I traveled through the day,
and have seen the glow pierce the heart;
I’ve seen the **** licked from the wounds;
the deranged posse bring wrath to the
innocent;
the joker take the warmth from the last cell.
and still, life knows a way through the congealing
horror;
within the despair that fills these walking dead shoes,
a deep sense of faith that the noble
will cross the finish line keeps me going;
when the raven bellows,
or the dying wale of the moon befalls
the ordinary ear,
those left clinging to their
dying threads
will perish while those
who welcome the novel giants
will
find prosperity where
the
lame have
laid down their souls.
there is no rest given in this
marathon;
my flesh burns and forever will molt.
grey moons harvest the renewal brought on
by courage,
and the ***** has given birth
to
rejoicing;
so don't let a little bullet hole in
the *** get you down,
when there’s so much
more worthy of your
attention.
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 7:01 PM UTC
I don’t know about the laughter anymore.
It comes and goes, and the
feeling remains the same.
Joy, such a punch drunk heathen,
spitting its flourishes and
dimes,
and it all sounds so ****
pretty;
And then I fall into my
certain dark pool with no bottom,
and
here I swim along with my
fading dreams.
Too long it takes to reach the
shore,
too long it takes to
discover this hell
is
a
gem in the dust.
I sit still in my chair
and wait for the songbirds
to begin,
I long for their company,
their song,
their joy,
and
I ask if they would be
kind enough
to share.
And they do,
and the sun peers rightfully
through the storm
and
the chorus speaks of
better days
and i trust
these song birds
more than
the bottles
because
they’ve
seen what it takes
to wake up everyday
and
live in harmony
with
darkness.
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 8:37 PM UTC
He was a half hearted man,
with his legs torn open from
falling from the top of the earth;
one leg down and
the rest of the body to go.
I met him at his house.
he was good and drunk,
and his house was as neat as
a catholic church.
He stumbled for a bit, muttered
some ***** and *****
before sitting down on a wooden chair.
I was there to fix his leg.
The drunk had torn it open in a display
of falling glory.
The wound was a giant blood filled
blister that got vacuumed and removed
and now a giant hole remained.
He said he didn't give a **** what
happened to his leg and I believed him.
So i cleansed the open wound, about the size
of a banana, giant hole down to the muscle
in his leg. New clean bandage applied.
He said it felt good and that was an important
victory.
And he said his pain was controlled well
with the *****
and i told him how ***** has its time but
how it screws up the healing process and
that this gaping open banana in his leg
won’t close unless he chills with the ***
he said life ***** sometimes and the *****
is a remedy.
Some part of me wanted to have a drink with
him and just hear his side of the story;
what kind of **** had he been through, why he
felt alcohol was the answer,
why he didn't believe in hope
and why was their
a feeling that if death was to take him today,
he’d be more than willing to go.
he didn’t really delve into much detail about
his past and I didn't especially pry —this was my
first time seeing this patient.
I typically wait till the next visit before
going into therapist mode and asking about history.
Maybe some people would be content with just going in
and doing this guy’s wound and dipping out like he was
a piece of an appliance on an assembly line, and get out.
Maybe the intoxication reminded them of someone they knew.
But I want to know another’s struggle.
I want to understand why the life that we all live is so unforgiving to so many,
I see a brother in arms, and
I want to listen to whatever he’ll reveal.
and maybe its nothing, maybe he won't tell the
whole story.
but I want this patient to know
listeners exist, strangers care,
and we might not be able to banish your
demons
but I’ll be ****** if
I
can’t sit by and listen
and
hear a man out.
And so we shook hands and I left wondering
if he could see my demons, too
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 7:54 PM UTC
I dropped the bomb today;
When I fell for the ruse,
when I cheered for the demise
of my enemy.
I dropped the bomb today;
When I swallowed the
horse pill that made me feel so
powerful,
when I believed the world
could be made right
with a little push and shove.
How that bomb blew;
and I saw all the pieces
of my humanity hover
over me like a pale and dying
rainbow.
and the brutality of
apes
disguised as men
read me their broken
song.
and I knew the chorus.
and the bombs they fall,
and
the candy rots,
the pageantry of
fiery tears and
ravaged dreams,
like a ******* upending
the sky,
this poor little bomb
I gave so much
attention to,
was my
poor little
hope
that
destruction was only
a momentary lapse,
and
not a
feature of
my
being.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
Gone like the fallen footsteps
of the deceased soldier;
strewn before me, the
wreckage and disaster of the
dream palace.
rubble burns deeply and the
waling of the living kills the ghosts as they
scour for the remains of their
once devoted hearts.
and so many plea for rescue,
surrounded by the
mutilated intimacy,
but it is too late for roses to
trust the sun.
and dark noon arrives,
salt burns through the calcium and
reaches
marrow;
what do we have left
once the world turns?
fangs are bared, for their
is only antipathy
on the tip of this blade as it waits
to pierce
flesh once more.
malignant distrust,
purulent grief swallows
the spoiled heart,
like fungus to the crop,
the yield is ravaged;
heartbreak
will always hold me
hostage until
I am freed by the next **** trap.
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 6:47 PM UTC
Beautiful humans
here we are,
fraught with eternal upheaval,
behemoths of the soil,
the same soil
we so daringly corrode and replant daily.
is this what you imagined we would become?
have we been able to see through
all the pain and glory,
deviance and
delicate rage,
and come out better for it?
beyond the glimpses
of joy and
misery,
how much have we changed?
dear beautiful humans,
so
strange and remote;
yet close and
familiar.
brother to my left,
sister to my right,
hope to the front and
difference to
the rear,
is this not the ideal?
who are you,
what have you become,
what will you do with
the gift,
here we are,
beautiful humans,
look up at me,
look up from your safe little
silence,
from your concocted prison of
narrow perception,
tell me we are
real;
when everything feels
superficial and
tainted.
fragile beautiful people,
a mass of tender confusion and
lusting for the right way,
how many times
must we throw barbs and
dance in a
wicked moonlight?
how i know that deadly foxtrot, too.
look up at me,
tell me we are worth the trouble,
do we see who we really are?
am I not just a marauding crooner
singing to the empty rafters?
Have we all sang our last song?
Beautiful humans,
so mighty and yet so exhausted,
souls thirsting for reform for it seems
we have lost sight of the sky.
here we are,
beautiful humans, long lived outside
the garden,
from ground dwellers to builders of
empires,
yet the infinite war rages on
and
my last faith remains intact
if only because
I've been convinced
of something
beautiful found
within you and me.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 5:41 PM UTC
I helped a turtle cross the road today.
Black shell, tiny clawed feet,
yellow strip on either side of its head,
negligent in his actions, I intervened.
but I couldn't help the dying man beat
his cancer,
the turtle, impervious to the danger all
around,
trodding valiantly across his desert,
taking my hand, as we dared the world to try and
conquer us,
but I couldn't prevent the war from
murdering the innocent,
Resolute, purposeful, how we moved
to safety, defying the oncoming cars and
preserving one more day, at least we hoped,
yet I couldn't give the abused child a promise
tomorrow would be just fine,
and I released that turtle into his fortress of high grass and marsh,
he nodded,
and disappeared into the overgrowth,
what would become of that bold soul?
and would he remember me?
what would become of the world?
and would the turtle tell his tales of
encountering the sick one so long ago?
he knew something I didn’t,
and that was he couldn't save the world,
he could only paddle on and hold strong to the belief
there was always a
helping hand
ready to reach out
at just
the right moment.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 11:16 AM UTC
Deep in the pit,
is the place to dine on
those lovely woes,
and
rise to levels,
previously hidden
behind
the
facade
I
was
doing it right all along.
So in the
pit
is where I’ll lay
for
awhile,
where I’ll ponder
for
awhile,
where I’ll ****
the worst
of me,
where the worms will
speak the truth
and
devour false hymns,
polished and beaten
bare like the earth,
a fresh brewed cup
of second chance,
and
perhaps when you're ready
to forgive,
I’ll come up out
of that pit
and be
that man
you always
knew I
could be.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 8:58 PM UTC
She tasted akin to the death; a
bullet knows when it hits the flesh;
merciless and delicate,
a gorgeous fatality everytime.
and she knows her power;
and she flaunts it well with luscious intention.
she laughed at my mortality, as the wave
laughs at the sad pathetic row boat cast unwittingly into
the cyclone,
for she is a jovial feline set to
feast;
and i dig it, and i surrender my flesh for
her satisfaction. and if what I offer falls short,
then
i want to know nothing else but
a pretty death.
The great dictatress gives willingly, like a scarlet
Mother Teresa,
providing transient solace the way a
serpent tightens its coils around
that one last breath;
her pious sustenance
kept me sane, at least in my own eyes,
while she dangled me on her lips
and
told the world I was
her
most dedicated captive.
my white flag conceded my defeat,
a defeat which felt more like a resurrection within
the flesh of something more powerful than thunder and
peace;
The chains of love are thick, but they sure
deliver the last meal
I
crave.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 7:30 PM UTC
When the bones plead to settle
under the blue moon,
I watch the waves shudder and censor their
song,
I think my time here has
been
wrapped and neatly tied in a bow,
and I have no one to give myself to.
When the hot cauldron spills
over onto my chest,
where flowers no longer
bloom,
the blue moon laughs its loudest.
the oar guiding my way
has
been swallowed by the teeth of
uncertainty,
I look, I peer into the mire of insanity
chasing the one trustworthy rhythm,
among the many mercenary wales,
that will keep me moving,
moving not just forward like the
beleaguered soldier,
fighting some distant war waged
by the
infidelity of impulse.
yet here i go,
yelling curses at the pursuing blue moon,
bones in motion,
bones sinking sooner,
dust at my lips,
and
destruction
of my
apical temple assured;
I light my cigarette,
inhale disdain for these four walls and
this ritual madness,
and
for all I know,
the moon was never blue
and I made this moment
harder than
it
had to
be.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 7:19 PM UTC