Metal orbs
spheres of light
heavenly
guides do not
abandon
travelers
at any
time in their
eternal
quest
and burning
withering
away to
golden dust
carried then
by the winds
withstanding
every
pain struggle
arriving
then
by carriage
at ancient
palace gates.

a poem written at 5 AM - no sleep that night*

seen too many faces
melting into backdrops,
concrete boxes
where gray air
paint lungs gay,
where diamonds
fall too ******
frequently
blurring the windows
of colorless rooms,
tiny rooms,
that suffocate,
garrote
and wash the trees
and the flowers
into frail state,
where the moon
is nothing,
just a ***** coin,
where the dogs
howl and howl,
cry and cry,
in agony,
where everyone
is lost,
them you and me,
lost

you're beautiful, delicious,
like a piece of freshly prepared bacon
on a cold rainy morning,
and your toothy smile
reminds me of the white eggs
dad would cook as a side dish,
and it was perfect, and i'd smile too,
but most of all you're like bacon
in that though your crisp
is highly appetizing, if eaten
in large amounts i would end up
mounted on a coroner's table
written out as a violent heart attack
after the autopsy finished,
so i'll take you in small quantities
instead of having my love for you **** me.

My room is a mausoleum
Housing this living corpse.

The windows are always shut
And the lightbulb stays off.

A fan on the ceiling blows,
Though not hard enough, 24/7.

There're empty water bottles
Discarded on the floor

By the dozens serving as
Unofficial decor.

Filthy clothes everywhere
Mingle happily as

If ****** with the ramen cups
And chocolate wrappers.

A skyscraper built from books
Raises it's ink stained arms

Up towards the concrete sky
Pleading, crying, to be read.

Crumpled papers, like scriptures
Belonging to God, yell

Unfinished lines of poetry
During the Dead's strolling.

The aroma of burnt cigs
Stains the air and green walls.

Another wine bottle hides
In the closet, elixir

For the trapped. A skull, candles,
And a pack of tarot

Sit expression less and
Calm inside the nightstand.

Posters and poems line the walls,
Their eyes observe the goings.

A bed, the coffin, stands deep
In the peering darkness,

Stiff and terrible, alone,
A headstone slab pillow,

Accommodate the carcass.

"Spend your life behind bars"
big companies whisper
in your ear
while standing on your shoulder.
"Spend your life behind
the bar codes",
prison of the consumer.
there is no escape
in such a society,
addicts stand
nervously at the prison yard
ready for their next fix,
the guards open the doors
to the mall
and like cattle
the consumers follow.
Behind the bar codes
trapped
forever.

...Because if somehow, somewhen,
magic pixie dust fell,
covering you from head to toe,
and you began rising up up up,
off to Neverland,
the first thing I'd grab onto,
is the ****.
And you'd be saved.
We'd be happy forever and ever,
or until our love grows cold,
we stop:
sleeping together, kissing, hugging, touching,
and the signature curves all over
on divorce papers at a balding lawyer's office.

our nearest Dennys
was shut down and we were drunk
so we crashed our car.

it's necrophilia
but come on, professor! you
know that stuff is hot.

Daughter of Lilith,
    Night haired succubus,
   On weakened knees and
    ***** like stupor
     You've left me fallen,
         Seductive caller
      By smiling howls, led
     Towards highest cliff
    Where trees bend in peak
   Agony and King
     reins the dark and rot,
        Amnesia strikes stiff
          The bled mind and eyes,
     And somewhere above
  Lay the physical
    Figure of some fool
       I once knew, once was,
          Wasted on the streets,
      Empty, discarded,
    A cold useless shell,
Lightning rang and lit,
     And down spiraling
   Through the nothing, down,
        Into arms of fiend.

Failing to comprehend
The idea painted
In colors gray and white
Dull and sad
Not a smile
Among it
The picture spoke
In foreign tongues
Flashing its surreal
Blood
A chalice was brought
So that it'd flow
And then ‘d drink
Absorbing the
Terrifying truths
Scattered upon
The canvas yard

Waking up in some
Seedy room
Stinking of ***
And cigarette smoke
And cheap ***** perfume
Can’t remember the night
Your wallet is empty
Emptier than what it was
Before last night
Hating yourself
Hating this life
Yet it beats
Being a robot
Conforming
To repetition
Of jobs and wife
And kids and taxes
And worry and troubles
The clocks ticking
The time wasting
Away telling
Yourself that you
Are happy when you
Know you are sad so sad
Better to not remember
The past night
Or where you are
Or what happened
Or anything at all
And to drink and smoke
And **** through life
And die
At the least
You died with some
Soul
Even if a weak
Soul
But you didn’t sell it.

I still dream of you sometimes,
the same way I did before,
you choking me
and I turning
the color blue.
I dream it in 3rd person,
that hasn't changed at all either.
The cheap mattress,
dusty floor tiles,
and the belt grasped
tightly in your slightly small
hands, coiling it like a boa,
the fan spinning,
my head spinning,
all things spinning,
you strangling me, wickedly
smiling, laughing, you on me,
then I wake up,
no one is there,
but I'm still hard.

She does have a beautiful face
And eyes that work like witchcraft,
Slow, hypnotic and dark,
And the body of some goddess,
But she’s a rotten one,
Cold down to her core.
And I hate her so very much,
And I hate seeing her wherever I go,
And I hate when she appears in dreams.
Why! Oh why does this happen
When I hate her this much?
Not green nor whiskey work
To drown it out,
She’s a stubborn one,
Refusing to leave me be,
And it makes me hate her
So much more.

i've dreamt of you
for the past 5 nights.
that sunshine hair and
that almond milk skin

won't let me be.

i'm tired of kissing
your ruby lips and
holding that body
tight in these dreams that

won't let me be.

the fact that i can't
run these fingers down
that goddess back of
yours makes me mad. it

won't let me be.

every night your
angel face appears
and your angel voice
says "i love you" and

i can't handle it.
you're so far
from me
and
i can't
have you. it's
all so twisted.

The day will start with some coffee
The best type, bitter sweet, hot,
Drinking it ‘neath the morning sun
Heading out, Fall, cool breeze blows,
Colored leafs dance. Sit in the park
On a bench, the birds flying south,
Writing the happiest verses-  poems.
A lovely girl will pass, smile,
Eyes look into eyes, love making,
'Twas but a second. Whistling
Strolling back to a small diner,
Lunch, something fierce, dessert too,
Music playing, a cool sax tune,
Jazz for the background, waitress
“Will you have anything else, sir?”
“Coffee, black, and the check. Thanks.”
One last cup before taking leave,
Sipping, thinking and with joy,
Great tasting like the earlier drink.
The sun’s going down, sky’s orange,
The loud cars honking on the street.
Back in the apartment tired,
The notepad on the bedroom desk,
Sitting on an old armchair,
Looking out towards the city,
it’s all full of life, sleep creeps
near and I slowly doze off.
And this is how I wish to die.

you asked me what i was doing
and i answered 'watching tv'
but the reality is that i wasn't
sitting around 'watching tv'
(for god's sake, i don't even own one),
i was actually printing out pictures
to add to the shrine i keep of you
in my bedroom's closet.
i added some nice candles
and also recently purchased
from your brother some
***** clothes that you once wore
and your aroma lingered still on them
(also may have bought one of your baby tooth's).
tonight i'll do what i usually do
and just inhale that sweaty perfume
and admire the perfection of your face
and cry because i can't have you and pass out.
then in the morning, class,
where i'll begin planning an expansion
to my You Collection.

They're are terrible creatures,
Smart, vicious,
And we're weak for em,
All of us,
We can deny it
All we wish
But they own us,
We're like dogs to them,
Following them,
Wagging our tails
For a smile or
Some dumb scratch
Behind the ears,
And god
How stupid we're,
Blind to our
Petite owners,
And they'll use us
And they'll beat us
And they'll rip our dog hearts out
And show em to us
And we'll still wag our tails for em,
Stalk em through the house with hopeful eyes,
Boy you know it's true,
Right now I'm ownerless,
Been so forever
And I've seen my friends get adopted
From the pound and
The look of em
All proud and parading
Em around the place like
"Guys look at me! Look!
Don't you wish you had this?"
And hell yes I do,
I hate to admit it
But it gets sad,
This ain't no good life for a dog,
I want one,
A owner,
I don't care
Whether she's
Vicious or not,
I don't care if I wag my tail
And later on
She leaves me on the streets,
Must feel good to be owned
By those terrible creatures.

i don't know what it is about this airport,
maybe it's the fact that i've a plane waiting
to deport me back home for who knows how long
and this is something i don't want; home is a prison.
this airport is making me think,
what awaits after four hours is a return to bad things,
and maybe i should **** myself.
i've thought that an option for years,
it's there and most likely it'll happen in the future
but maybe i should speed up the process.

this isn't a poem.
this is me thinking out loud
into the ear of a paper.
this is me gathering
my thoughts
attempting
to make sense of this
overwhelming sadness
and desire to give up.

the three or five people that seem to care about me
live hundreds of miles away so for them, no matter
how much i want to do it, i can't **** myself because
they wouldn't hear of my death,
they wouldn't come to my funeral,
and it'd be like i'd disappeared without saying goodbye
which is the biggest crime and betrayal i could pull.
if i told them before hand they'd say anything to stop me
and i don't have the heart to listen to that.

i'm tired and i'm crumbling.
i'm not sure this is a life i want to pursue.
what's the point of it?
fighting with yourself
morning after morning for control.
that's no way to live.
and living for other people's sake
isn't quality either.

this isn't a poem and this isn't a suicide note
or anything of the kind. this is me letting it out
inside a ***** airport restroom stall crying once again
for the first time in what'll be many nights to come.

the paper is getting soggy and a thousand people
heading in every direction of every corner of the globe
stroll unaware outside. i suppose it's time to put the pen down
and leave.

good bye for now.
maybe next time we can write a poem together.

I still wait for the phone to ring
so that I may hear your voice again
but I'm left with wishes only.

Some nights I'll keep it close, passing
it nervously from hand to hand for
no reason at all. It stays quiet.

Tossing and turning on the bed,
sleepless I'll stare up at the ceiling
and pretend it's a lit night sky.

I'll talk to the spot that was yours
as the illusion of comets glide
down to imaginary fields.

And though I'm alone it'll feel right,
the way nothing ever does now days,
Your shadow accompanying me.

My room will turn into those nights
you have probably forgotten,
the ones in which we shared happiness.

I wonder
If you miss
that at all.

There once was
A coward
Who lived in
Hiding from
Others but
Not because
He wanted
To but that
He was scared
To open
Up the doors
Of outside
And be a
Part of the
World that slept
But how he
Wept longing
For outside
And contact
And for friends
But he couldn't
Do it and
Every
Time he was
Sure convinced
That he would
Do it and
Go outside
The fear crept
Near him forced
Him to stay
Inside closed
Doors shaded
Windows dark
And he cried
And he cried
Because he
Couldn't do it
And it was
So very
Cold inside
Warmth remained
Out of his
Arm stretched reach
He was but
A coward

you've left me breathless.
no, seriously,
you almost killed me once.

it happened about a year ago,
i was on my bed
and it was hot.
the kinda hot
that also makes it
difficult to breathe.
and i thought of you
and one thing led to another...
anyways,
i had tied a belt around my neck
to make it
as if you were really present
there in the hot hot room.
and the experience was A+
until i was almost there
at the finish line
and i couldn't get the belt off
and i rolled around on the bed
desperate for a way outta that mess.
i fell off the bed
onto those dusty floors i never sweep.
the belt buckle cracked.
so did my back but it was fine,
a bit sore though.
and then the race was finished
and the teammates
had shot outta the pen to celebrate.
and i'd run out of tissues.
i was crying.
it had been a terrifying thing
but for the second time in my short life
i'd felt like i loved someone.
of course
that wasn't true.
but it was a nice feeling.
one i'll never forget.
so thank you for all that.
(i bought a new belt later on
that week if you were wondering).

it rained for the first time in weeks today.
a much needed shower of cool water
that dropped on me coming outta class and
having left my umbrella at home and
requiring a washing due to P.E.
I ran through the crashing waterfalls with
tired legs, backpack bouncing on my spine. so
I got to the house in record time. like
Bolt speeding at the Olympic track I
won gold. But even though these shoes are ruined
let me tell you one thing:
I sure missed that ****** rain.

What was it
But melting candles
As they burn through
The loud silence of the night
A flame dancing the waltz
With the voice of the wind
As it sang their melody
And we watched
The melting candles
Our eyes meeting
Wine stung kisses
And wet bed and sheets
Cool, so cool to the touch,
Skin golden, a treasure,
The memories quick to flee
Another lost
What was it

one crumb for you
and one for you.

i share this food,
the finest there is,
bought with
hard earned
hot cash,

in the hopes that y'all
stop mocking me.

you know i'm
completely
fearful of y'all
yet y'all seem
to take
advantage
of it.

parading around
and doing that funky walk
and giving me looks,
please stop.

take it!
take all the crumbs!
please just leave me
alone,
pigeons!

I will soon devour the sun
on my quest to become
the brightest thing
this side of the galaxy.

Van Gogh
Cut his ear off and mailed it to a ******* in a box
For you I'd rip my heart out, ship it on a silver plate
And you'd
Reject it, like they've frequently done, every one,
Van Gogh's *****, you, her, all of them, cold souls.
Perhaps
Not, quite possibly I'm wrong, the reason
For rejections isn't cold, concrete souls,
And it's
Our fault, the writer, the painter,
We, the foolish artists, that
Decide
To package organs in
The mail for our loves,
That is,
Now that I think
It through,
Very
Strange.

Also poetic.
Artsy even.
So please,
Send a thank you note in return
At the very least.
And no, not a restraining order.
(And to end with a generic line
About poetry and the bard:
All these poems are my heart.
All of them.
So, here, take this,
I'm bleeding out for you.)
(Wait, what do you mean you only take cash?)

Stranger things have come and passed
than dreams of you and I amassed
huddled above a rainy moon, umbrella,
waltzing to an angel's choir sung a cappella,
but there we were **** and arm in arm
protected by love from any and all harm,
so when our lips did touch a silence crept,
even God's help knowing our coming end wept.

I waited for hours
On that stool
Watching the ghosts
Pass come and go
Arriving upright
And quiet
Leaving dizzy
And loud
So loud
As if
Trying to shout
So that the cruelness
Of their days get scared
And not come back again
I ordered for myself
A drink
And another
Trying to decipher
This puzzle
They didn’t drink
For fun
For enjoyment
They drank
Same as I
To ****
Sadness
Loneliness
I sat on that stool
For so long
The specters
Unrecognizable
Blurry faces
Buried in mugs
And glasses
Bodies tied in coats
Workman's suits
Smeared makeup
They stank
Of dead dreams
Here’s to
You
Me
And another round
Please
Cheers
Fellow ghosts o' 13thSt.

The fog was thick that morning
The forest wept in silence

We walked towards the kitchens
The smell of food struck the air

Footsteps marched ******* the stairs
Echoing down the green mountain

The metal tables were set
At the end of the hall, ghosts

Pouring the meals on chrome trays
Hungrily we hurried, lined

Each receiving their own
Then we sat, ate, on metal

Not one word was spoken, quiet
It was cold, not one complain

Food finished, the ghosts came back
Carrying off the gleaming plates

It was only us, alone
Once again, we stood and left

Through the doors, down the stone steps
The forest fog swallowed us

Mercilessly attacking the wall
forehead front bashing back and forth

What does this mean
this open ravine into nowhere
nowhere where the darkness lives
here i am knocking against my skull
opening windows of my skull
asking screaming and asking
what does this mean
and the voice out in the void
it answers and calls me a fraud
what does this mean

Mercilessly attacking the wall
forehead front bashing back and forth

There's very little to do
on a morning like this
except perhaps complain
about everything around.

How:

The sun is too bright,
the sky is too blue.

Newspaper says Congress
isn't doing much for the country
but it's the President's fault.

How:

the clouds are so bloated,
the birds are so loud.

And where are those **** glasses?
And where are those papers?
And where is the pen?

The pen is out of ink.

Step on a Lego.
Yell at the wife.

80 killed in bombings across
far away desert land but no worry,
they were most likely terrorists.
Most likely.

Mail's here and the dog is barking
at a guy earning minimum wage.
Why care? He brought bills.

Who will save the world?
No one. Not this morning.

Son is graduating high school soon.
University costs more than a Ferrari.
Costs rising. More bills. More debt.

Breakfast is ready.

How:

the eggs are bland,
the toasts are cold.

The bacon is greasy,
the hashbrown is burnt.

How:
How:
How:

Maybe in the evening a bomb will drop.

"Did you hear about the neighbors?"
"No, hon."
"It's bad. They -"

How:

the tree is bending,
the wind is howling,

somewhere else.

I bet that
if i cut off your arm
added some seasoning
and cooked it,  
                     (actually not just your arm,
                                                              bu­t like,
                                                             any
                                               slice of meat
                                                   from your body)
the meat,
it'd taste
like honey
and whiskey.

I turned the radio on
again for the first time
in months.
terrible thing,
to turn on the radio;
not the news,
not the music,
none of it
is any good.
I hate the radio.
And I hate that
I turned it on even
more but I was bored
in that silent car
with that silent person
and my thinking was
that it might
do some good
but I was wrong,
very wrong.
The host
was a bore
and the news
was dull
and the music
was repetitive
and dumb
and the callers
were worst,
stupid like their radios.
It's been minutes
since we left the car
and that torture instrument,
thank the gods.