrounding them, protect them couldn’t you?

They love so hard and are born so honest.
Only to shed skin and become liars, and haters, and drunks and colonists.
Spreading infection to their peers like we did.
Raping the innocence in them, we take pleasure in their most horrific comprehension.
These kids…

Have no future beyond our dissatisfaction with ourselves.
Neglect was never a contraceptive,
We bury ourselves in the latest technology and ipads are not birth control just controlling birth.

Retinal scans and “smart” mobilization, tools to keep us tuned out of our starving nation.
Focused on baking more bread in excess, while stealing every grain of wheat from starving nations.
How can I focus on success?

When I was born into a race that doesn’t even have rights yet?

Don’t speak to me of equality because my son is not comforted with words.
Don’t lie to me of education because you lied to my wife with those words.
Don’t tell me there are reparations when there are more sanctuaries for plants and birds.
There are more clauses and laws for immigration, irrigation and none yet for black, African-American, Moorish, negro… Niggers don’t get the awards.

I’m dissatisfied and disenfranchised.
My history starts with a boat ride.
When the population, the staggering numbers does not coincide with the Triangle Trade…
In denial I took your Apple Pie crumbs but I now refuse your lemonade.

It’s filled with diabetes and my children love it.

They have no future serenading your Star Spangled Banner,
But even they have no where else to call home.




I, I, I can’t seem to shake the feeling, no… the urge.
The stomach churning necessity to purge,
The climatic rise accompanied by goosebumps and hormonal spikes.
I recognize the surge of explicit pleasure when it bites my hand every time I feed it.

There’s a thing within my skin that lives to collect as much sin as it can.
Some call it demon, but I call it man.
It’s purpose is destruction and it’s plan is insatiable; it’s contribution is nothing but contraband as is bland.

It craves lust, desires gluttony. It is a sex addict, a thief, a murderer yet looks so human. Too human to be so monstrous.

It’s obsessed with pain and grief. It yearns for attention and when I cannot supply…
It demands MORE. Every strand of resistance takes fatal blows. Bad ideas become good and I do as always after the 12th hour; I give in.

*** Photo credits go to:

What Would It Be?

If you could ask one question to the universe, God or even the most prolific person you’ve never met what would it be?
Where would you summon the words from?
Would they frame your entire character or describe a small extension of your being?

In that moment would it be your greatest experience?
Would you have the courage to vocally ask it… that thing that’s been eating at your existence?
Who would it be directed to and most definitely what about?
No regs.

But before you utter your query, that festering sore you’ve managed to cultivate into grammar and syntax;
Remember some things are not meant to be comprehended or divulged to people who have no need to know.
Even worse, sometimes certain things should not manifest themselves.

Yet still, if you could conjure one single open ended thought for someone or something else that you absolutely revere to explain; what would it be?

Rewrite Love


You still want those letters I used to close with unparalleled love, the stuff 2Pac called “Unconditional.”
I don’t write you like I used to, the concept of romance has become quite conditional.
Fuck all those poetry cliches about roses, chocolates and long ass words that contain more syllables than metaphysical.
I wanna woo you again, tun up the pum pum with phrases and reaffirm your belief in love something spiritual.

So, I’m writing to you on some “dear love of my life” type shit,
Using bold face fonts to express intensity when I type shit.
I’m going to underline every promise and oath I make in this poetical decree.
So you can reread it as a reminder to remind yourself that “he loves me.

We spend our whole lives looking for someone worthy enough to spend our meaningless lives with, in the craziest pursuit to make it mean anything.
A journey unlike any of the experiences we encounter, unable to rewrite or retry many things.
Awakening along the path to find that in time we were never worthy of loving until we loved ourselves and our history.

I only wanna learn to love you and uncover my lineage.
Be the highlight of your meaningless journey, it would truly be an honor.
I watch you sleep and ponder the fantasy of how beautiful it would be if we couldn’t really age.
Because the preconception of losing you is a burden, a horror, mortal trauma, rape to a slave.

Dear July Love,

I hope our ancestors were right about resurrection and pyramid burials weren’t all in vain. They say slaves didn’t tote those ton blocks, a community constructed those grails. I wanna rewrite our California love, and tell a version that draws more tears than the Montague-Capulet story. I wanna immortalize our matrimony on oak sleeves.

With love,
Your Pharaoh

*** Photo credits due to: UNL’s+Jewell+co-edits+first+book+to+reveal+Willa+Cather’s+private+letters

… To Learn, Care

Wiser the man that realizes the plan of the wo-man….
I do then, refuse to believe it’s huge to accuse all men of being mules.
But then why; am I and every guy less in tune with the tunes of our common muse?

“I’m just tryna figure her out…”

And when I do, I hope she still cares about,
The way we exchange change when love is on the drought.
Biblical men say abundance of the heart controls the whole mouth.
So I say I love her 50-11 times but mommy never showed me how to love her like a shrine.
Daddy never showed me how to nurture my creative mind,
But the wife expects me to woo her like she’s fine wine; let her breathe like the reds and make toasts to her like the whites.
When I say breathe I mean exhale and when I say toast I mean impale. (You get the respectable and sexual connotations on every relations’ holy grail.)

But I should note;
I haven’t cared for her like I’ve learned.
To busy being selfish when the prize on the shelf is being burned.
It’s quite complicated un-learning, re-yearning the same barriers we’ve overturned.
Screaming regrets like overtures just to arrive at my initial conclusion.. I haven’t cared for her like I’ve been learning or like I can learn.
So wiser is the man that realizes the plan… of the woman trying to teach me how to care; for her.

Comfort Paradigm

She said WRITE about me and it sounded like the way she said it translated to all caps


So I massaged my pen out of its dreary in motion to craft love out of whatever components compose ink.
Visions escapaded through my mind of his and her toothbrushes on the sink,
Her and his mugs in the cupboard… kissy face emojis with the left wink.

She’s been here through war and battle,
Saddle down ready to ride,
No spackle or foundation to hide the raw pores of our foundation.
Reaching across the thread count for my heartbeat, powder-fragranced chest fixation.
The primordial pillow, organic sleep number.
My tired heart beats relentlessly for her, almost like excuse the sweat on my forehead and obvious anxious approach but what’s your number? Again!

I needed it starred as the favorite in my #droid (hashtag necessary) contact list,
So I trusted the spirits of forefathers and married her and her foremothers then sealed the union with a kiss.
Femininity that excites my hidden atomic genius,
The Egyptian lion in me… I touch roots due to her proof, what rises is a real us.

After the ambers dim repetition easily sneaks in and makes love normal,
Formal experiences of fancy dress and fresh catch simmer to a slop; not abnormal.
Not unheard of but unacceptable to say the least.
Sexy engaging phrases and romantic touches become overused statements and nonchalant brushes let alone the beast.
To say the least…
Fiery blissful sex dissolves into formulated routines with step sequences.
Passionate embraces and aerobic positions transform into hovering and tiresome work.

At least we have hope, if all else fails we’ll always have recreational drugs.
We’ll always have facial expressions and excruciating gestures that function better than warning signs.
Mundane as the highlight of our centerfold in the comfort paradigm.


Oooooh you got your kids in the streets and the cops on the beat,
Beating the unfortunate, we was hoping for fortunate peace.
Then you always in the club with a dude on some drugs, who is always preaching to you about marriage, kids and love.
Bitch… You hit the restroom he got your drink in one hand and her ass in the other.
She not kin to you but call your moms her mother.

Pause… And why the fuck are you barefooted in this club?
Hoping you meet a man with some class, praying he gets a glimpse of that ass, all for the love of fast; cash.

Pump breaks no pumps with your fast ass,
Momma raised you better, daddy begged you never, ever lower your birth given standards to the level of sea bass,
Mansion, apartment, shack, house… You picking kids and addresses tryna Mash for some stats?

Day rolling with your baby in the backseat,
Digesting on secondhand smoke like flaxseed,
But your baby lacks fiber, your new man’s blowing weed in the front seat, windows down… who’s the wiser?
And you pull, toke, fuck celebration and apple cider next to an undercover cop at the stop light imagine the size of division between you and your child after those strobes come on and the sirens blare.
Can you say, “how many child services employees can we fit in here?”
Relinquished your born on some cool shit,
Nigga couldn’t even buy you weave but you buy him weed with your child support when you should’ve spent that shit on fiber… buy some fucking flaxseed!

I don’t see the connection; you as an empress, this lame as a king…
Didn’t we build the mother fu- king pyramids?
Kings and pyramids, pharaohs and high priests,
Empress such and such revered from the Nile river to the Mississippi East.
We’ve been here before… in this country, that country, and handcuffed to this backseat.
Where do we revert from Draino minds to Nefertiti?
From county to Nubia? Fed time to worship?
We need a resurrection for real.
We need a language and seal,
We need a passage and steal,
We need our own history.
Because his story has been written before you got locked to caprice backseats…. And even though he told you, you bought it and cashed in for square meals and orange overalls.

When you used to be the baby in the backseat.

Conscious and Awareness


To be creative is as to be a psychopath.
Cognitively or unconsciously germinating fluorescent fruits, molding their nutrition into serving carafes.
Fine things always need room to breathe.

Long neck drunkards should be seated, staggering barley by the pint barely
past the point of sober giraffes.
It’s only a perspective for the inquisitive minds.
Ink-with-histamines; life text.
Wooden planks come as one with concrete and barnacles; family.
An even better phrase for success is taking advantage of the divisions within the opportunity.
Opportunist communities lynch mob loved ones like communist authority.

Assignment of beauty, cups filled approximately to their 50% markers. Admire the other side, the grass is always greener,
The sands are much softer, waves break then crash gently and the water, much cleaner.

But what lays await at the end?
Freedom, friends?
Mystery lends undergarments to eerie occurrences.
The currents currently undertaking that far out.
Can you trust the floorboards to hold you that far out?
Ancient trees dead a long time… doing hard time, withstanding those barnacles and constant criticism.

Bite sized sea devils doing their damnedest to hold strong between tides and the casual empty aquafina,
Resident seaweed waving in the sway like crowds at the FIFA arenas.

The Sun weighs in as head official from his box seat to cast order and opinion and inspite of all the awe you inspire;
There is one more superior than you…
The consciously aware you.

****Picture Title: Dromana Pier Bush Fire
Obtained from Flipboard Matt Elliot 500

Untitled Free Verse 1

Infinite void.

It’s like a damn sinkhole, fresh atop the upper ventricle.

Atriums collapse and muscles transform into serpent like critters.
Self consumption.
Suicide plots thicken among cellular levels.
Self destruction, death by minions.

No reincarnation just regret and guilt,
Existence used to be easier than this make shift bed I built.
Poised well to poison myself and fade out in a kilt.
Self degradation until the remaining resin left is silt.

Chagrin defines what coincidence does not defy.
Consummation with demons that I resurrected in ignorance and stupidity.
Rejecting the serendipity of bliss amiss times of well needed comfort for events of deserved anguish.
Fishing the soul for inaccuracies, inadequacies… incentives of inflection and preparation for imaginary adversaries.

To the average comprehension it’s all formatted word art with the cliche text fonts and Windows clipboard illustrations.
To angels its heresy and desecration of temple and all things heavenly to include divine manifestation.
Removal by drowning is self absorption, removal by jumping is self exaltation, as self propelling as a projectile through the mouth like bullets seem it seems the best way to exit scene is to…

Leave in a dream.

The 50

Ahhh, I’ve been around the whole world in my mind set.
Tripping to places skilled climbers couldn’t vision on their mind treks.
Some lands cry Jesus, others say witch, home land security says bitch and humble still can be serene like 9 million 900 thousand 99 monk steps.
Yelling Apache at the red dot until my vocal line’s strep.
I bet, in 50s that in the 50s, at least 50 columnists plagiarized the work of the Mayans as that of the colonists now take 50….

Bet their offspring sprung the same plagiarism in headlines during the Harlem Renaissance.

Spitting shit on your history smearing it in disgrace and covers,
Devil and reverse architect, hand in hand matrimonial lovers.
Decimated your history and made it his-story; cover.
Hung generations of every auto-generated culture in the name of…
Ssshhhh in vain.
Promptly between 10-4 constable gather the people in the market square.

Bodies of the redman slain for some land,
Torsos of the yellowman scattered on some land,
Necks of the blackman stretched between some lands; on a noose some hang,
Exhausted the brownman and fenced them outside of their lands,
Reverse psychology makes them the immigrants to their land.
Minds of the whiteman lobotomized for land, liberty and material pursuit.
No blue outside the corona and Jews meet liquidation in concentration camps; dead lands and horrendous aromas.

Breathe f*ck** breathe and then take 50.
Impregnated by the beast, dilution after 50,
Seeds bloom by doom gloom, dead by 50,
Years of age and crack, self, cops, current situations, kill all 50.
Niggers, wetbacks, spicks, towelheads, chinks and the other 50,
Mixed up mixed breed dogs forget how to academically work with 50.
Can’t add…. there’s an app for that, can’t read there’s an app for that, can’t spell T9 autocorrect in every app for that, can’t plot, can’t chart… so lost where’s the stars at…? Wtf is the app for that?!

Severance of man from land like thoughts from gland or wrist from hand… blood pools thicker than asphalt in all that black.
This isn’t about race, that’s a lie, this is a race.
To divide the races into 1st and last place.
It was never to a finish… line
Destined to be about the diminish line.
3rd cousin to Sir Poverty Line.
The monkeys we “came” from are slated to the inheritance of the earth we earned by birthright inheritance.
After all the nukes drop, gun pops, chipped brains circuit shock, melanin punches clocks, bath salts and crack rocks…


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