Hope (Stacia Response)

 

Hope is in the almighty form of just staying alive, keeping my eyes open

Because when they drift close I swear I’m going to panic, I’ll know that the sickness found me

Sweat dropping down my forehead, thinking about when I’ll be dead

Before then hope is a stream full of blood, reality mixed with dreams flowing through the earth

I’ll be a drop of water that flows down stream

I’ll be there between rocks and passing fish toward the big city

Holding my breath, under the water?                     
Holding onto memories close to my chest, heading toward the big city

A town without pity, heading for big things

Maybe a couple of awards, a few rings for my mother

If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been born, no other

And then maybe I can stand atop a mountain and look down at a city I have conquered

I might be covered in blood, but I had to pass through the jungle before climbing up the peak

Its love that I seek, but I might be just a bit to meek

As I float down that stream, maybe holding my love

I’ll be heading towards the waterfall clutching her with all my heart

My hope is that through all those years, I’ll have someone who can hold my hand that long

Someone who won’t just wanted float down stream with me, but who will want to fall down the waterfall

General Divide

Where is my Life? Where is the Light? It’s the acts of children that deride the mind

 

Every loss and mistake I try to retrace is perpetuated by the lack of design

 

I replaced all the glass when I realized hope had returned in rivalry Nothing is so precious or vulgar, as my innocence every loss and mistake, I try to retrace has brought me back to the mirror Where is the light? I want to see clearer tonight where is the Light? It’s the pressure of a lifetime that allows me to sleep I regret, all the dissidence that clouds my regrets It’s the act of violence that we refuse to realize Teenage Minacity swarmed in complicity Life hangs in the balance, and I’m searching in silence My response is in violence

 

The pain is far too intimate, and its act of children that helps us be careless alone

 

I accepted all the failures as the kings confessed destroying my kingdom and leaving me in absence It’s the silence of children that choose what is right It’s a shadow of light, a piece of plight that is passion for our failures now

 

God discuss your faith, we are not here for life but to erase This is a chase for the lack of sympathy The emotions that are missing from my listing, I set fire to empathy And watch my friends burn under the light Every loss and mistake is clouded by my judgment Where is the Light? It’s the loss of childhood that leaves us alone The Light? It’s the forgotten children that poise me for my disaster Can you find my Life? I am so Alone

 

I am set in strife, the friction is my detention

 

My dissension is to soon, I know I’m going to die

 

Where is the light? I miss the jubilant sights

 

It’s the acts of children that conflict our lives

 

 

Moses

    It was a cold night in New Haven but for Moses it wasn’t so bad. He had been homeless for about five years, during the day walking around Yale and searching trashcans of expensive restaurants. He would sometimes sit and play his guitar and sing. That was his main source of income, people loved to listen to him play and sing. They would drop him five dollar bills or tens, they would give him food and other random articles of clothing. He wasn’t drinking or doing any drugs, so they treated him different. Sometimes Yale students would talk to him and call him an urban legend.

            He had been since he got on the streets, he had saved numerous people from being robbed and had always been as a form of a superhero. There was a time when a woman was being raped in a dark nasty alley near the old bar that shut down on the outskirts of Downtown. Moses came to the woman’s rescue, beating the man mercilessly and then waiting until the cops came before disappearing. He didn’t want any notoriety, nobody call him a hero. That’s not what he was as he roamed the dark airy night streets of New Haven. He was a monster.

            Some nights he’d walk by the old liquor stores that he used to practically live in. He recalled those days so bitterly, him in a three piece suit laughing with the other drunk “Bastards.” Moses had the idea that there was some reason that he would exempt from being punished by the cruel world. His name was biblical and he was brought up believe and praise all those things he was told. It was a cushion in his life, one that at time threw him off guard.

            Moses would usually sit down on a seat that was left out on the orchard street “Strip” across from all the pizzerias and restaurants. Some nights he’d simply drift around thinking about the past that wouldn’t let him go. The real problem was that he didn’t understand anything about his life but he understood the world around him. It was the only place that he felt at all human. Being in a house caged in wasn’t what was meant for him. His activities and lifestyle led to what was left of his friends and family calling him an animal. Maybe that’s what he was? A true human being, he was the animal that rejected all the corporate synthesizing that allowed overindulgence, greed and eventually their untimely demise.

            Moses had spent all that time alone, moseying around and the only thing that kept him company was his cat Jonas. Jonas lived behind his campsite, which was on State Street right in between the ramp to the highway and the thrift shop. Moses had called that home for almost all the years that he had lived on the street. He had it set up nice and the cops didn’t mess with it because they knew that he kept it clean and did well by the city.

            That night on a random note he had decided to walk up to Scrap Yard in Mill River and see if he could find any scrap metal from the dealer that would open up for the bums. It was the ultimate place for barterers, bums and bargainers who were up at two in the morning. Moses had his cart prepared and it had a small radio with some earphones hooked up in the carriage. He was listening to 70s Hard Rock and experimenting with some Pop hits while he walked past the Mobile Gas station.

            The traffic was scarce to say the least, and Moses took advantage of that walking much faster than normal. He even started to get into the music, so he brushed his long gray hair back so that the earphones he found in the garbage would fit better. He had a couple of other pairs in the pocket of his trench coat that he also found in the garbage. Moses was a man of simple pleasures, flashiness didn’t matter to him. As long as something worked it was valuable to him, he had even gone to the point of being a borderline hoarder. He didn’t mind, Moses believed in the value of true life.

            So as he walked up upon the dimly lit dead end that was known as Mill River Street. There were three large multifamily houses on each side of the road, and on the left side there was a lot for the abandoned company Max Supplies. It had been gone for years, but no one bought the building nor did anything for the lot. Across the way from Mill River Street there was a bar called Hanson’s known for its fights, underage drinking and promiscuity. Moses had heard of three dead bodies on Mill River Street in the past year but the numbers were more around eight.

            “Look there is Clark Kent, my man!” howled one of the men standing outside the vacant lot. He was staggering with a bottle in his hand, he seemed to be drunk. Moses received the name Clark Kent when a group caught him reading a superman comic book. It was something he had only done a few times, as he had never been a fan of comics, animation or anything of the sort. He accepted the Clark Kent nickname because he didn’t want anyone to know his real name, Moses Floyd. It was a name that was known through New Haven and even Connecticut, a name known of evil and a wretched existence. It was something he didn’t want to live with, so instead he was simply Moses or on some occasions Clark Kent.

            “Did I miss anything?” asked Moses as the man shook his head and took a swig from the bottle.

            “Nah you didn’t miss a damn thing, half the folks ain’t even down here yet. Come and get a bottle, oh that’s right you don’t drink ain’t that right boy!” yelled the same man whom Moses finally identified as Static. Static always forgot that Moses didn’t drink, and Static was one of the few people who knew who Moses was. He didn’t say anything out of respect. Despite his drunken state, he always remembered to never talk about Moses’s past.

            “Now you know I don’t drink,” muttered Moses laughing for the first time all day as he pushed his cart over and shook Static’s hand. “When are these people getting here?”

            “I have no clue but they run the show, we are just two bums waiting for the curtains to come up. How has your day been otherwise there? Gone to any telephone booths?” asked Static cracking up into laughter. Moses looked at his eyes which were bloodshot as he barely had a grip on the bottle he held.

            “Stop being so loud, someone will call the police on us,” said Moses whisking his friend over to the entrance of the warehouse which was open. “Why are you out here, it’s so cold!”

            “Typical guy, it ain’t cold when you got this much liquor in your gut. Man I could basically die right here and now, but nobody would care. My family is sleep at home, finally getting a good night sleep because I’m out here half dead. They wonder why you would have to go out there?” said the Static with his eyes and tears running down his cheek.

            “Ok static let it out,” said Moses patting Static’s shoulder. There was a time when he wasn’t as level headed and was seeking guidance and couldn’t find it at the hall of an Alcohol Anonymous meeting. When he was wandering the dark wet streets with a bottle, belligerent and angry, there was no hand to be placed on someone’s shoulder. It didn’t make him feel any better about himself, but part of Moses believed if he kept doing the good deeds his demise would be less painful.

            “I said them last night crying, on one knee, I said listen I love you both babies. But I have to go out and make money for the kid, I can’t just lie down next to your fat ass all fucking day and watch Steve Wilkos!” screamed Static. Moses grabbed Static’s arm and brought him into the warehouse. Sometimes the cops would be called and then nobody would make any money. Moses knew he had to pick up some metal and he had just enough money to fit into his cart.

            So he walked into the warehouse next to static and was greeted with an arousing applause. Everyone loved Moses except for Moses, as he seemed like the guy other guys wanted to be. He didn’t have good looks, it was more of a moral thing. Few beside Static, Moses’s daughter, wife and a few family members knew of the horrid secret he was hiding. Few thought it had any validity, so Moses was forced to exile himself in punishment rather than allowing himself to live a comfortable life after wrongdoing.

            “Yo Moses, bring any bread today brother!” asked Lucky Louie, a fat Italian bum who always loved the bread that Moses would find. One day Moses and Louie were walking around Fair Haven when they gave out bread at Gianni’s, a upcoming restaurant around the way. Moses and Louie spread the word, and ever since were paid in bread and sometimes cash to clean the store. Most of the time their appearance was rugged and unappetizing, each sporting large unwelcoming beards and heavy coats for the winter chill.

            “Moses you’re probably the poorest motherfucker here, on account of the fact you don’t get disability so I’m going to give you the best piece for today,” said Carmine, the owner of the racket. Two of his guys Luca and Mickey set the scrap metal into his cart. Often Carmine didn’t charge, he let some of the merchandise go in return for certain favors that he would call upon quite often. He had a set of bums, Moses, Louie, Connolly, Samson and Maxwell. This was it wasn’t charity, and the bums were loyal and would hear about anything on the street immediately after it hit the pavement. Carmine saw it as an ample investment.

            “Horse shit!” howled Maxwell who was in the corner smoking a joint. He was laughing as he said it, Moses became worried once he heard that he’d have to fight another bum but it was different then on the internet. For the most part they all worked together, it was the drugs and the drink that brought them apart.

            “Yo Moses, I keep telling you each time you bring your ass in here to fill out that paperwork. I got this great doctor, excuse me Max but he is this nigger from Philadelphia. Ya know, where I grew up? His pops gave me work so I kind of do the same, but he became a doctor. Much smarter then I could have been,” said Carmine with his hands on his stomach.

            “You can say that again,” grumbled Moses.

            “Hey fuck you! I’m sitting her busting my ass trying to get you some extra cheese and here you are hogging the prosciutto. You rat fuck you, don’t look at me like that!” howled Carmine. He had an abrasive way to him, constantly looked angry and at risk to blow your head off. If you weren’t hardnosed, tough or just naturally insane it was hard to handle him. Luckily Moses was a mixture of all three.

            “You just mad because the brother probably stole your bitches, and the money out that motherfucker,” said Maxwell with a high laugh. Nobody else found it very amusing. Maxwell got a handshake from Samson who had shared a few hits from the joint but that was it.

            “Hey! Hey, what did I tell you?” yelled Carmine pointing at Maxwell, who grabbed a container of air freshener and sprayed it everywhere. “You can smoke that cheap shit here but you better spray every three minutes, not just when I tell you. Spray! Come on, spray the fucking can it’s new so give it some juice,” ordered Carmine with his eyes flaring up.

            “You want to me come down with you Moses, make sure nobody robs you on your way?” asked Mickey with a reassuring smile. Moses shook his head and then turned the cart around.

            “Hey! Remember I get ten percent of that cut, that’s the deal every first of the week when I call you guys in here that’s what I get. You can’t have the salami and also get the smoked prosciutto,” insisted Carmine shaking his head. Moses nodded his head and gave a somber wave goodbye as he left the warehouse with his shopping cart. He only had about two or three pounds of scrap metal but it would be enough to get him through the day. Most would be crazy to go through New Haven in the middle of the night with a couple dollars of Scrap Metal, but Moses was well known through the order. At least through the parts he was going. He only had to walk about ten minutes to get to his apartment which was a couple of blocks off the Worthington Plainview Park.

            As Moses left uneventfully he started to feel something in his stomach. He needed to go to the bathroom after only being able to in the Mobile Gas Station. As he walked along the bridge he felt lights which were burning up his insides. As he started to feel sick he reminisced on the days when he had a functioning toilet and bathroom as a kid. He missed those days and realized he would do anything to get back there, but he started to beat himself up for doing all the wrong things to travel the opposite way.

            It took Moses a couple minutes and to be only two miles from his house to realize he had heat on him. He farted and burped when the sirens flashed on, literally scaring the shit out of him. He raised his hands as he heard shouts and hollering behind him, he knew the routine as they brought him up against the car and smashed his head on the hood. As he heard all the police procedure he realized that it was just another day to Live and Die in New Haven.

Warmonger in Therapy: Life is Free Verse

I’m getting far more tired of waiting around as each day goes, so i decided to publish a bunch of stuff on Warmonger. Right now, i have two books prepared to be published. Take a Minute is a book that’s crazy as hell, a true gangster saga. It’s about the progression of crime in the 21st century, the affects of trauma and abuse on a child growing up to a man and the Russian Mafia. (I must admit, i hope i can keep my fingers after publishing this damn book.) Draco Ragonov is a brilliant character, a smart, charismatic young man ready to take over the world that has constantly rejected him. His family is full of cold blooded murderers, and as he becomes one the graphic transformation from a young and innocent student to a mob lord is played out on paper.

The second book is The City Breaks It’s Promise, a novella about a young man and his sister. Set within the beginning of the crack cocaine epidemic, a boy raises his sister on the streets of South Bronx and protects her throughout their random stints in foster care. In foster care they are raped and tortured. Spiro Tobick and his sister are two lost souls, and Spiro is cynical and doubts there is any good in life.

He takes a job collecting debts and beating people, and he finds himself beating any man who touches his sister. Spiro spirals out of control and his sister runs off. The book is about his quest to find her and also by coincidence finds himself.

Both books are good, Take a Minute being a standout. Now i’ve been struggling to do anything with these books. I was very ignorant and tried to contact large companies who wiped their ass with my manuscript that i promptly mailed to them. But they will regret that shit stain on the first page. They will regret on the bodily functions, because these books are going to make a decent impact.

So i partnered with Trafford and Createspace, we are doing this. The third book is in progress and will be more of a bravado novel like Take a Minute. I honestly think that even though right now i don’t have all the answers in the back pocket of my trousers, i think deep down i have the answer to the various “Questions” that are plaguing the crime fiction genre. I think i bring a fresh perspective.

Without you guys i have nothing, so i will try my hardest to keep you occupied and entertained. Thank you so much for sticking around with me, much love!! ❤

Woah

 

It’s to disregard all the nonsense because I realized I’m actually on this

Not on one, on two or way more than a few

Cooking up concoctions like stew and I’d blow you away right out of the blue

Don’t believe in yourself when I’m around

Don’t make a sound because I’m enjoying the silence

Depeche Mode getting violent and ripping apart the streets looking for consignment

Ripping apart my heart, staying non existent and insane because I can’t mind it

Memories

 

 

Images of a broken home splattered in my memory

Thoughts of changing myself plague my entity

Tired, with no more energy

Fed up with no shoulder to cry on

My self-worth desecrated like the love of those who have gone

Left me abandoned, can’t even speak to tell you what I’m planning

Can’t make out the words, can’t understand the future

Feeling blue, still fucking thinking about you

Damn you worthless woman stuck in my head

Damn your beautiful, please just wish me dead

Fear in Authenticity

Im in trouble, i want out, but thats not what this is about, its just when did this begin.

Well, Number one, sitting below the sun, blue sky, crystals gleaming like a beautiful lie. The story went as fast as the shot of a gun, His fist swung like a pendelum and those dark days had begun

Number two, the time i looked in the mirror and all i saw was you. Your life is just a clue, it was rancid and it left me frantic. I wouldve gone to willimantic, that wasnt a childish antic. It was closer to teenage rage, or my heart in a rusty cage that day i didnt act my age.

Number three, yo mom let me be. Your blocking my horizon, let me see. A fee of existence, the words are the pawns of your persistance. I hung that proclamation on the wall, pleading for you to visit or call. But that was all, that was it, straight up legit. I had a childish fit, outdid limp bizkit, like a little bitch trying to make a verse, Hey Fred Durst meet my mom, remember your both cursed. You would think that would quench my thirst, but past grudges dont matter, my mom comes first.

Number Four, after this one more, resedential hurt me to the core. The moment i walked through the door there was a monkey fiending on the floor. “Anthony i love you, you deserved more,” on christmas i shouldve got something better, all i got was a cardboard sweater. What im saying dear, fear in authenticity has the simplicity and a form of electricity that challenges you as it works fastidiously. Fuck what you heard big bird, that place was absurd.

Number five, that plus eight is thirteen. I was lean, light enough to slide into a new scene. Only i knew what that would mean, my veins open to the world. No pearls came out, i just hurled red toward the chamber of the dead. All i can do is think of everything that was ever said, alll the time i cried in a bed. I didnt give up, if i did Take a Minute wouldnt have been something you read. I love You