UGH, a poem. 12.2.16

UGH a poem by yosh dow

when upset with you,

i go into the contacts on my cellular

and edit your name,

from a sweet nom de plume,

back to your government alias.

rarely though,

does it stay that way.



someone give me a pen, free thought. 10.3.16

someone give me a pen, free thought by yosh dow

Something to write on, to write with. A pen; a pencil; a typer; a computer. Why not.

Throwing my necklace, necklaces over my head from off my neck first. Nope. Start over. Theo has that without even having that.

Jingle jingle.

The keys, tucked in, not tucked. Remove them. Press the clip and back on again.

The sound. Manically played. Heard. Focused. Piercing. Dull. Intensified. Over bearing. Deceiving. Evil.

The keys, clipped on. Fifth time, sixth time. Over and over, adjust the seat. Hold it between the legs. Maneuver with no hands weaving the little weight I can throw nowadays. Wheelie, nope. Young ones always askin’ for a wheelie. Try it some time, Nah.

Such cool though. When they try sometimes, on my bike, on their bike. Some style, dash of class. Like sunglass, shades wearin’ style, and class. They better be nice to the kitties and not arseholes. What would you do though? Not a thing here. Too afraid of my own shadow. Had (still have?)_ an/this urge to write, faster than my hand can go. Ahead of myself sometimes

All the time and e very time, that’s no exaggeration. Writing out in long hand is JUST the amount of slow that impedes any flow. Even chicken scratch skeeted out serial killer handwriting fast, upset with your penmanship 4 cups of coffee type long hand writing. The Writers, the typewriters have weight, even the keyboards of yore bore some excess, just like an author. Not authors like human’s, aliens, shells, shadows, salt bags, douche bags, bag of bones. I don’t know about authors, I don’t know about writers. Hell you know I don’t know about typewriters. Computers, PC’s (mac wasn’t in my world until age 16), key boards. GATEWAYS. AoL cd’s in your mailbox, AIM, beers under the desk, girls under the desk. All type of pre teen/teen computer geek wannabee html 4 knowin, Computer wizard NOT, person.


Pretty Little Window, a poem 10.3.16

Pretty little window a poem by yosh dow

No windows, no doors, still trapped.

Painted, no, better yet, stained lumber that had been re-purposed from one of West Baltimore city’s many abandominium, ex-crack house, current crack house, current stash house, squatters squat. Reclaimed wood used to trim around a crystal clear window with four square panes and two symmetrical and identical intersecting lines. The walls are an easy mustard shade of yellow. Paint splashed all up on the stained wood carelessly. Details.

Details get lost in the multi task. Details: judgment of one group of nuances against another, thereby deeming one more important than the next.

That’s if you grasp the bigger picture.

That’s if there is a bigger picture.

That’s if you’re picture has a frame…

Our picture isn’t just a hole in the wall with duct tape around it, resembling the transition of perceived spatial boundaries associated with two individual occupied zones.

What was forward, where was my direction I thought I was cultivating.

Usually just going, I’d always just been able to chug along. Have there always been good reasons, great reasons for me to roll on.

Forward motion.

Hell, any kind of motion.


No times.

Lifeless. Careless. Dickless.

A Lot less.


One foot out the door, a poem. 10.3.16

One foot out the door a poem by Yosh Dow

Two hands on the keyboard.

One descript sequence of body language. Shoulders pointed away from the object(s) in front of me. Positioned to relinquish my duties here in front of the screen. Body language out loud, (when you say it, when it was said) had an intimacy? Sex, a naked effect on the ear.

My ear.

Both ears.

Probably split right down the middle between left ear and right ear. Square between the fucking eyes. Listening with both ears, all the time. Listening to everything. Never one ear more than the other.

Always full,

over filled,

acorn’d to the top.

Teeming and brimming with every syllable and every annunciation on words big and words small.

Words small to words medium more often than not.

Four letter words, and two letter words.

Fuck, Shit, Cunt, Cock, Hell, Coon, Damn, Dick, Piss

And No, No and No.

No, not two letters capable of a complete one hundred and eighty degree rotation of thought. Pointed right at and out of a window, if you’re lucky.


PISS STEAM, a vision. 10.30.16

A vision – by jesu mikael

Woke up, opened eyes, no stretch, no yawn. First thought – to use, second thought – to use, third thought- or not to use. No noise isn’t good noise. Silent feline presence is not good feline presence. She still manages to smile, to grin, to contain her beauty with lips sealed shut. Mouths sealed shut, brains dismounted, ears sealed shut, nose sealed shut. Eyes wide open, I can see how bad it smells. My eyes can hear how piercing it sounds. Two eyes taste humid city slicker vapors. No worse than thick, heavy redneck county air. Bless one, bless not the other. Foam coagulates the toilet bowl. Piss steam rises and hits each nostril, left one – bam, right one – smack. Not before passing right through distinct moustache hairs, ginger hairs at that. A map, illustrated lies subtly beneath the surface, shown through the computer screen where it once be illuminated. my two eyes crossing, blurry vision. No need for any vision. Nothing to see. Lids of my eyes hardly open, playing a sequence, rolling a drawing, captured somewhere between the grid of a world drawn in front of you with never ending straight lines, and the inner workings of a mind left to wander. Idle hands, dull face, grey face, looking sickly face. Watched while I lay asleep and she adores. All gone on with eyes shut, mouth propped open and snores between breaths of first floor apartment air.

Directly out of an electric rotating fan, mere inches from my face. Drying out my mouth, as gunk builds and builds. Drying out her eyes, thirsty eyes. Thirsty for liquid, for solution, plain ole thirsty. Ill actually take a water type thirsty. Robin thicke type air with blurred lines style vision. Unprecedented thirst for vision. Lucky enough to be able to cultivate a vision. Where life can be anything you choose. Life can be the vision you have inside your head. Vision requires control. Self control, controlled environment, routine, maintenance, responsibility. I have a vision. Fortunate enough to have a vision. A vision with no attitude, a dream that doesn’t fight back. Lucky enough to not have to fight back, physically. Fighting back mentally – another story. Fought enough battles mentally to destroy a physical army of 300. A battalion of men. 300 Men. 300 humans with male parts. With a chunk of females thrown in to counter-act any perceived sexism. Because females have vision too. There was never a line drawn between male and female. Only in your mind, only in your vision.



weatherproof, a poem 11.16.16

Weatherproof a poem by jesu mikael 


Opponents and partners in a blind trust

faith, placed barely with confidence

an agnostic soul,

pulled north and pulled south

elastic, ecstatic, electrified and magnetic

Traverse the plateau

You’re not going up so you’ll never fall down

No worries about a thick skull

It’ll be thick skin you need

White flight and white guilt

Reverse racism

Gender role reversals

Fall below your own standards

Let someone beat you

Like you beat yourself

Stand for what you believe

Fall for anything you can

Be something, be all things boy

At least be a man



NOVOCAIN, free thought. 11.20.16

word for thought by jesu mikael

Free at last, one day. Maybe in time, with the work put in and the effortless flow of positivity. That everlasting vibe to overcome all the negativity in this world that sucks you in, drags you down, chews you up and vomits you out. Politics, heroin, women, alcohol, money, all of it. None of it differs from one another. Only it’s road to capture. The endless game of capture the flag. The endless fight for king of the hill. Like climbing a mountain. Fuck that I say, bring me back down, fill up the bowl and put on some music. Some chase drugs, some chase riffs. Some don’t have control. Having no say in your dream. Unable to say no. The inability to choose. Temptation, what a son of a bitch. No disrespect to either one of the ones that brought you up either, it’s not their fault. The pressure to do the right thing in opposition to do the thing that relieves your pressure. Find a passion. Any passion. Choose something else, don’t choose that fleeting bullshit that puts all kinds of static in between your two blue, green, brown – bloodshot eyes. That little bit of numb feeling Novocain gives you in your lips when your pull the plunger. Something has to last a little bit longer than that. Life is much longer than that. Your minutes turn to hours and boy those fucking hours last for years. The times you decided to throw the towel in and say to hell with it won’t ever carve themselves inside your brain to form a memory. Those memories you have that have hurt so bad it feels like they’re carving themselves inside your heart will be the ones that stand out. You might never be free, but you can feel free. What makes you feel free? Your country? Your passion? Your art? Raises so many questions. Save yourself while you can and find love. Find a love in someone else and share it. Make love with 3 or 4 other people, on a stage, on a bed, on a roof, in a basement. Something with soul. Headbang until your neck falls off.



fortune teller, free thought. 11.20.16

Fortune Teller – free thoughts by yosh dow


Can you see into the future? Having just turned thirty I feel like I used to be able to see into the future better than I can now. Maybe I just picture what I wanted my future to be like, or what I thought it was going to be like. Images of being on a stage under hot ass lights in front of ridiculous people like myself flashed over and over like a movie reel rolling around in front of a black screen like some shitty flash animation. Rocking out on my bed with this smacked out Kurt Cobain sitting on my bed hating his life because well, he’s sitting on teenage mutant ninja turtles bed sheets of an eleven year old. Getting older being caught up in the moment, losing yourself in the moment, the anxiety is high. Having memories of all that makes it worth it though. Not worth it to brag , not worth it to feel worth a damn, but worth it for the sheer exercise of dealing with anxiety. Getting all up in your face, all up in my face. Thinking about now what I want for my future.

  • I want love for my future.
  • I want music for my future.
  • I want friends for my future.
  • I want health for my future.
  • I want the future in my future (flying cars).

Going thoughtless the past ten years, what a ride it has been. Probably like being in a flying car, not having any control just at the helm of a pseudo steering wheel, not even steering. Like some fucked up pre-existing condition having to feel and think like I’m in control but totally and utterly not be in any type of control what-so-ever. How punk rock, right? Wrong. Fuck punk rock. Fuck a label on me, trying to call me this or that. None of that matters when you dig deep and project your desires onto a platform you call your “Future”. Thinking about wanting a family ten years ago I’d have called you a fucking whack job and then probably hope you’d get whacked, or at least go whack-off because you’re better off spending your time that way as opposed to telling me I’d be better off having a family. Even if my family is the love of my life (Jaxie) and my one and a half cats – because only one loves me completely and the other one only loves me when it wants food. I cant even predict the rest of the day now let alone any type of future. Theres got to be some form of an artistic outlet for my future because well, being a machine is boring and if I don’t get whats on my mind out one way or the other then I might as well pack it in now. Making art is what keeps me going, keeps my growing. Making art with the girl I love is what makes keeping going worth it. She helps me tear down the walls I’ve built around myself because, what the hell did I build them for if I didn’t want someone to come along and tear them down? As much as I’d love to drag my face across this pavement on my own, it’s much better to have someone acknowledge that I’m dragging my face across the concrete and tell me it will hurt less if I do it on a beach in the sand. Someone might call that art but I call it boredom. I cant see my future any other way, no other way other than exactly like it is today on my 9th day of being thirty years old except finding peace and creating peace internally and illustrating it externally through words, sounds and pictures. Creating it with the one I love, every day, for the rest of my excruciating, painful life. Love.

One hundred forty or less, free thought. 11.20.16

One hundred and forty characters or less – free thoughts by jesu mikael


Can we cram information in a possible smaller platform. Easy to digest being such a small portion. As the American people transition into the year 2017, inaugurating a new president-elect, Donald J. Trump. “Darkness is good – Dick Cheny, Darth Vader, Satan. That’s power” Quoting the new president-elects chief strategist. What the fuck is this guy getting on about with this darkness bullshit. How can we as a nation with aspiring positive mental attitudes, ever look upon these things listed as “darkness” in such a light. Yes, the country is divided, yes the revolution starts within. However, with our current structure as it stands, our government is completely run by the GOP. The republicans. This election was never even closely about Democrats/Republicans. The GOP runs this future government completely. They have spent the last 8 years of the Obama presidency stalling, gridlocking and failing completely to do any semblance of their job, effectively destroying any hope of progress well to-do in the white house and beyond. These very timely protests against the president-elect, come upon the heels of our paused moment of mourning. After being so sure our idealized lesser of two evils would win. Even worse is the thought of having the Vice President elect, Mike Pence in the oval office chair, so we must tread lightly. What we know right now is that the Democratic Party establishment will forever be disbanded from this point on and that they have to regain appeal to the middle class working man, as they should. Scared am I to hear from a respected woman in my life that has knowledge of who the fuck our National Security Adviser is going to be – Michael T. Flynn, who’s best friends are hyperbole. Who once maybe had it but has most definitely lost it in recent years. Even coming from Colin Powell who has named him “nutty”. I can’t even front that I know who these people are, or are not but I’ve never forfeited doing my research on things before I form some type of opinion, let alone talk about you. Having even watched a few episodes of a recent Netflix show informing me about President Obama accepting private funding for his campaign and then having these lobbyists in office after he was elected. The darkness finds it’s way in.