Nope (24th hour)

Nope, there ain’t no hope.

We is not teachin’ hope.

Hope is like Saddam’s rope,

The one around his throat.


Hope is for the Judas Goat,

The one that leads to

slaughter houses.

Why Hope

When we can know.


Hope requires trust,

And that is very

hard for US.

To give away

What we don’t get,

Stupid, slept,

I won’t forget.


I don’t have to pay

The rent.

Hope is sum’n

I might regret.


baby, wet my cigarette,

we are celebrating death,

Bring the fentynyl and meth,

Bring the Hope that we have left.


Hope is for

The hopeless

Or the hocus pocus bogus

Smorgasbord of morbid orchids

Just don’t give them much importance.


I have Hope they will not notice

Hope they don’t have any motives

Though I know they have explosives,

I just hope they don’t explode THIS.


Hope is for the hopefool

Not hopeful or helpful,

For hopeless

is helpless.

Hope is for


Smokers with chokers

Pokers with jokers

Dopers with chauffeurs.


Ogres with loafers,

Donors will go first.

Loners will mourn worse

Stoners withhold turns.


All I got to say is NOPE,

We shall NOT depend




Span ish (23rd Hour)

Trees, leaves, bees


Avocado Green.

I dream

In spanish.









I am maize

I am raiz

I am Gorky Gonzales

With 40 nopales

Dropped out of college

Start slanging tamales

In Watts or in Juarez

I’m wearing huaraches

Sombreros, zarapes.

No names, No mames.

Somos de los grandes

Los malos de antes,

Que visten en trajes

Los vagos y magos

De tragos jigantes

Encantos y platos

De patos infantes.


Fuck elefantes

me pongo Los guantes . . .


I’m really quite famished,

and dreaming in spanish.




Silent Pizza [Hour 22]

Mexico makes Pizza too.

But . . .

Taco bell’s Mexican Pizza

Is not authentic Mexican Pizza

Actually Pizza in Mexico

Is not authentic.

It is just a carbon copy

Of another carbon copy

That copied it from Italia.

But there is chile jalapeno

Or chorizo as a topping

The crust is kinda thin

Like a cocky flour tortilla,

Kinda hard like a soft chip.

But instead of pepperoni

They use guinis or weenies

thin slim hot dog slices.

an ooze of mozzarella

poured on top of it.

Mexican pizza is

A silent pizza.

Speaking of silence,

What’s up with this food

that they feed us and sell us,

Is it just in America?

What’s up with the medicine

What’s up with the medical field,

Is it just me, or have they killed

More people than they healed.

Everything is killing us.

Look at what theyre filling us with

I never got the vaccine,

My mother did,

Right after the shot,

her face drooped from one side,

her feet got swollen

And she started having heart problems.

I called the hospital

where they gave her the shot,

Told them her symptoms,

And they said it was fine.

3 months later

she died

Heart attack.

Why are we

So scared to speak?

Why dont i hear

any one here

Speak of the real

Speak of the real.

Why have the gift

And waste it on

Shit we could have

Done at home.

For a bunch of poets,

Sometimes, we dont really say much


as a slice of

Mexican pizza.








Jump 21 Street


What a stupid thing to do.

Why run.

We can walk. We can talk.

I am talking through writing right now.

Running my mouth.

It’s a stunning type of running

Like YOU running thru my mind,

And by you, I meant her.

Running shit up in this bitch!

Though I’m poor as poor peoples pornos

Poor nose.

Pour knodes for all the folks here.

I am running on coffee and coke.

The type that you drink

not the type that you smoke.



Like John Depp

on 21 jump street.

Running. Marathons.

Paraphrase a paradox.


Do a beer-run,

Run-outs at Circle K’s

With 18 packs.

My aching hands

Aching feet . . .



from all this







Rooting for Routine (Hour 20)

I’ve a routine

which consists of

Avoiding routine.



Never exit and enter

through the same door,

You never know who is waiting

in the corridor.

A pissed off orator, or ex.


My son, every morning

Our routine was eggs,

But no more routie tootie fresh and fruity

truly groovy cooky routine

Rulette de russ

Rooting for Rudy

There’s ruby’s

in boobies

I lick em and

blew each,



BLUE balls in uhauls,

With brujos in New clothes

The emperors new hos

Are covered in glucose.

You are what you do most.

I do poems so . . .

What do you do.

a routine.




Abstract sanctuary (19th Hour)

surrounded by the carpet

and the pillars and the Köts,

cats, cauts, kittens.

No cats.

When- win,

Wind- does,

do’s, doe’s


,win those.


window pains.

Enclosed white walls,

The kitchen,

Re-frigerated ice box

With the built in meat preserver.


Frozen watermelon chunks and tidbits

The books,

a molin Rouge,

Falcon mosaic balcony

The view of pch

on pcp



An STD or two.


My study,

Red oak

soak smoke

Red thread spread


leather lathered scent

Brunnetted Bloke.

A Gamer chair,

horrendous mess.

incredulous dishes unkept,

unsweetened, unswept.

My bed, unslept.

The epidermis of

our poverty is

Just the tip of the

iceberg lettuce.


I am manicured letters,

bad wheathers-

Squirting bedwetters’


Are better than


All this, orbits,

motorists, Otis Reddings

Poetry readings every night.

In thee ghettos, all is bright.


Not quite right but rype,

I am now inside a space. I write-



Mirrors paste a clearer face

Than what equates approximates.

6 by 8’s,

Impersonate your prison mates.

Inspirations instigates,

These our quarters,

In accordance

With incorporated laws.


of my

abstract sanctuary.











The Baby Ghost of 18th Street

(This was a catchy title, was it not.)

Welcome, I’m narrator Melson with an M,

Not Nelson with an N.

This is not a fucking joke

I should not even be telling you about this story

Because one day I will have to pay the price for speaking about the unspeakable, diabolical, inhumane, incriminating story that I am going to tell. You, too, as reader, like the cat murdered by curiosity, will be affected by reading this story, you have been warned.

It was a long time ago,


On 18th street,

A young Mother to be named Hortensia

Walks the sidewalk

Hands Tangled with his.

They kiss.

Thinking of names

Like Melony or James

Or Angel or Grace

Or Cielo or Antonia.


Apartment is cold.

The couple is poor,

But love in their eyes

A lovely surprise,

To see loving people

Whos love is that strong

They are right to be wrong

And right to belong

It’s a bond that not many can make

And others are outthere who made a mistake.

And faces that hate

Stuck with their fate

Plate after plate

They ate and they ate

but they never will sate.


The neighbor named Kate

A cradleless mate

Who lived with mistake

After fatal mistake

She had a miscarriage

That ruined her marriage

Her husband, assaulted,

rude and embarrassed


we’re ruined as parents.

Abandoned and left her

A fruit with no nectar

And thats when

the devil

began to affect her.

became like her mentor

at times would torment her

and made her

A depraved sexual offender

she looks for the tender

who dont let her enter

she walked to the home of

Hortensia and Vector,

She entered a woman

and came out a mother

a baby in blankets

all bloody and bandaged.

She died hours later

Pedestrian found her

on 18th and Walker

Alone in the street.

And Kate was arrested

Death by injection.

Charged with 3 murders.

Awaiting her death.

September the 2nd


the night when it happened,

they say, that on 18th st,

many have heard the cries of a baby.

and in Chowchilla Prison,

Inmates say they still hear the sounds of the lady

who cried every night, til the day that she died.

Inmate Katelyn Lee Hodges, age 45.

Thank you for your time,

I am narrator Melson with an M,

Not like Nelson with an N.



A Vital Smoke (17th Hour)

The light is dope

The night is dope

The mind is dope

The minus dope

The minus note

The violin’s note

the violence note

The mindless hope

To mind less hope

A mind that scope

A tied that’s rope

A tide that’s boat

My idol spoke

A vital smoke

The bibles broke

Disciples wrote

Divine or smoke

Define the scope

Let’s find this quote

The light folks wrote

A hyghdose float

A microscope

Might find the slope

Can I Go Smoke?



16 candles

This is not poem.

That is to say,

I am not a poem today.

I don’t rhyme all the time

But I rhyme when I rhyme

So the times when I rhyme

I don’t time I just rhyme.

This is not a poem,

It’s a sign.

Something you

were meant to find.

(Its like dick to your mind,

Well, . . . Like a p***y to mine.)

This poem does not identify as poem,

Or prose, or any type of poetic mumbo jumbo.

It maintains and requires no pronouns at this time.

It chooses to identify as JULIAN the INKED.

This article of writing has no form, it does not care to be read but it was maid . . .  E . . . made  to inform.

This is too near to be clear and too far from the norm.

A shit storm.

As they say in the industry.

What industry?


Is the mistery.

Of Misery


I am no poem.

I am not even poetic or rhythmic,

I am horrific idle jiverish

The gift exchange that’s re exchanged

For Xmas, Hanakka




I’m serious, don’t even THink of thinking of mE As a poem.

Stop trying to find my flaws or my form.

In fact, I’m not here to perform or inform.

I’m here to belong

Not to



16 strong.

This is for

The Poeticly

Mentally spiritually Strong.

Keep on keeping on.

You know how you know when you’re doing great!?

When you get 16 candles on your g*dd*m cake!

This is no poem.

This is a congratulatory note.

For being the 16th poem that you wrote.

(Today, In 16 hours, beast mode).

To the few, the proud, the crazy crowd.



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