like Caesar before me, I move among the ruins

much more cautiously during this time of year

awaiting daggers at every step, feeling the change

all about the world in cynical amazement


this tour of the life is all about the death squad

that leaves its anonymous mark on the people

left behind to mourn the lost & martyred souls

as the Marxist reaction to the Imperial boot

is the lonely garotte of murdered folks

left here & there in scattered symbolism

among the devastation of too many mouths

to ever feed before we can get the chance

to welcome so many more mouths coming


this was just a warning to myself, an admonishment

not to get too involved, not to get too sentimental

I have been marked for death before, the mark I still bare

these are not words to advocate for redemption, although

I always hope to be redeemed, these are not actions I take

to be immortal, there is no scope of preparation that would

be useful in order the be a scribe of much achievement

this is just a poem for the time of year that has been

traditionally avoided by lovelorn catastrophes as they

become misconstrued as political movements of liberation


the birds sing more clearly today, the clouds lift away

from the oily brine of the bay near the refinery

the frogs have begun croaking their lamentful songs

all along the drainage ditch next to the railroad tracks

the skunks rustle in the garbage cans at night as the

squirrels range all throughout the tree branches, most

of them covered in blossoms, chill as the wind can be,

this is California, the same goddess of temptation that

lured gold seeking lepers across treacherous oceans

150 years ago, the same charlatan of cinema that keeps

the electric fantasy alive & pornographic in the mind’s eye

as the world is riveted to commercial shallowness in all ‘o

the splendor that it offers us all, like children picking up

candies spewed from corporate pinatas held so high above


this expected knife blade of betrayal may have already been

thrust into the heavy backside I carry through all the suffering

of a job that can never be done well enough to be an end to a means

of what we will all become eventually, this epic aside, I use words

to make salves for my own wounds, I can hope they will heal yours

covering up our wounds with the wounds we make on others

as our combined Brutus shapes lope away into the darkness

of a winter that has yet to be done with the world, even in California

© 2013, A. Razor. All rights reserved.

A. Razor (5 Posts)

A. Razor was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1963, but brought to California at the age of 1. He was raised with a strong desire to read and write, but an even greater desire to survive, which has aided his experience and longevity so far. He began writing and publishing around 1980 in various underground zines and publications, first in the Los Angeles area, then ever expanding outward from there as he was discovered by Drew Blood Press, Ltd. in 1984. He has read his work at many readings and spoken word events over the years. He has fought hard to live and express his art for many years in many ways. Recently he became a member of the Hollywood Institute of Poetics in Los Angeles, CA in 2009. On January 13, 2012, A. Razor combined efforts with Iris Berry and founded Punk Hostage Press, which publishes books and brings literary arts to an audience that is inside institutional situations such as shelters, jails, prisons and treatment centers. His writing has always explored the world that he has sought to be a part of and to rebel against in the same paradoxical moment. He has traveled extensively, seeking and enduring everything from homelessness and imprisonment to serenity and peace. He now works with non-profit organizations in order to be a steward of services and support for those who have similar circumstances.

One Comment

  1. Very well written and very constructive.

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