Corruption
is an overflowing
abundance of inadequate language.

As few will fathom
the misleading of those in lead,
and those who think they see
may be mislead;
even more than those who don't.

Our ends
are never the beginning
madmen are not our conquerors
but instead the folly of commoners.

It was our lack of a auspicious aptitude
that begets us to lament
even the foggiest of concepts
beyond our notion to conceive even simplicity.

It was only eager creatures
that  yearned for the world to be theirs
so instead of uniting the kingdom;
we were segregated into classes
and left without language to communicate.

I could never tear my flesh
never see the flood begin to spread
I could never be numb
never letting pain subside
I could never spread my feelings
never truly telling how deeply I burn

I can walk in the realm I deserve
can punish myself for how I feel
I can bruise my body and bellow it's contents
can punish oneself to reach my ends

Seeking for a hand bruised as badly as mine
seeing only a refection
Seeking a twist to turn this plot
seeing the end I envision finally change

I turn to the shower to fine pain
turning to sleep to never forget
I turn to people for rejection
turning to sleep to never remember

Tonight is not a night I will forget.
nor will my flesh as I begin to bleed.

Do--
That is the simplest
suggestion I could ever
mentor.

As a psychologist
as a philosopher
the only teaching
you will ever receive.

Is an education
on believing
on hope
that no matter
the deter.

Champions
are prize winning
earners
whose primary
goal
was success.

As honest
as monkeys in the rain
the forest they forage  
only breeds fruit
when they bare
the vine.

Do not fear--
an earnest mind
does not fodder
but struggle
and strive.

Because conquest
is not numerical
neither obtuse or acute
standards are settings
on default.

Amongst follies
are consequences
these events
are challenges,
that show
achievement.

Trial by fire
instead of
death by average
live let live
exist to start.

I am like a shelf the shelf that holds all things dear to you

you do not see me much since you hide me underneath the things you "love"

You don't even think of me even though I hold your world up

I hold the pressure of your world, but I do not change for it

and when you see me bare you will cover me up again.

Thinking of where they have been
has made me realize
that to me Thanksgiving
has always been a day I spent with my family.
The same people each year
as they repeat their ancient tributes.

People idly stand around the kitchen--
around an island of food
the same food each year:
of salami, chips, crackers
and an array of different cheeses
ranging from simply American to pepper jack
the one I've never seen someone eat.

It's a day where time has frozen
albeit Thanksgiving day always changes,
but the holiday always stays the same
my family is a concoction of numinous ideas
that when smashed together starts to combust.

It is where we relive our previous life
a content collection of relatives
who do not see each other that much,
but on this day can realize the love we have.

Even as reality leaves the day behind
and people begin to change
this is the moment we'll always have
because even when they leave for good
it'll be our day to thank them for the time we had.

Suddenly you're awake*

It's the middle of the night
the Sun is on another continent.
You know this, because the first thing
you do every morning is check your phone,
pleading it's not too late
to sleep another fifteen minutes.

-it's not too late-

(with burning eyes you seethe at yourself
for forgetting to turn the brightness down...again).

-You are fully awake-

Here you are
having the energy you'd
die to have when lifting pallets at work,
or spending time with friends later that evening.

-Why am I so awake?-

-You begin to listen-

You don't hear any sounds that would have woken you up.

-You begin to check for sore spots-

The only spot that hurts is your elbow, but it always stings a little, ever since you tripped over your own shoe in the hallway, (which reminds you not to trip over it again, since it's never not in the hallway).

-You start thinking-

It couldn't have been Missy, because
you haven't been able to find your cat the last couple days.
Your roommate won't be back until tomorrow, since they're visiting their family all the way out in Wyoming.

-You turn on your side-

Staring at the wall, you notice that your eyes have almost finished adjusting to the dark.

Turning to your computer, you look for the ribbed moonlight that spills across the monitor every night, that helps ease you to sleep any restless moment.

Oddly, there isn't any moonlight.

When you fell in love with me
it was the most exhilarating life-style.
We're fabulous and none could tell us
that we were just two ordinary people swooning.

People spoke of remembering the beginning of their own--
comparing their moments to ours
the same places the same people,
but to be honest I never believed a syllable
they whispered our way.

Anyone can recreate a master piece
and say it is identical in every single way.
Though the painter will always look quite different
and their detailed feelings for each stroke
will be the same as a grain of sand
compared to a humpback whale.

These people see love as an comparison story
where they can take notes and read books:
how to deal with happiness or depression
what this means for her and him,
it's the exact same thing for their own relationship.

I simply smile at these folks
they will always wander the grounds behind us
seeking out thoughts
about how to deal with each other.
To them I give a full smile,
where my eyes crinkle at the corners
giving them some peace.

As I take your hand
and tell you about the beach
where we watched whales jump out of the water
and land all over the sand.

Can you love me,
Can you love me -
as if I was an ocean breeze
crooning through your hair,
reminding you of simple love.

The kind of love you knew as a child,
the soft touch of your parent's hand on your head
as you fall asleep for an afternoon nap.

Can I be your love,
I want to be the gust of air
that soothes your heart,
and reminds you of what it really means to have crush.

The kind of crush,
that brings you well-back to middle school,
where chocolate and gummy candies
showed devotion, and everyone knew it was real.

I love you,
whomever you are -
I love you.

Fire that needs fueling
a place set and ready for burning
where a flame needs to ignite
needing so rightly to be kindled bright
popping and crackling
looming and glowing
so much timber settles the flames
leaving embers to start this fire

How can you not hate me
even if you don't know who I am
there is a chance that you should
since I am male and
we've been bred in a way
making people say "where the ****"
are my brother's decency.

Because when I speak to them
it's idolizing women
then damning those girls for
having the same ideas as my brothers--
they hurl insults
and call them compliments
telling girls to be objects
treating females as plastic
when they are humans made of blood.

She is not barbie
you do not get to change her clothes
and dress her down to
make yourself feel more like Ken--
her accessories and personality
are not defined by your hands
men can not force
themselves onto women
and tell them they dressed
as a ***-doll does.

I'll be ****** for your
lack of decency, people will treat me
as a "man", but in reality--
those are not men they are devils
trying to stay hidden in the dark
and one day feminism will bring equality
for humans, and then we'll have to
deal with the devils hiding
beneath our skin.

We will always take for granted
the unreal people
that filter through our lives
each and every day,
where motion pictures
show us to never give up.

The irony is that it's not faux people
that lead us to believe in magic,
it was the real people behind the fake
that chose to keep the music flowing.

Who knows who they really are;
it doesn't matter when it's about
life or living for nothing.

If there's something to learn -
it's to learn to take chances.

Doing nothing is simple and tedious.
Opportunity is purpose and effortless.

Risk less, chance more.

It's not really a window
but a picture of a boy--
that somewhere in my counselor's past
allows the kid to peer into his future,
into a time that is no longer here.

Maybe it reminds my counselor of better times
or the opportunity he is lucky to have now--
the boy must represent something
but I would not know for sure, as I am not him.

Although I did ask my counselor one day
about this window that watches him work--
this young boy, nothing but a child
normal as most youth always looks
the photo only granting an image
not the whole picture.

"He was a spitfire"
must have been only four foot five,
if that probably shorter
he was rough and tough
not even the Seniors were willing to bother him
those same seniors became
the boy's friends took care of him
they had lots of fun when they could.

The boy.  The Window.
Was not the usual ghostly clouds
or the average bleached pale Caucasian
as their defects were in their circulation
the wind cannot move through mountains
and neither can blood pump through chambers
without the right gust.

Sometimes children
lay down to never wake up again--
maybe it's in the hospital
for another heart surgery
that just happened
not to catch the wind quite right.

The boy was a student--
his counselor was there for him
at a different school in a different time
that even as it flows
the counselor has a window
for this boy
to watch the world from.

She's been next door
since my birth
and you may wonder how that
is even possible
when I am four or five years older than her.

I met her at a time
in my life
where my world changed,
and in this change
I tried to live--
to live for anything.

In my futile attempts
to find purpose
to conquer the beasts
of mental illness,
she's been at my window
to see this eternal struggle of mine.

She's wonderful
completely and utterly--
of course this doesn't mean she's perfect
and even more of course she's far from it.

But maybe it's that imperfection
that has allowed
her and I
to have open windows,
open hearts,
and open conversations--
no matter the
Time zones, languages, or illnesses
we always come back
understanding each other
just a little bit more.

My grandfather was an ancient thing
not a person or a place to hold my head
because he was always busy filling it
with the imagery of his life.

From his past where he had to survive
laying still next to his solder friends
who still held their weapons
even when they could not take another breath.

or the time my grandmother had a stillborn child
it would of been my uncle, but instead Rufus went on ahead
before anyone got the chance to meet him
holding his breath just like the soldiers did.

His sister, whose name no longer reaches me
so I usually call her Mrs. Harmony
because when I was four I heard her sing
our "star spangled banner yet wave"
with her soldier brother, my grandfather
standing with his hand over her heart
as she began to hold her breath as well.

I did see my grandfather do
what all his family members did before him
and really he is the reason I say they are holding their breath
that was his...our way of coping with our love ones
who stopped speaking to enjoy a silly little game
and sometimes I wish he could speak up
so I could know if he's been watching all this time.

There's a boy, or girl, or any living thing that you can relate to.

Maybe it's not even living
it's a stuff animal that you anthropomorphized
to become your best friend,
because everyday is spent glazing
the abstract of news articles.

What's special about a bestfriend
that doesn't rely on you for talking,
or even breathing.
You can actually be yourself,
instead of who they want you to be.

Man, if we were even more honest
I mean people...I mean subterraneans,
because let's be deep, only those
living underground, like me, are going to understand.

The ground is life
and I'm being buried beneath;
it's quite better than being on top.

I can't be anything;
relating to anyone isn't even worth reading
as the only language I've perfected
is the one communicated by my Rhino
and that's silence.

When I take in air it doesn't feel so light.
It's full of the things you'd never want to go down your throat.
Its feels as if the air has changed to the hottest sauce I could ever imagine.
That with each inhale and exhale my mouth and throat burn.
They burn to such extremes that I feel like an out of shape boy after a run.
A boy that does not know that he is not built to run this way.
As I take in more air it only adds to the intensity.
Doing as what oxygen does and igniting flames.
My lungs have become these hostage negotiators.
The Hostage is myself.
As they decide whether I can breathe or simply gasp for the heat.
They tighten me up and begin to straggle me.
Just like the time I was smothered by my brother.
They just don't know when to stop.
Not realizing when it's no longer a game.
My eyes start to flutter as my whole body begins to shift.
This moment feels as if an eternity the same as watching sand glide with the wind.
A simple breeze where the wind seems most at peace.
An empty land where only the gust of wind exist.
I only feel the light droplets of rain right after the lightning bolt strikes.
It begins at my head and slowly trickles down the rest of me.
Moistening only the back of my head as I face the sky.
My lungs negotiated what they wanted so dearly.
I gave in to their final request.
The air has become as light as they say it is.
Taking one final deep breath.
My final thoughts on this day were those of the pleasant wind.

Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.

I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.

*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.

That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.

Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.

For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.

Slamming doors are our earthquakes
they are the faults that quake
and when they shift
I can feel our world quiver.

The home we've built
is almost shambles
the plaster lining our walls
crumbles and becomes the dust on our shelves.

The fights we share
are the shifting foundation,
where cracks stagger our steps
and cause us to share blows
dancing a silhouette
of arguments.

Pieces of people
that we never used to be--
are the imaginary characters to our fairy tales  
because there is no way
we could see either of as beautiful--
when we are only seeing
an outline of who we used to be.

Caricatures so misshapened
that they are etched into our bedroom
the sleeping place we used to share our dreams
and instead we scream our nightmares

collapsing from exhaustion
only to cuddle with extra pillows
building forts on each side of the bed
to at least have something comfort us.  

Our harmony finally makes it's ******
it is not the smash of earthquakes
but the sickening silence of loneliness
because we've become isolated.

no longer stomping out natural-disastres
instead we accept our indifference
and we quietly leave the door open--
because there's no need to close doors
in a house we no longer live in.

Delete
the last
and forget the past
my fiendish ally <---back space
will reel back time
not here
not this time
freely written never taken back to the past
never back space
only to the future they go
aren't they lucky that none of them got deformed in a typo
freely written and never edited let creativity flow and never adjust
accept the mistakes
and evey mistake is just a glimmer of what had to happen
luckyily only 2 were made
not poetic, but meaningfl
make that 3

New Job.
New Drive.
New Interest.

It's all so new,
yet so-so familiar.

All there is, the heat -
encased in a fireplace
or a furnace.

Smoldering,
the ashes
never filter through
these windless lungs,
instead of oxygen
the flame kindles
on anxiety.

Life is going splendidly - no hiccups -
Breathing is easy
but all that rushes in
is the flagrant blossom
of ragged thoughts,
all the possibilities
for how helpless
the wind is
when it's always being
knocked out.

Artistically,

being a child is something always
painted to be one of flesh wounds;
one bouncing between hyper activity,
and being bewildered by a snail
after the sprinklers have gone off in the morning.

Maybe the precious life
that fills their lungs -
refreshes a child's waking moments
is rewritten to be poetry; folks panhandling for distance memories always better than ones they hold today.

We find their outlandish thoughts
to be ones of tomfoolery.
Looking at children with eyes that do not see them as people.
Instead we milk our own absurdity for rewritten nostalgia.  

Please,

Stop. Remember. There is nothing to lose, which has not already been lost before.  If it can be gained once. So may it be done again.

Children are not children
because of age or inexperience
they are everything we aspire to be,
and that is to be free.

That is three numbers
above my echelon numeric
and happens to be my 2nd
favorite.

I never thought about why
that from a really young age
I'd fallen into romance
with a 2nd lover.

One that only sits
three buildings down the line.
We didn't meet by chance--
6am a dimly lit haze
in between our
transition from home
to not home.

It's where our bonding of
digit to digit formed
and new meaning
came to our realization
that if time was to end.

It would happen
on the 24th hour
in our 24th day
the final 24th year.

Because to imagine
existing I will always
be a youngster
a brandishing elegance of a mind.

Who understood
time was our own conception
and beyond the end
was an abyss of nothing
that I hope I'd never see.

All I came up here to do was to make a poem and to get some extra credit now with that said I guess I really should earn it.

Now I don’t know what kind of poem you really want, but that really doesn’t matter since your already here and have already given your two dollars to Japan and my job Is pretty much already over before it even began.

Now I could do some Dr. Seussish stuff and just rhyme words with wish and ish that would make a mish and then you would find a magic cat fish, but that would be kindergarten repeatin-ish.

  Now this may not be fitting with what you planned, but I’ve already told you that I don’t care what you want I’ve doing this for me, Te he.

  Now that Dr. Seuss is out of the way maybe there’s something greater that I would like to say.

Now two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth; oh wait I’m sorry that’s not my poem. Hmm I’m stealing other people’s stuff I guess you guys aren’t getting your money’s worth tonight.

Now I don’t know what I could really bring up that isn’t ****** up, but maybe you could rejoice since you get to hear this magical lyrical voice.

  Now this has pretty much been off the top of my head and hopefully you haven’t been wishing you were dead, but hey I think it’s been pretty okay.  Now that you’ve heard this and have planned to leave your seat I would like to convince you that you shouldn’t stand to your feet.

  Now this has made me feel like the man I do hope that you’ve understood the sarcasm and jokes since this wasn’t only made for young folks.

Now since this little fling is almost over I would like to get yo numba, but who am I kidding you didn’t like this part of the show so I’ll just go, but before I go I would gladly like you to know…that there is no refunds.

I want you to love me--
Please only love me as long as I live,
The very moment my eyes stop fluttering,
and no longer smile when they are watching the world.
That to close my eyes you would have to push them down;
one eye is blue and one eye is green
you can remember this
but keep remembering I am no longer here.

Because when I am watching you
from the skyline subway train to some place unknown;
to the living world, your world.
I want to be able to see you,
but not to see you loving people that are no longer there
or in the bottom of some bottle
dreaming that this will bring me to you,
even though spirits grant my image
they can never bring mine back.

Instead you should find new love--
one that can bring you to the living
because it's something I can't do anymore.
So when I am taking this final trip out
instead of seeing spoiled love that maybe ended too soon.
I'll be able to see one that lasted a life time--
I won't have to wish this was a movie
since we'll both know even without me you'll still be happy.

All I ask is that you choose to remember me
that when you see those two colors: blue and green.
It will remind you of how my eyes were different colors
and to take a short moment to look into the sky.
Remember that I am no longer here
but when I was, we loved each for a life time...

Evanescent
is that the word
am I that word
hopefully not
Interminable
That is the word
you are the word
hopefully so
so funny
the word
sounds beautiful
showers with pain
so sad
the word
sounds terrifying
bask in hope

I would like the many all to know
that I am all ready to go
no I do not mean to my death
I do not want to take my final breath

I am ready to fall to my slumber
I wonder when it'll be my number
before my rest I'd like to say that I am not upset
I have done all I can do, I call it my best

I will see where my tidings have gone
all I can say is that we did have a great bond
maybe you have seen, so I will give you time
perhaps you have not thought it threw; you are mine

I care oh so much, but I accept my world
it may not be clear, it truly is all swirled
the truth will always find me soon
and to be honest I know it will bring my doom

I would like the many all to know
that if I had to, I can let her go
No I do not mean from my love
I will take that final breath after one last shove

Months have gone and the pain does not pass
Friday was pretty harsh, maybe I missed the mark
It was life all in one glance, ours lives happened to crash
I can't say right now, but we met, and I was happy to leave the dark

Friday we both left our shells
We both shared our pain, but what did we gain
I feel like I brought us both to hell
I cannot say right now, but we met, and it still drives me insane

After our Friday thy continued into the night
she kept on crying, while I boozed mine away
I awoke wanting to speak of all the things we said in the light
I cannot say right now, but we met, as I slip into the dark, to my dismay

Honey I said we'd talk on Sunday
Am I ready to speak or should I wait till Monday
One past Sunday can't change much; should I wait till Tuesday
I cannot say right now, but we met, is it Sunday?

While I still have the emotions.
I must write them out.
Because soon, I will once again become so stout.

I continue my writings from my other day.
I protest that I am fine, of which I am.
All I ponder is do you think I am some scam.

Are you going to run n hide or accept, forward motion.
Carrying your pantheon heart and my own carnivorous groan.
Will you walk this walk or throw a stone.

This the last of your poems unless you decide to stay.
Tomorrow, maybe you will make me cry.
After the fact you are just a girl, and I just some guy

****, man how can you enjoy the day.
There's no way you could,
always peering to how it'll end;
never just living .
Why not embrace not knowing;
why not enjoy
Always seeking the end.
**** your own will to continue.
No goal. no future.
Just the now, should be the why;
Why should the least part lived be the most important.
Expect less and receive more.
****, seriously open a door
and just open; not think what's behind it

Corrupt your words to blend your image

take the time to hide your own damage

lost without will to fold your soul

tell those lies hit the bottle to dig that hole

take another "dip" and finish with that "grenade"

don't lie, were growin don't let yourself fade

that bottle is the home grown medical kit

when the words finally spill out we're Infinite

We're brothers
we met and bonded
in the holes dug
by our own shovels.

Creating parallel lines to our enemies
but as we sat across
two sides divided--
I could not help
but chuckle at the thought
of us being parallel.

Meaning we had
to have at least one thing in common;
explicit we  built tunnels
exactly the same way,

but inside
I knew these were people
heading in the same direction
that we were never able to meet.

they were no better than I
they are my true brothers
and having to ****
my brothers
was a tragedy.

I remember the night that you couldn't move

my brother and I remember the pain we felt

as we both called for an ambulance that lived right next door

remembered every dreadful second they are as 30 minutes click on by

as we wondered if you'd die

we drowned in tears as we were left alone

I'm a brick layer
by incarnation
by aspiration
by luminosity.

I find unfinished buildings-
toppled skyscrapers-
imaging their foundations
their structural intelligence.

With a brick here
and some love there;
once demolished
can be reassembled.

I'll reconstruct
your finest details,
the youthful aspirations
of an idyllic generation.

Too naïve to
understand that unforgiving
weather can happen
to even the kindest of buildings.

Fantasy:
Imagination,
Magic,
Illusion,
Fraud.

These are the parlor tricks that
our mighty government
has sunken too
instead of creative linguistics.

Or a tapestry of  rhetorical philosophy
that is meant to persuade us
into their petition of ideology--
to understand their foundation for society
for how we live and prosper
as a nation united.

Instead we are beaten over the head
with misdirection and red-herrings
they willingly and happily use
slight of hand
so the people watching
can be mislead,
instead of asking tough questions.

They are sawing the news media in half
to delude you of their credibility
and showing you
compartments full of reflective mirrors
to hide the true emptiness
that lurks behind their lies.

The ground around you turns to ashes and light that was is no more

The flicker of light within has been snuffed out you tremble to no end

The pain fills the cracks and once again you are whole

That would be the irony you are not whole cracks filled with pain

Is like gluing glass back together it’s never as strong as it once was

You are in pieces that have been etched to fit, but not by your hands

The person you are was made by fools, ones of merely surgical mask and tools

You have become a pack mule to bend and break to the use of others

You’ve lost your voice an identity of yours hidden with a mussel

Wondering if you were ever to be who you wanted or if you were always their toy

A toy smashed into the ground thrown high up to hit the ground, or tooken to see what’s inside you

The insides back then had flesh, bones, organs, the blood of life

Now I am porcelain, empty on the inside and an identity easily broken to never find itself