He took to parachuting because it, along with sailing and aviation,
is one of the more reasonable paths to self-destruction. 

The bottle, the pistol, poetry; all vices. 

Diseases, in fact.  

But passion, it’s the stuff of living. 

Besides, hurling oneself toward Earth and family is the clearest loyalty. 

Who can hate something that, after clawing its way toward the heavens,
throws itself back toward the less perfect?

Who can hate something that fights its way to the verge of Eden,
a breath shy of immortality,
and instead reaches and jumps toward the lower, screaming atmosphere? 



Fighting for life has become the only virtuous path away from it.

Living is the only proper way to die.  

So, he took to hurling.

Tough enough
         To shrug it off
But weak
          For wanting to keep it.

An idea that needs
Replacing - or updating|
You can give the *******
Lion a hug.
But the rabbit would only
Get agitated

Let wisdom taint your
pristine vision -
And look.
There is no one hundred percent
for you to take comfort in.
It all exists in unique states
And your assumptions - Automatic responses,
get you no where|
                           Near
                           A Person.

I'm a hidden hero wrapped in plaster
Scrape away my hollow eyes
Uncover the darkness, danger, dust
I am shallow, shocking, forgiving, loving,
Fanatic.

I'm a would-be poet, afflicted with an inverse scheme of self-preservation.
Conducting concertos of charm on my inferior exterior
Appearing dreadful, hungover, a mite dreary
Enough to seem needy
Feed me, clothe me.

A courteous, cancerous kid contemplating causes and effects
Affect me, feel me, fight me tooth and nail.
Coddle the cuddler, campaign with cannon.
I'm a casual casualty
A murderous misanthrope.

Color me gray, tear me down to size.

Charming and belligerent
Selfish and unholy
Pious
Righteous
Conflicted.

This dust was once the Man,
Gentle, plain, just and resolute—under whose cautious hand,
Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age,
Was saved the Union of These States.

You are my biggest supporter
my hardest critic.
If I write something, I ask you to read it.
You say it's good, then that's true
but if it's bad, you are right.
Unfortunately, you only get second-rate poems
Because the best that I write
are not for your eyes.
I value you too much to lose you.
Because if you read them,
         I would.

the only way I could love
uncertainly.
Hideously open, like a cave-in
and over and over
unbearable compression and devastating release, emptiness
muddy and ****** and thin
thin as our sheets are.
Toast and cracked dishes in the morning
the morning
as it came once more
hollow. Invading the spaces in the skyline
and my eyes.
So we got up and sat, down, if you can call it that
down at our table.
I thought it was something like a reflection, the cracked saucers in your eyes
spilling tears all over your shirt
because you were alive through another night of torment
in a shattered mind
and we sipped tea.

But oh, broken doll, clouded sunrise,
moldy walls, ***** water
crumbling seaside
cliff
how ashamed the white world is of you
how you shame the world
in your aching
terrible
glory.