Favorite Color

I have never been able
to answer confidently that red or yellow or any color as being the one that resonates as my favorite.

Up until this month
my favorite color
has honestly been:
All of the colors, bitches.
I want all of the mf colors.
Who needs to have a favorite.

Last month someone asked
what's your favorite color?
I replied red.
It's the color of love.
I had hoped that you would
observe the pattern that red
would begin to play in your life.
I know it was a fruitless act.

Now, patterns
I recognize.
My mind has been conditioned
to observe patterns that repeat.
They are all around us.
I like to think of them as the universe

I know we possess millions of data a second, minute, day.
and
it's easy to mistake randon sightings  of something more than a few times
As the universe's presence.
But I am happier with my faith.
It's just the way I live.

So,
after that conversation
I began to notice the color
of Emerald Green.
It's such a beautiful color.
The color of money.
The color of success.

December is a perfect time
to believe in Mathmatical Theories.
To recognize patterns as they appear
in your mundane life.

Each time I go looking for a connection
the universe whispers in a wisdom
that I trust.
You are finished.
You can move on knowing you tried
even though you lied.
I am not in  love with the person who sees romantice red.
I wanted to wish upon that star
But stars are to bright
they burn you up.

The Universe just showed you a more honest way.

A Rollercoaster in America

(A poem by Vesta Lynn Richardson, french traduction by The Rat)

L'infinie douleur incurable de la découverte d'un amour. La lumière aveuglante. 
Nous tous, vivants et enracinés dans un espace dédié, sommes à jamais séparés.
Toujours à part, toujours loin.
Jusqu'au moment flou du désir de connexion.
Se créant dans un environnement harmonieux, propice, quand les réactifs et leurs catalyseurs sont enfin réunis.

Nous sommes tels des molécules, de simples jonctions énergétiques, 
Nous sommes unis dans notre attraction,
Et par ces lois nous avons fusionnés.

C'est l'affirmation de l'amour qui créa la première étincelle.
Puis qui a engendré la réaction en chaîne, celle qui arracha la nuit.
Le jeu,  la forêt en flammes, la forêt qui brûle encore,
La forêt brûlera jusqu'à un jour nous ramener à la terre d'où nous sommes venus.

Fuck Those Elite MF

I am an exhibitionist.

Will says it's Bougie to be so crazy all the time.

I say I cannot help it. I just want to live the

Bourgeoisie lifestyle

Humble

God, if you are listening
I am still searching for something useful.
I have faith.
I am just struggling with my fear-based mentality.

I really hate that life continues to
slap me with the poor stick.
I am so over feeling poor.
There is only so much positivity one can muster when you are always living poor.

Poetry Arrived

This poem has been with me for the longest time. It reminds me of the first time I felt the words speak to me. My words will never compare but still I strive.

“Poetry” by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Le Rat writes...

Elle écrivait des lignes en silence,
dessinant des lettres sur un cahier,
elle regardait le ciel parfois, parfois elle ne regardait rien.
Simplement elle écrivait car il le fallait.
Elle portait en son cœur l'amour, le désespoir et la haine.
Les sentiments que tout le monde porte.
Mais elle en faisait un vin au goût de l'espoir.

Elle n'aimait pas conclure dans le négatif
Elle avait le courage et la force.

Son nom ressemblait à celui d'une montagne à gravir.

Je ne l'ai jamais vu mais son écho calme mes nuits.

Death of Me

This is the last cigarette
I will hold in my hand, between my first two fingers.
Listen to the sound of the lighter. Click!
Light me up, baby. You know you want it.

I take the first long drag from the cigarette
and inhale the smoke into my lungs.
I slowly expel the poison.
I watch as the gray clouds of smoke float toward the atmosphere.

I feel my body begin to demonstrate the ritual effects
reacting to this cigarette just like the one before this and the one before that.
I love the sensation.
 I have to be brutally honest.
I will not give them up.
I want to shoot it through my veins. I want to smoke it through my hole.
I don't ever want to stop smoking this last cigarette.

The trouble with cigarettes, nothing lasts forever.
I don't want to predict how I will die.
I don't need to look into the crystal ball to see
the lines written on my face.
I am out of control.
Addicted to the little white lies.

I am a junkie. I want my cigarettes.
I am a whore, I will sale myself for one more.
Pack me a box of Camel lights.
I am going to smoke and feel.
Tomorrow, I will deal with the death of me.
*****************************************
(This isn't finished and I did not proofread.)
I just have to put it out there because I am struggling again.
I made it through another day without smoking.
I wrote this  piece of shit a few months ago.
I fell off the wagon so many times now.
I don't want to talk about my love/hate relationship with cigarettes.
Day five, just Do It!

Bird Sing Me a Song of Sorrow

I am walking on a quiet wooded road close to my apartment.
I am listening to Ryan Adams, "Touch Feel, Lose."
I am in the zone on the road, listening to the rhythm of the song.
Then it hits me.
I realize I like you.
I didn't know it until that moment.
I knew I had fun when we spent time together.
You took me to the special Portland places.
Filling my days wonder.
Standing on that back road to my home.
I could picture your face so completely
that it's
as if you were standing in front of me.
I could feel the door opening to a palpable existence.
I closed my eyes and willed this love to literally come to pass.
I walked home, to wait.

Jimmy Hoffa's Hill

It's cold in the garage
I light my cigarette.
The gray smoke billows
in ribbon tendrils around my head.
I turn my mind to poetry.
I force the anxiety to retreat.
I have to create.

I am procrastinating.
I have a writing assignment due.
So far, I have my books
spread out on the cold concrete floor.

My roommate's, children
Levi and Bella
are laying on one foot each.
Warming me as they contently sleep.

This moment is perfect.
The words will come naturally.
I can feel them bubbling up
from the wellspring.
I will not allow fear
or self-doubt to enter
the sacred space.
I believe in this moment.
I know the poems.
More importantly, I understand them.
I can string words together
and those strings carry gold.
I will get an A.
I laugh and take a drag.
I am ready to begin.
Tonight, I will write like I am in the zone.

Putting the worries of the day
on the back burner
to simmer
To wait.

I will pray.
I will meditate.
I will focus.
I don't want to force the words.

The writing has to feel pure.
If I force my thoughts
to hurry along
To come out
To play.
Then my paper will suffer.

I have learned the secrets
to creating
an insightful masterpiece.
I just have to trust my process.

To learn
to write
without the need
for approval.

This life of writing is an obsession.
I see the words in my mind.
I feel a words underlying meaning.
They come to me with purpose.
They show me a pattern.
They scream to be set free.
This is the gift from
my strange processing brain.
A relationship with poetry.

I live with sensory processing disorder.
It is not enjoyable
but who would I be without it.
I was the kid that was different.
I grew into an adult with strange quirks.
I learned to adapt
to the way I process information
and in return, I have writing.

I see the world through the eyes
of a seeker.
I search for inspiration
in each assignment, at work,
I search the ground for treasure.
I follow the voice of my true self
She tells me to be curious.
The wellspring with guide me
I  will create something
thoughtful and unique.

Just to get critiqued.
That happens when you are young.
You are filled with uncertainty.
Even as you trust in your talent
You remember getting knocked down.
Your spirit is not yet strong enough
to believe in the person you will become.

In this house
with the Jimmy Hoffa hill.
I am blessed.
I have time
to  finish this one assignment.
There are years of college in front of me.
Plenty of time thicken my skin
to the sting of literary rejection
It can be brutal.
It can spiral me out into the void.
Where there are no words for support.
I am familiar with this feeling, as well.
I will put myself back together.
The light of my soul shines
Even when I think my light is gone forever.
It is there guiding me.
Taking me by the hand.
Leading me home.

I think about my roommates
Pletch and Patrick
they will soon be home.
My family by choice
They inspire me to continue
By making art and
filling our home
with beauty.

The paper is finished.
I am happy with the results.
A writing assignment successfully finish.

I am still in the zone.
I will write for myself.
I will not give up.
The words are just waiting
to be written.

Little Wars

 Prior to my flight to meet death,
I was choking on my anger.
It did not come out of nowhere, our fight.
We had been circling each other like caged tigresses for weeks.

I chose that moment to let go of this little war.
I retreated to the safety of my den
to lick my wounds in solitude.

Life had changed, I just lost my Grandpa.
Our future break-up no longer mattered.
This grief would not be connected.
I was ready to be free of you.

FLF

Sometimes inspiration does not come from music or the written word.
It can come from a comment of a friend.
This friend who makes you snort with laughter.
This friend he is different.
He spans the time.
I wasn't expecting to ever find another friend like family.
But here you are.

You better not fuck me over because I have been there before.
I chose to believe this time we will always have each other's back.
I am loyal and I care.
You may have a heavy load but my shoulders can take the weight of air.
They can certainly take some of your despair.