I am a pen
Sharp, lanky, practical.
I am surrounded by
    fingers and paper,
Garbage and a desk.
I move all around
My tip -- covered in ink,
Can convey
Limitless
Powerful
Messages.

Shine, like the sunrise
greeting the mountainside.
A diamond ring, long lost
beneath beds of snowflakes,
suffocates.
Cold feet abandoned it.

I'm plagued by nimble,
yet fragile, greed;
insatiable.

I traverse and stumble
and stumble and stumble
through a dense mist.
Frozen portraits, precise, turned corpses
litter my focals.
Blurred vision excites
the hibernating nerves
in my numb fingertips.

I blow
into them.
Coarse skin grasps
my cracked pale lips.

I clear my lenses,
steal my senses
and ask for the moon
to cradle me in
its dusty gray craters
while I look for
a fool's broken vows.

What is life but a bunch of irony/ Ever noticed that, or had desire to see/
We live to die, yet die to live/ Grasping to life asking Him to forgive/
It doesn’t really come to mind/ that in the sudden blink of an eye/
Your life could be on the line/ clinging to hope, pleading to survive/
Thinking that you’re immune/ to a disease that anyone is prone to/
Funny though, how irony is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
Like how religion seeks peace/ but peace seems non-existent/
We denigrate discrimination/ but racism continues to disseminate/
What is race but a color/ when color is a creation of the mind/
What does color have to do with anything/ when we’re all the same on the inside/
More things are said to our back/ Cause we can’t seem to face our problems/
Instead of saying it to their face/ we steal their self-esteem and rob them/
It’s like the truth’s become a knife/ trying to stab at thin air/
What does that even solve/ besides the fact that air can’t be stabbed/
It’s pointless to say something/ if it doesn’t help solve the problem/
And then the problem with that is/ the problem is left unsolved/
Irony people, it really is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
With hopes for the economies growth/ the government sets us up with debt/
That’s like drinking while pregnant/ and not expecting a birth defect/
Or how people always look for love/ when it isn’t something simply found/
Why would you search for something/ that can only be felt, not found/
Its like looking for the gust of wind/ that knocked you to the ground/
And trying to punch it in the face/ by yelling really, really loud/
God gave us two hands to work with/ yet we expect things to be handed to us/
He gave us a brain to think with/ only to act before we think/
He gave us two legs to walk with/ but we expect people to guide us/
He gave us two eyes to see with/ but we are still blind to what is beside us/
He gave us a mouth to speak with/ only to speak with words that degrade/
We look for happiness in ourselves/ by taking it away from others/
What used to be considered ugly/ is what we now call beautiful/
Sticks and bones with skin that’s tone/ a body unrealistically curvy/
Eight packs wit luscious locks/ muscles that have muscles is considered worthy/
Having a bad *** attitude and no respect/ that’s how you get a girl today/
But, yesterday, if you lacked respect/ girls would simply say “no way”/
We take simple things for granted/ that others would treasure royally/
Like, take our water for an example/ you can find some everywhere here on hand/
But there are people over in Africa/ who can only drink water from their hands/
Because running water only exists/ to those who have the upper hand/
Really though, isn’t it ironic how we live to die/ it’s an interesting concept/
We begin our lives in a womb/ and we spend an eternity in a tomb/
We avoid taking risks/ because risk to many spells death/
But living life without risk/ will result in a death with nothing to give/
People live to be remembered/ but your death will be forgotten/
Ohhh, the irony of irony/ how something so simple can keep life interesting/
I mean, if irony didn’t exist/ change would be but a mysterious mist/
You can see that it is there/ but there’s nothing you can do except let it sit/
So let irony become an incentive/ show some grit and man up to it/
You only have one life to live/ so why not make it ironic and die for it/

We all love to hate the things that hurt us
To draw the line that divides the two
Is like walking an invisible fence
In the ocean where the waves rage and rush
And we hate to love what cares for us
Because we're scared to get wounds that won't mend
When it's fear that will hurt us in the end
And puncture us with an elephant tusk
But what if we don't teach love or preach hate
Instead, exemplify how to balance
the two between two beams of blended light
where they compliment and don't complicate,
Perfectly mixed in a golden chalice
Where a single sip can change someones life.

Voices from the past spoken by ghosts are
booked with stories, stories till gone untold.
Tombstone whisperers with breathless lisps
Caress your mind with misty mystery
Beginning stories "once upon a time"
and ending them with the two words "The End."

We find ourselves wishing to hear stories
told by the living before they die but,
Only after they die do we listen
because everything they wanted to say
can now only be said with one word, dead.

I've grown weary of looking
Trying to find the one
The right one
for me...
for now.

It has become such a burden
Cause all the right ones
Have left me,
left me...
forever.

I know I want to find someone
Who is worth the wait
No, not right
not left...
straight.

The one who'll make the wait
Seem as if I
Never had to
wait...
at all.

As I lay on my bed
My favorite pen in my hand
Trying to convince myself
To write something creative
But my brain can't function
And just think on command

I blink, and blink, and blink
Staring at the paper blankly
Feeling like I've been hoodwinked
By a silhouette in a hood
All you see is two blaring eyes
As one half of them winks

Mind racing in slow motion
Thinking you can think something
But the ink isn't working
Brainwaves are failing to flow
To the tips of your fingers
Sparking the touch of talent

Trying to tap the wires
That trigger inner feelings
And fuel the fire to write
Stick a knife in a socket
You still wouldn't get the shock
To ignite your light to write

All you want to do is write
Begging and pleading your pen
To scribble with all it's might
You want to feel productive
And conceive a worthy product
Yet you can't seem to produce

It's the worst feeling ever
Because you just want to write.

The top
is not what you think

Each step
is led by your heart

I was
told to travel light

It leaves
more room to pick up

It's not
a straight shot up, though

But more
up, down, in and out

Don't run
or you might fall down

Don't stop
or you might miss out

Get stuck
look for a new path

Patience
and you will stay on course

Shortcuts
don't have real outcomes

Long paths
will help pace your growth

The top
is not out of reach

It can
be seen when you start

We all
wish to stand atop

The top
and swim in success

But fear
the journey ahead

Don't fear
what  you don't know yet

It will
all be known one day

The top
Has a special spot

Waiting
for you to fill it.

Ripples of smoke drift across the water on this starry night
My life was lost in a coffin on the night I was pronounced dead
But what I saw wasn't what I had imagined in my head
Roaming across a ruthless prairie rampaging through the ruins
And I begin to wonder, how man lives are pressed beneath this soil?
Think about it, there are Angels all around us, wherever we walk
And what if they aren't looking down at us, but up instead
Through the soil that separates their soul from humanity
Giving us the lift we need keeping us from sinking in

The air around here isn't the same without you to breathe it with me
Like im the only one being harmed by this field of radiation
While everyone else around me is going through their routines
Uninhibited by the fact a boy is wandering the field in misery
Sometimes it takes a while to adapt to this empty feeling
But it usually comes at a price that doesn't make much sense
I go over that night in my head like you go over a budget
But instead of losing money, I lose a piece of my sanity
Because there's part of my that won't erase the picture
And I lose the need to sharpen my pencil when that happens
And the motive to keep pensively pressing the paper

You may not know it, but you're the reason I keep crying
Because tears are the catalyst of my crippled company
Yes, it's crippled, but there are still two feet to stand on
Which means there is reason to keep myself moving forward
It's like when your heart started beating, mine lost its life
I don't find that fair
It's as though I'm walking with a noose around my neck
I still think about you in the depths of my dreams
But they give me this perception trying to deceive me
Leaving me with misguided directions that mislead me

It was ****** she wrote on the night she up and left me
It must've hurt her when she found the folded note
Like she could feel the pen weave with every written sentence
Don't lie to me, I know that's how it made you feel
I wrote it knowing it would throw you back on your heels
What I didn't know was it would be the last note you ever read
Now I'm sitting here wishing you were here with me
But I lost you to the world that was more deserving than me
When you were MY world, and I would roam your fields freely
Getting lost on purpose, strictly so you would come find me.

The streetlight on the corner of
8th and Harriet talks in Morse code
every Sunday night at half past eight.

Maybe it’s asking to be saved
from the blistering cold. Maybe
it has feelings for the moon

and only wants to be noticed.
It must get lonely working
the same corner for years

and nobody bothers to return thanks.
My guess is it’s trying to communicate
with fellow streetlights

and plan an attack like the Ents
did before they went to
war on Isengard.

But then again, only in my mind
I make perfect sense. After all,
it is just a malfunctioning street light.

The streetlight on the corner of
8th and Harriet talks in Morse code
every Sunday night at half past eight.

Maybe it’s asking to be saved
from the blistering cold. Maybe
it has feelings for the moon

and is only trying to be noticed.
It must get lonely working
the same corner for years

and nobody bothers to return thanks.
My guess is it’s trying to communicate
with fellow streetlights

and plan an attack like the Ents
did before they went to
war on Isengard.

But then again, only in my mind
I make perfect sense. After all,
it is just a malfunctioning street light.

When I wake in the morning
and rub the sunshine off my eyelids,
I think of ways--of ways
I’m going to make you smile.

Yet, everything seems—backwards,
back burners, back of the bus.
I don’t know, really, how
                     to describe it.

But It entices me, whatever
It is; It entices me.
It’s like your presence became—omnipresent
ever since I made myself
present to you.

I never thought much of it
until this year, until I took a
pleasant slap to the face,
and we haven’t even had
physical contact yet, just
brief conversations to hold me over
until then.

Everyone in this world
is beautiful in one way or another;
a beauty someone out there
will see as particularly striking.
Yours happened to strike me.
It’s a beauty I just cant ignore
yet, its all I’ve been doing
since I informed you it can’t be ignored.

To make up for it, I wake up
pretending there’s a smile waiting to happen
Because there always is, sometimes
you just have to dig deep,
and be patient, to find it.

I haven’t yet felt what
your hand feels like intertwined with mine.
but I certainly hope
I’ll at least get the chance to.

When the time is right,
when that opportune moment comes along,
maybe that chance will make
a fool of my pretending ways
and I’ll no longer need
the rising of the sun
as a reason to make you smile.

I once saw a man with golden hair
and a golden goatee.
His jacket was red
and his shoes were white as snow.

He possesses the knowledge of Stephen Hawking
and the strength of Hercules.
He raises a family of broken glass
a family that can only be broken once.

If you have the expectation
you can avoid the unexpected
in life, then you will never
end up making a left turn
unbeknownst that it is right.

For it is the simple sense of you,
and the vulnerability, and the
admirable quirkiness within it.
The unquestionable understanding
of self stands atop the world.

And with wandering eyes, which
are unlike any star or moon,
and a bold heart that beats
beneath your chilled skin, you
hope to find a deserving warmth.

So you take this world by storm
and create waves that rush
and break even the smallest pebble.
A world that was not ready
for such a breathtaking force.

And this world was stunned,
ill-prepared to embrace this gift.
You threw the world off course.
Now caught in a strange situation,
he wonders what's next in store.

This world has been overcome
by a force it can't avoid.
But this force is something special
the world can't seem to deny,
so it's attempting to tempt it.

This world has been overrun
by a light that gives the blind sight,
something beauty can hardly describe,
something that is overpowering,
something that this world can't shake.

Your sight has livened this world
and made it greener in all corners.
And now whenever your bright eyes
set sight upon it's bountiful land
it is overcome by a storm of feelings.

But what this world is yet to know
is if this force is receptive.
Because this world wants to show
how it feels towards something
that is so unearthly beautiful

Inside and out.

I'm fighting two pails --
One filled with feeling of
a homeless future and
one with a far cry crow
swooping in on every worm
living in the cracks of my life.

Give me a rifle with a
cross-haired scope, locked and loaded
two painted metal pails
with the eyes of a bull
so I can shoot one
and let the other
rust with my soul.

The best poetry
Can paint a vivid picture
Without a paintbrush.

Looking over my mom’s shoulder
while she sat in her chair
with her Toshiba laptop, and
a hummingbird’s beak
was nestled in sugar water
outside the living room window.

Engaged in her game of “Buck Euchre”
while I massaged her stiff neck
with my tired fingers, she
messaged her opponents
“You guys will be lucky to
take one ‘trick’ this round
with the hand I got.”

Her brisk tapping of the keyboard
seemed nearly in sync
with the fierce flickering of
the hummingbird’s wings.

I wondered what it’d be like
if my mom had energy
like a hummingbird everyday—
upbeat and alert,
But I knew that wish was
out of reach. Chemo kept her
house-ridden;
either in her bed or a seat.

“Yes! Ha! Ha! suckers,” my
mom shouted,
“Ben, there’s no way they will beat me.”
I smiled and said,
“You show ‘em, Mom.”

Don't have a clue.
Don't have a clue?

They live in dive bars
and take shots of
Karkov, eyes glued
to the radio
hanging in the corner
laughing with the cracked
peanut shells on the floor

They will slaughter you
with analogies likening
Moby **** to the bruised banana
they ate prior to
their last reading

They sleep in dumpster fires
and digest the
nature of rotten cheese

Under some circumstances
they play fetch with bones
thrown by big government
just to see how many
splinters get stuck in
the roof of their mouth

Proceed to shout
"don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government
don't ask about my thoughts
on politics and government"

They hate politics and
would rather
cry into a red wheelbarrow
glazed with gasoline
on top of Lady Liberty's torch

and let their tears
set the world ablaze.

Holy ba-jeebus, Beavis and Butthead
am I ever in the right place.
Astonishing.
I’m grounded with the roots of
stories ready to sprout
like leafs during springtime.

Green as the fields
and grassy hills
of the Midwest.
Blooming with beauty
that can’t be forgotten.

It’s an enriching feeling
that can’t be contained
by a company of one.
It has to be shared with everyone.

Just because you’re rooted
in one spot
doesn’t mean you can’t
spread seeds with
the whisper of the wind.

The grounds of the place we call home
live with us forever.
Stay, or leave, you’re left
with something to live with
as a result of
choice.

I gave a red rose away
My love is peddled in that flower.
Stemming from the depths,
the depths of an aortic man
Blooms a beautiful weakness.
For it leaves him vulnerable
To a raging red river of tears
Flowing with every rose
He’s ever given away.
He could fill so many boquets
A florist would be floored.
He could put them on display
In an elegant display case
They still wouldn’t be worth a say.

Dumbfounded by an illusion
Asking himself ‘what am I doin?’
Trying to fill this void
With his acts of confusion
Only to find the one answer
The one he’s not looking for.
That all these love stories
He grew up listening to
Have left his ideas skewed.
That love can be found
In the heart of someone else,
Happiness can be tasted
On the buds of another tongue
Without using your mouth.

But little did he know
That none of it was true,
All this time he never knew.
Behind that shimmering smile
Is a mouth that is empty.
His ears never hear church bells,
And his eyes never see stars.
His hands never felt the sand,
His feet have never frolicked,
And his roses were never red.
Searching for happiness
Before he even had it himself
Led to the self-destruction
Of all the love he’s ever felt.

Even the bolt of a metal *****
will eventually erode.
Is it ironic to say that
a blowfish can implode, too?

The notion of wearing a mask
is an interesting one
Because nothing in this world
is meant to stand the test of time
And if you try to hide
you will fail.
Then, when you wake,
and try to see past your mask
you'll find yourself staring
at the wall behind you.

Even on a bright, sunny day
you can wake up feeling gray.
Making you feel out of place,
so wearing a mask compensates
Disguising blind eyes from reality
with a false sense of security.

The calm before the storm
is a deceptive moment in time
But it just goes to show
how quickly things can go
from good to bad
And it happens everyone.

Everyone has a shadow
no matter how you choose too see things.
It will never leave your side
Big or small, day or night
Your shadow is cast as a mask,
how you wear it is up to you.

Becoming comfortable in your mask
can be an uncomfortable task
As uncomfortable as a gullible mime
that is stuck on the outside
of his invisible box,
just trying to find a way in.

It's a queasy experience
that makes your stomach churn.
Trying to find the face behind
the mask
When you can't see past the facade
that acts as a mirage.

It's might sound easier to keep
the mask on,
put up a front and never look back
But that doesnt mean
things will be any easier,
just harder to hide behind.

Only when you choose to see
the reflection in the mirror
for its face value,
and not as a misleading mask,
will you begin to feel
how awesome it is to see clearly

On a frigid night I am
the lone resident in my house.
Not a whisper sounds from
the mouth of the biting air outside.

Alone in my house I am at ease
for there is nothing around
to interrupt this time left to me.
I can see things differently,
like the face of a Picasso painting.

With a lessened tension I
have a deeper sense of recollection.
My thoughts are a ceiling fan,
constantly spinning and circulating
the sentences of these lines
like the air throughout the house.

As I listen to the warm air
rattle from the vent in the wall
I am reminded of the days
spent with my dad working
in the basement workshop.

My purple, gold and white
Pinewood Derby car for Boy Scouts
was a piece of work to be proud of.
It may not have placed, but
it had a special place on my dresser
for several years to come.

It’s memories like these I
know I’ll never forget because
even after thirteen years
I can recall it like it was yesterday.

The smell of freshly sanded wood
and sore fingers after long hours
of hard work perfecting the shape
was worth more than all the
money a rich couple could
spoil their children with.

They are a reminder,
A reminder
that the future is full of surprises.
A raging mystery unmatched.
Every drop of water
that splashes upon the reflection
has the opportunity
to create a wave.

Not all the same.

Some will rage
                            and some will ripple,
but either way
                            the water’s face
will be forever changed.

Don’t think too hard;
                            the beauty of it all
will never be lost.
                            We are surrounded by it.
It looks up at us,
and we watch it capture eyes.
Unending, ceasing to amaze,
can’t be stopped.

A ripple or a wave
                            whatever it may be
will always--always
                            affect its surrounding.

And, drops of water are
always splashing somewhere.

Eyes slit like a stoner,
hearing things that
never made a sound.

Dust white as sugar
looks like residue
from an eight-ball line
recently snorted off
of the Old Testament.

Alluring at the top
and somewhat appealing but,
pointed at the bottom—
which penetrates the grain
cementing self-control together.

Buzzed and bleeding through
rusted nostrils eroding
from illicit use and
spiraling out of control.

Keeping it together
strictly because a
corrosive adhesive has been
stuck to an addicted membrane.

Eventually, the adhesive
will wear off and
everything will fall apart.

The wind never sleeps, so walk with the breeze.
The sun always blazing with brightness
bestowing a glorified light
upon the face of dark man weeping like a willow.
Tired bags below his eyes
reflect the soul of a stormy night.

Every morning he wakes and ages just a bit.
So subtle, yet it all adds up
to being warded in a hospital bed;
staring at a ceiling that sees only shadows
cast by the light of the Righteous Man above.

The shadows overcast the glory of the deeds done
and follow the man like the footsteps of
of a thief wearing iron boots
that make the ground crumble behind him.

Mundane perils of sitting at the kitchen table
with a newspaper in hand trying to read between the lines.
Walking to the beat of a humdrum drum.

Instead of asking politely “pretty please”
he utters with a long face “pity please”
like a toddler who can’t quite say pretty correctly.

Casting a shadow as far as the eye can see
A ship set sail long ago never to return from sea
leaving an empty dock along the beach
with a lone seat that sits at the very end.

Footsteps in the sand wash away with the waves
erasing a path once cast over by a shadow.
This man has a dark past lost in his memory
from traumatic confabulation
of what he wishes really happened.

Shadows of sin have followed this man everywhere he goes.
Sitting on the dock watching a deathly sunset,
he imagines a ship sailing across the horizon
casting a shadow along the suns reflection.
He awakes in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling,
drowning in his own shadows of sin.

The spiked shoes
smile.
Smile up the streaming,
dark alley.
A hoodrat lingers
stacking cheese
tweaking off his own
product.
He's short.
His whiskers are burning
with trouble.
At this point
his best interest
lies in hiding,
but the only
place he can find
is a dumpster.
But, maybe his head
needs to lie
where it belongs.
He's up to no good
and he's no good
to look up to.
He's short.

Guns are everywhere in sight
Muzzles, fire and fright.
Blood running through sewers
like flooded rivers in mid-May,
when it should be running through veins.
Slain bodies once filled with life
are now filled with undeserved death.
Pain seeps through the eyes
of brutalized victims as they weep.

A mother pleads to God
with hopes He will breath life
back into her daughter's lungs
as a child stands over the rotting
bodies of bystanders,
and waves at the flies
Unrest fills the air
while fire's are burning under water
Tragedy burns the face down to a tear,
Could Hell get any hotter?

Mirages mirror terror,
Silence in broken mirrors.
It may seem that voices don't exist
in places like this,
And that a difference lies off
in the distance;
out of reach, unattainable.
But they do.
A blind man's eyes become
his hands and his ears
when he needs to see,
While the mute lack a voice,
they still find a way to say,
"Hope is never all lost."

They need to know they are not alone.
Battles are being fought all over this world.
War, famine, sexism, racism.
A fight between mother and father.
Grief for the loss a lover.
We can all relate,
in one way or another.
Ignore ignorance, become informed.
Silence does not defeat violence,
nor is strength needed to beat it.
Courage and a heart
are needed to defeat it,
along with the will to believe
it can be defeated.

Throwing punches with fingerless fists
and broken spirits can seem useless,
but more has been done
with less.

Remember, a voice with something to say
is harder to forget
than a voice
that is
silent.

I thought I saw you
when I was out walking through
the street yesterday

But its been so long
I cant hardly remember
the look of your face.

It was a blessing,
but also quite frightening,
knowing you're not here.

Sometimes I wake up
in the middle of the night
drenched in my own tears

Then I remember
my brain is just tricking me
and it isn't real.

I wish it was,
because I miss the days of old
when they had appeal.

Walking on the clouds
with your toes in the sand
you wave down at us.

I dont see you, though
Eyes neglect to see your hand
and all you have touched.

Several years have passed
since I last saw what it means
to live with reason

And that reason was
to fight until the last dawn
of the spring season.

You widdled a square
you were unfairly given
into a circle.

Well, in other words,
you shaped the lives of many
who were out of shape.

So on this great day
Ill raise a tall golden glass
to the cloudy skies

Cause you never know
if you'll see the sun again
before your demise.

I thought I saw you
when I was out walking through
the streets yesterday.

But it wasn't you,
because seven years ago
is far from today.

They buried you high in the sky
Just a few miles outside town
I look up, yet can't see your eyes
Believing you were in the clouds
When the whole time it was a lie
You're just six feet beneath the ground

I wish we could
catch a raindrop
with our hands
Hydrate a 3 a.m.
conversation about how
the First Agreement
either does
or doesn't
keep us honest
about the way
we look at
each other.

At 3:13 a.m. I tell a
story about my
favorite agate
I found when
I was 13.

By now it's
pouring outside
and a bolt
of thunder
snaps me out
of my haze.

Laying on my pillow
I remember
I need
the clouds because
I live
in a storm,
and right now
you're the calm
before, during, and after.

Your voice is the one
I hear over the
whirl of the wind,
the one I feel
after waking up
in a pool of
my own sweat,
the one I see
even through the
distance of feeling
alone.

So talk to me
before, during,
and after
the storms
of our lifetime,
and we can share
what we find
together
in the aftermath.

I.

The night sky cantillates a tune
only sobbing icicles can hear
A redeye flight soars
with a defunctive plot aboard
Supposedly Pluto planned it
News reports the next morning
said responders found a suicide note
along with residue from a melted
block of ice in the wreckage.

II.

Some millions of miles away
pocketing silence in his palm
Neptune’s tears freeze
on the green tips of pine trees
Frozen leaves sleep beneath
glaring Great Horned Owls
Black eyes bend in the back,
ground stiff as their spine.

III.

There is nothing scary about
a sad bedtime story
without crows or ghosts
or a cat’s empty cradle
When the pages turn
the night sky descends into
its deepest sleep before dawn
and closed eyelids fantasize
about tomorrow’s morning.

Throw a rock
In river

and the rip-
ple will fade.

The river,
it moves on.

Yes, time stops
for no one

But it does
not forget

about the rock
that was thrown.

It's still there
sitting at

the bottom;
out of sight

out of mind.
As time moves

on, and more
ripples made.

I woke from sleep and looked outside today
to see that spring has sprung from infancy,
grass still wearing some snow like a toupee
and squirrels that are all but finicky.
I try to process all this imagery,
but my emotions are over my head,
so I sit in bed and smile wistfully.
I could be forthright with what should be said
and risk that it is misinterpreted,
or I could keep it in and let it go
and watch the opportunity lie dead.
Each spring a rose must bloom to be full grown
and blossom for everybody to see,
it's time I show the world who I can be.

I kiss the spliff as the neighbor
across the street stares out his porch windows.
He clasps his upper lip
with his left hand—
thumb and pointer finger
split like a horseshoe.
The difference in temperature
from outside and my porch
is hardly measurable.
The feathers in my jacket
fight to keep my body heat
captive beneath my MAS*H sweatshirt.
His porch must be a four-season
because he hovers over his desk
in a t-shirt with a cigarette
in his mouth.
Maybe he’s writing, or reading,
        doing homework or work work.
Whatever it may be,
it stirs a bit of jealousy in me.
I wish to be home, sitting
in the warmth of my four-season porch,
where many stories are saved.
Scrapbooks full of memories.

Sitting on a bench just off the
Liberty Trail in Boston, waiting as
the rest of my family made a restroom stop.
An old man with a thick, greyish
beard and heavy eyelids
took a seat next to me.
His ***** white hair caught
a cotton seed sailing through the air.

The bag of tobacco in his hand
was wide open, and he
pulled a roll of Zig-Zags
out of his pocket—he tore
the paper about six inches long
and proceeded to
roll a cigarette. His fingers,
bent and forlorn,
worked tediously as a
diamond cutter’s.

He lit the cigarette, let out a ring of smoke,
and introduced himself as
Lenny. I told him my name
and we talked for a few minutes.
"What brings you to Boston
young fella?" he said
in his aged Boston accent.
"Family vacation--personally, I'm
interested in all the history of the town."

By now his cigarette is
half-burnt, and my family is
ready to continue on the trail.
Lenny turned to me with
a low look in his eyes,
but he cracked a smile.
He had a couple teeth missing

Before I got up he said to me,
“When I want to sit and think,
a cigarette isn’t long enough
to burn through my thoughts,
but a conversation with a
stranger every day
is what keeps my mind
from running away in smoke.”

I can't look at you
'Cause your beautiful beauty
Tantalizes me.

when we should stick.
The rigid cliffs
spiraling down our spines
grind every time
we’re held together
as one.

I don’t know about
you, but we should
probably find
a way to smooth
things out.

Maybe glue ourselves
together so our
problems don’t appear
so transparent
to others.

One time i spent three weeks worrying about one hour of my life.
That's 503 hours at the expense of one, and 504 hours i can't have back.

More moisture helps
the ******* of dirt
become a purification element.
The hydro-logic behind that
is completely fluid
and misunderstood.

Water is much like a brain—
it makes these connections
between polarizing elements
that will take eons
to arrive at a universal understanding
of how or why they were made.

As poets we work with the earth
to try and make sense of things—
like why exactly the purest form
of water is shed from the soil
that springs with infinite life.

The single most important aspect
of connections that contribute
to the everlasting growth of meaning
is that it's right beneath our feet,
which is probably why we
continually walk right over it.

What springs from the soils surface
is a constant cycle
of unearthing meaning.
Which is why there will never be
a shortage in the supply
of what provides us with life.

I am sure, it might be midnight somewhere
Sun long gone to where I'll never know
Moons sing songs while rivers flow
Gashing and sifting between rocks
Crashing with utter silence
Everything breaks apart
Leaving scars in the heart
That can only be healed by being apart
We are together only at the start
But in the end the storm is going to tear us apart
Soon the storm will pass and I will love again
Looking toward the horizon
I took a deep, long breath
And dove into the water
Sinking slowly, deep into the blue
Elephant, which means the dream was about to come true
And then something amazing happened
Something I could have never imagined.
Pains me to think of the money I will never see.
Awash in the blue, I am losing my mind
Mind of a squirrel going nuts
Scampered down the street, needing more food
But he couldn't find any so he went home and got high
Lost his thoughts and began to cry.

Finally after a long winter
And the wavering weather
The weary wait is over
Walking through green grass
Moisture tickles the tips of my toes
As I take a deep breathe of air
Through the nostrils of my nose
A bird is perched upon a light pole
But its chirps seem rather frightful
They don’t sound very delightful
In the middle of conversation
I stop, I stutter, and I stammer
I’m enamored by that image
Spring is here and finally sprung
But the bird’s happiness is hung
Its like I could relate to the bird
I have been waiting patiently
For an answer important to me
While this bright and beautiful bird
Has been up there perched and enduring
Of this hypocritical weather
Waiting for a summer that wont come
As have I been long enduring
During this silent conversation
One day I feel its going one way
The next its going another
These feeling are becoming mundane
As I also wait for something
Something that probably wont come.

There lies a single dugout hole
In the middle of a vast field
Encompassed by a three-sided rock fence.
The hole is not big by any means,
No more than three feet in diameter.
However, it is notably deep
Deeper than any hole ever dug.

Once a week a strange man would walk
A dirt trail that leads straight to the hole.
He carried nothing but a shovel
And a head on his shoulders.
For as long as I could remember
This man climbed into the hole with his shovel
And the ensuing hours would lull on by
With every ***** full of dirt that turned to dust.

On occasion I would find myself watching.
Just staring out my window on my couch
Excogitating as to why he has been doing this.
Nobody owned the land he excavated
So he was never stopped or questioned.
Sometimes I tried to conjure the courage
To go out and question him
But I’d grown up believing the field was wraithlike.
There are a myriad of stories and myths.
Some said he was searching for something
Some said he was burying corpses
And scattering their limbs as he dug.
Some people even said he isn’t human
And he was just seeking a way home.

Biting my tongue, I couldn’t take it anymore
Without even a first thought
I decided to get up and trot to his hole.
I trotted to his hole and found his soul striking.
His weary appearance sent my eyes
Spinning senselessly like a slot machine.
Any man who spends his life digging
Doesn’t have the most particularly pleasing look,
But this man looked a bit older, lean, and forlorn.
His hands colorlessly cracked like paint on a wood pillar.
Skin so white, it was like he was cloaked in calluses.
Like I could pinch his epidermis
And it would feel like the iron of a furnace.
I took a quick glance at the entirety of his face,
His face looked ridden with defeat.
Then my eyes made way to his
I gazed into them and sensed confusion.
I saw a maze and a meandering man.
Trying not to make my look of shock evident
I finally asked him if he’d come out.
He kindly obliged and climbed on out.

“Just a single, simple question is what I have.”
“Go ahead and ask, I won’t be mad.”
“What are you doing digging this hole?”
“It’s simple, I’m enshrouding my emotions.”

Several weeks pass; I have not seen this man.
I’ve been contorting my brain in knots
Trying to comprehend his answer.
I just wanted to see him again to ask why.
Finally I decided to make one more trip out there
And followed the single dirt path to the hole
Only to find the hole had been filled, and a sign.
It simply read: “Don’t bury your emotions
They’ll eventually cave in on you.”

You hide in plain sight as does day when engulfed by night
For darkness is simply…. The absence of light
You claim to have special enlightenment
And that your knowledge is for the better good of the people
Pledge your allegiance and your success will be imminent
Break your pledge and your death will be discrete
So why would you become part of something so “elite”?
With only one thing in mind; to see the human race in defeat.
An interminable amount of subliminal messages
Hinting at events that are destructive, demoralizing, and deceptive.
9/11… was it really an act of terrorism?
Or was it just an evil plot… something you guys expected?
Al-quaeda and the Taliban… roaming around in the lands of Iran
But on the land I walk some say it’s a misperception
Just a façade in our brain so the government secrets are protected.
Michael Jackson… and the Kennedy assassination
Were they both untimely events in American history?
Ghandi, The King,  Malcolm X,  Princess Diana, Shakur,
Paul, Marley, the Kennedys’, Lennon, Fredinand, Lincoln!!
All of  whom were either at your feet or tried to make your secret secrete
These deaths… from assassination to suicide… were all… “unfortunate” to the human eye?
Or were they “fortunate” for the Eye of the Beholder?
But why go to such great extent to have these powerful and influential people wiped from the human race?
To keep a secret that has been soooo well kept for hundreds of years?
A secret society that is not so discrete… anymore
Hidden in plain sight and away from the human eye…..
Trying to keep a disguise that will lead to our eventual demise
You aren’t doing the world any favors
By keeping an explicitly intricate order in store
You’re favoring your own world under one order
By intricately deceiving the minds of innocent citizens
So, you hide in plain sight, the light of the earth
A light you hope one day becomes permanently dark
Cause once again, darkness is only the absence of light.
With no light, we will be forced at the feet of your might
Despite a fight, with no light and your might, we’re all just mites stuck on your flight of new world order.
Well let me just end on this… **** THE ILLUMINATI!

I went outside for a cigarette
Sat on the step and
I see myself down the street
forty years from now;

Burnt like an ember in an ash pile
Ground into a particle by
the street sweeper to be eaten
by the atmosphere's tangled black tongue.

Walking up and down the
battered stairs tires my weary legs
with every trip I make
Lungs crying for air like a newborn.

A tool for procrastination
A tobacco fascination can lead to
a disastrous situation. Kurt
Vonnegut once said, "Cigarettes

are a classy way to commit suicide"
He must have been stupefied making that statement.

Like taking a blade serrated 1000 times
and nudging one more notch through
his flesh with every caramel covered kiss.
But he was too scared to take it out.

Exhale and apologize to Earth
for his suffocated statement. Breathing in
snakes and rusted copper.

The man down the street probably wishes
to be my age back in his day again.
My eyes frozen in space like Walt Disney's
severed head.

He catches a  a cloud of smoke
and his lungs scream through stalagmites
that drip with unwashed tears
that never fell from Vonnegut's stone face.