I'm going to write this.
I say that to myself, and
to you, the reader.
Every time I sit down to
work on poetry lately,
I'm overcome by lethargy.
I look at the whiteness
and go blank.
I thumb through notes,
nothing.

The thought of
lying down for
a nap rides by on
a tri-cycle in
my mind.
I hated naps as a
child, they interfered
with my plans to
conquer the world.
The coolness of the
sheets subdued me.

Instead of admitting
complete defeat,
I say to myself,
Maybe, I will wake
up refreshed and
inspired.
Perhaps, the muse will
visit in my slumber.

I retire to the bed,
Mojo, one of my cats,
Join me at the
foot.
She is soon
dreaming of catching
the elusive moth that
has been bothering
her for days.
And I will dream of
catching words like
butterflies with a big net.

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.

Angels with broken wings,
frostbitten dreams,
morphine nights,
and gangrene schemes.
She had that broken glass sadness.
The kind that gets worse with
every slammed door and every
lazy moon mad night.
The light in her eyes was dim,
like a candle in the fog, or like
a frog that dreams of flying, but
wakes up to the same old pond,
day after degrading day.
God, every time I see her, I want to
take her home and give her a bath,
feed her strawberries and rub her feet.
I want to free her from the rain slick
suffering she's stuck in, wash away the
stench of the lonely diesel strangers,
but I can't save her, hell I can't even
save myself.  So I *** her a Midnight Special,
and light it for her, with a brief sulfuric blaze
of glory bereft of any lasting light...
walk away...Jack-O-Lantern grin
into the lonesome neon night.

In a liminal space surrounded by aether
I came to see the countenance
of a lover long lost to me,
martyred by addiction and impotence
and ignorance and arrogance,
A love taken for granted;
yet undeservedly so


In her eyes spun a spark
I had since never forgotten.
She proffered a smile
I have since longed to see
and greeted me tenderly
with warmth and a kiss.

We shared some time in a
soft sweet way
as if again lovers
no longer estranged

In a steam covered pool,
playing chicken alone,
I hugged her thighs hard
and looked up
as she brought her face close

I said,

"I know this isn't forever.
I know that it's just for right now;
But it feels like coming home."

"I've missed you"


She said "I've missed you"
Kissed me again from above
A goodbye

Then I woke from the dream
and refused to open my eyes.

And under my breath I begged
"Please... don't go..."

But she was already gone
And the day began
and the dream
drifted away
And I fell back to slumber
and dreamed anew
of another time
later
Lost and wandering
Muttering to myself
A poem of love and loss
And learning to let go,
Rhythmically
to the plodding pad
of my wet bare feet on concrete
As I made my way somewhere
that would never feel like home

Every Girl I've ever known
I've loved like a lover
Whether they knew it or not
Though
Only a handful
ever gave me a shot
And I hope that those
that did Don't regret it.

The ladies that
let me love them
Let me learn to love
so deeply
That my poor little sad-sack,
woe-is-me world-view
became wholly incomplete
And to the women who wore
my burden on their heart,
I apologize again profusely.
I was never worthy of such tender treatment,
a fact once unbeknownst to me.

I hope one day
you'll forgive my sins
as I have
forgiven those
who sinned against me,
(Though a precious few
those may be)
and to those I'll love
as yet unburdened
by the weight; just wait...
One day you'll see.

Friday 7/12/24
2:53am

Everything is a Psy-Op these days.
Who knows what to believe?
Certainly not the mainstream media
or its blatant complacency.
Are we actually the "Great Satan?"
It's getting hard to believe we're still free.

Do you feel free? (I certainly don't.)
- And If so, do you have money?

I bet you do;
But do you have time
for yourself,
and Your friends,
and your family?
And Not just
A little chunk,
carved out of nights and weekends,
like a free minutes for a cellphone back in 1993;
but real time,
time you can invest,
that you can commit to you;
not just free-time, but
Time free enough just to be.
And even more important -
Do you have energy?
For all this free time
they give you for a fee:
Or did you sell your youth,
your dreams,
and your soul,
just to avoid poverty?
For a promise of "one day,
some day
soon,
You can stop working
And rest your weary feet
But not right now...
                                  (while you could enjoy it)
Not yet...
                            {the machine still needs to feed}
you must invest.
                               [it needs strength and vigor]
You can't expect to eat for free
                         /and to it, you look ******* tasty\

it's not like sustenance is out here
Simply growing on trees; does water just rain from the heavens into your sink? No, We have to make our ***** nature clean.


But yes – back to rest – after a while... sure
That is, however, only after:
once you've served enough
purpose to the capital beast.



- And If you do not,
do you long for quiet and peace and solitude,
Or joy and comradery?
Or just a day off
to get some things done
and then another one
where you can just be?

There's no freedom left
in the land of the free,
at least not for you and me.
There's some for those
That are in control
of the wages and the prices
of the commodities.
But for those of us
they rent by the day
or the hour
or the lifetime,
For a modest fee;
there's just "**** it up" and ****-sandwiches to eat.
"Now, Come on boy! Aren't ya hungry?"

Unless we rally and rage
and riot and fight
with fury and fire,
pitchforks and torches
Muskets and mutlitudes
Clawing and gnashing teeth.
To bite the hand that beats us back
The fight is getting easier to see,
That's why they are building cop cities and training facilities and internment camps.
But beating them is getting harder and harder to do.
Because they've know what they were doing, and when we were told
we didn't believe

There is a gravity to
sadness; it pulls me
downward into a
deep dark well.
I can't climb out.
It's my own private hell.
I pray for levitation.
I jump, only to fall.
I feel forgotten.

I put one foot in
front of the other,
and I will rise.
I move on.
Hope returns like
a long-lost friend,
and I find my sanctuary.