Step by step,
bit by bit,
seen unseen
unknowing shape.

Concepts in rebuild
reconstruct what has fallen.

Come on,
let in some fresh air.
No need to be afraid
the same dark chants drift by.

Change resonance.
There is a chance
for a new beginning.

Three words whispered by someone
in the past were drifting behind my eyes:
“Don’t embarrass yourself.”
  
Trigger-induction, hypnotic phrase
stiffening my muscles,  
getting stuck in my legs.

These words make me straighten up
just in case, to avoid becoming a farce,
to not risk interior pain.

I walked through the narrow hallway
some stories were explained,
others remained in the pharynx
of watchful colossal squid.

I’m a broken record,
a sponge drinking salt drops.
Hidden, desiring wishes used  
not to be said.

Self-censorship is an easy way.
Just with a bit of self-irony,
I try to play fair; I try to play safe.

Stamping my tiny, rumpled ticket
joining a collective perfect match,
even if I don’t fit into this craziest crowd.

Until now, when through the crack,
the water has gone untamed,
refusing to return to the flood control dam.

I’m afraid of what will be next
when the water swallows
my piece of comfort la-la land.

Caught asking myself
to go where there is real music
or stay in an illusory state.

I've never written a limerick.
Thinking of it makes me sick.
Better a sonnet
or a woman upon it.
Maybe, I'll just play with my ****.

I sleep with my
top hat on these days.
It keeps the rabbits from
crawling out and running
away.

They are the safest close to
my brain when I sleep.
I don't want them eaten by
feral swine or to wander
off and drown in a vat of wine.

The magic show will
start soon, and I'll pull them
out when least expected.
The crowd will gasp and groan
when I saw the woman in half.

"It's just a trick,"  I yell.
"She's okay, sleight of hand...see."

They know better, the blood
isn't fake.
They see the horror of the
magician's life, even though
it entertains. We all wish it
was an illusion, but it's
showtime.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
Some monsters walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

He never left a single note.
Just rings on wood, the scent of smoke.
A door unlocked a room left bare.
A ghost still sunken in the chair.

The bottle stood, its duty done.
A quiet war that no one won.
No cries for help, no last refrain.
Just heavy air and dried-up pain.

The world still turned the clocks still kept,
No one knew how hard he wept.
And when they asked they swore he laughed
Yet all he left was hollowed glass.