I want to write
a poem,
about myself.

Of death,
and exquisite joy.

Weeks on end
with constant pressure,
small breaks,
and no woman to talk to.

This poem,
this life is filled
with unfulfillment,
and then when it isn't,
it haunts you.

Drinkers drink,
smokers msoke,
most of the time
it goes hand in hand.

Sometimes I hate
being the man
to bear the dead weight.

And no, I am not alone,
but,
because of myself,
I am alone.

Having not seen much,
everyday that I grow
is an explosion,
a catastrophe
and then heaven.

And not always heaven,
never when you expect it,
when you need
it.

But heaven when you're being selfish;
when you is me,
vice versa,
and it washes over and you spend
all week
trying to atone for not fully enjoying it.

How much should I wallow in the peace
that sprung from the muck of deep sin?
how much should I allow myself
to feel lowsy for not
enjoying respite?

How many people push
against themselves,
only to realize they're wrong,
and wrong and wrong?

I am always realzing;
always a realization
of myself, of us
through me. And I am trying to be
less arrogant. But
I know things are right;
I know the evil I have
perpetrated against me,
and you,
and I know that isn't always the case.

I know the good.

So, I am tired
of bone and dry,
and full of milk
and honey.

But even though fatigue
settles,
like dust,
I am fine with
this.

I know that this
is. And I am at home
in
this.

Like pent-up rage,
a demon
in its cage
hungry for
a mouthful
it has not
had in days.

a mouth not
its own filled
to the brim.

worked on

The whole world
is washed out,
the drunks ramble on
far past the point of preminiscence,
to the reaches of ignorance.

We hold on so tight to our jobs,
our jobs,
our jobs,
our humanity is gone,
and I can't mourn.

When the sun sets
on a Saturday,
we crest and valley,
we return and serve,
we hold tight to our own souls
like we feel the skin of the dancer's hips,
in our fingertips,
everything is not really ours,
and yet we believe we can never be wrong
about anything.

The bouncer bounced out all of them
at 2 am.

Even the incoherent,
even the lost,
even the hopeless,
even the wonderlust of a brilliant night
peppered by sodium stars
and ignited moons,
and wonderful galaxies,
and incomparable distances,
it was all not enough.

Why is it never enough,
what bluff are we standing on,
camping out on?

Where is the soldier
who floundered in his backyard?

Amidst the windswept sawgrass,
(Which, by the way,
Cut so hard against his skin)
He felt the sensitivity of his own lost soul,
So on the surface,
that it was hurt by its own feeling.

He, who dipped and swayed,
And felt angry, perverted, and *****,
lonely, now,
He lets his mind wander,
When he's never done that before.

Now he is away,
Careening through space, time,
and *****.

Peicing together destruction,
and how much humanity and evil,
Well up from us
as a reaction to death,
How so frail we are,
How ***** releases a man.

Where the horizon finally finds itself, he has been lifted,
Too heaven,
Among God and Gods and monkeys
and clouds.

Too where gunsmoke rises eternally,
With the heartbeat of man,
A slow, hollow drumming,
emptiest,
The emptiest.

In the brotherhood of the melting sunset,
Where molten horizon simmers overtop the edges of the pines,
And the whole world is finally pure chaos,
sadness and beauty.

He reaches the bottom of his dreams,
and still wandering,
Goes back into the house,
To ******* so much and hard that it hurts,
To sleep.

We have seen
and called for misunderstanding,
But I have seen our future children,
mulatto genearation,
Ticked off,
I am at our confusion,
Foggy like the farts of war,
The bullets continue to fly
even in silence,
From my brother's gun,
*** can you call youreself,
When you hold tight to the chains,
We must let loose,
We must see the sun and its morning fog
As the dew of renewal,
Because I have seen you witb oure
Mulatto children, and you looked at me,
I was a father.

I know you got a lot on your mind
to tell me.

Hell love,
we fell love
in so quickly.

How feelings of shame
rattle up the game and scare the rat
in its cage.

But please,
be mad today.

Tell me what's inside, everything;
your stupid dreams,
dreams of enough, not it all,
but enough to pain the walls,
make this un-sturdy prison fall,
make me happy enough.

I don't want to change personalities
from day to day.

This letter, sent to you
over airwaves; through the gunplay,
past funerals held today;
I hope it revitalizes the feelings
we shared, over moonlight blunts, so loud,
they had us scared.

So, little miss sunshine, wake up from night,
wake up from this place of pain
holding us tight.

No one to hold my fears.
No sanctity for my tears.
When I cry, it goes deep
into my system, lays down
beside my visions; oils my dreams, powers the machine
of my body.

God
allow me the strength to survive,
to strive,
to struggle,
to climb, to love,
to live a breathless life.

Even though I feel
sadness, I know
it wells from a good place
in my soul.

Uncomfortable without my tears.

So,
I may not be a blaster,
or a boxer,
or a firefighter,
but I've learned
to control my explosions,
take my punches when they come,
and let my eyes fall
to water the fires
that lick on all sides.