It is the soldier born of blood
That finds his bath irrevocably red
Crimson stains cloud his head
Not a part of him comes home unbled
But the bloodiest of wounds
The bleedings that never stops
Does not come from cut, or contusion
Not from the legions leaking lesions  
But from the dreams that wake him screaming
Turning a once wise and strong warrior
Into a broken ****** baby doll

There's a difference in these woods,
drifting between grey, scabby bark,
sifting into the moist, wormy soil,
beckoning for purpose,
breaking into the sound of a
becoming yet battered nature.

The footprints can be light, thorough --
almost a trait granted by the torture of eternity.
With head-weaves buoyant above tree-leaves,
a hyper-vigilance stemmed from the abuse
of a darkly philosophy weaponized;
an extension of the elbows, forearms, wrists
of huntsmen seeking inferno.

A hollow is an ideal resting place,
beyond the greased veins of trees,
fingertips delving into clustered black,
grasping an illusory livelihood,
only to imprison itself,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

When love enters the picture,
it's best to fade into the skyline,
becoming a blue phantom,
hiding behind q-tip clouds,
balanced feebly, anxiously,
unable to realize
how easy you can be seen.
How easy it is to underestimate
your own significance.

You can drag a razor horizontally,
thinking the ink of space
will pour through, staining yourself,
watching yourself disappear,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

-

I dance with her, a light caramel mutt,
in a purgatory of racial tension,
between black and white,
living in the grey area of society,
not knowing that it's okay --
and she is like me,
I've just realized.

I can’t think my way out of this madness.
The sick stairway that steps on me,
wet with red gore, to slick to walk,
dark, but leaving just enough light for all to see;
The sidewalk that cracks under the weight of
bodies bursting from the bottom up.
My writing is not enough.

Now the strange fruit
does not hang from trees,
but seeds the ground of fake enemies.
Propaganda and war mongering for profits
people acting like peace loving costs us
our safety; Logic will not save me
from that darkest realization.

My flesh does not own me.
Death is the only thing that has claim.
Thus, every breath in between
aging and dying is wasting,
Becoming
the dark tasting bitter bile
the black brew that stews
And ulcerates my soul.

I have no faith
only rational lies
that I used to tell myself.
But despite my wit,
how I commit
these words to such a grand purpose,
I only see the landslide coming
sometimes rotting and slow
other times crimson and fast.

Half a reflection finds my face
Malformed.
Eyes born
to see more then the morn.
Skin ready for the warm storm
waiting for the salty rain of tears
to cleanse my anguish to vanquish
said darkness,
but the gloom within
matches the doom without,
and I have very little doubt.
My certainty only sees destruction in our future.

they sentenced anarchy to death in 1887.
in the wake of the Haymarket Affair,
they tried in vain to hang a fifth figure
on a chilly November day,
attempted to fit a noose
on an idea that's bullet-proof.

solidarity.
liberty.
equality.

a refrain that remains in remembrance
of Engel, Fischer, Parsons, Spies,
and every man, woman, and child
whose life was robbed by the State
before his or her time.

a mantra celebrating the universal
qualities capable of unifying humanity
even in the face of an apparatus arraigned
to divide
and segregate.

we march in Chicago and Seattle,
in Toronto and NYC,
continuing the fight they began
for dignity and a living wage—
our burning rage growing to a conflagration
as we wave black flags and reclaim
the city streets from killer cops
and corporate oligarchs.

authority an illusion we will shed  
in the tides of black and red, united
against injustice.

Some say the guilt will fade
The shame will pass
As the pleasure stays

Well isn’t that ******* great
You get to keep your hate
Ignore the facts
Jump the traps that slaps
Innocence in chains
Build the bombs
Drones and planes
That keep killing civilians
Keep dulling your feelings
With you stupor of capitalistic ideas

Push ignore on the consciousness
The knowledge, the pictures,
The videos, the children
The violence, the poverty,
The insanity that preys upon me
Because I believe we can be better

With enough *****
Fake fox new
Parties
Youtube
Dating sites
Hot **** nights
Friendly or unfriendly fights
You can destroy your mind
And in time
Guilt will go from a dull thudding
To an annoying back ground buzzing
And finally become nothing

Fear and uncertainty
are the bane of humanity
poison to the populace
yet, with knowledge
they can be conquered.

But tamed social schemes
proposed by powerful people preying
on those who feel powerless
are detrimental to all human beings.

So, in the face of the unknown
my brothers and sisters
accept the enslavement
giving in to the higher force
that does not exist.
Faith persists
And flourishes
in the realm of fear
and uncertainty.

Truth is the pursuit of our higher self;
Not Spiritual but intellectual,
empowering the ineffectual
with the information they need
to decide what, what they perceive means.

Bullets and bombs explode. Screams sear his tired ears. With every explosion the young man flinches. He is only twenty something but he wears the whole human history of pain. Every age line creasing to cover the scars on his face. Lines linked by years of abuse, which are mirrored by mental scars.
The voice in the back of his head says “bite a bullet, hell better make it two,”
The computer screen flickers with horrible YouTube videos. Each one marking some new or old tragedy.
“The trick is to turn away before you see too much.” He thinks.
Photos lay scattered across his desk. Little vignettes of human horrors. A homeless man here. An abused child there. Two war zone pics that depicts the tragedy of human ingenuity. Modern warfare swimming in gore and sorrow.
The voice in the back of his head says. “Make sure you double click.”
To the left lay a stack of stories stapled together. Some are fantastic works of fantasy. They portray a wondrous worlds.   Most are darker portraits that paint painful truths. There is a story about a lynching, a police beating, a dark society crumbling under the weight of fear and hatred. Tons of fictions that reflects this dark world, all his.
The voice chuckles, “don’t bother with a note, your writing says enough.”
“The trick is to find something to laugh about.” He says out loud.
A fake chortles spews from his lips, followed by a stupid sneer.
“Doesn’t work does it?” The voice laughs.
The young man bites his tongue. Smashing taste buds and drawing dark smears of blood. Merely a temporary distraction, but it feels good to him. Drips of warm crimson pool in his mouth. He swishes it around like some sick salt water gurgle. Then spits dark blood laced mucus into perfectly white porcelain sink. The red snot sinks slowly down till it disappears into the drain. Leaving only remnants of a terrible taste and slight pain in his mouth.
The voice cries” Blow your ******* brains out, you stupid ****.”
The man laughs, as a stream of stress related **** drains down his drawers.
“I can’t.” He cries.
“Why not?” the voice insists. “Just ******* do it. This world ain’t gonna get any better.”
Tears **** his worn out skin. Life has aged him harshly. Still, something new breaks. A crack cuts through the fuzzy haze. An awkward smile forces its way across his face.
He closes the Compaq computer killing the video, and bringing pure stillness to the room.
“You know for a voice in my head. You sure are ******* stupid. Which makes me stupid too I guess.”
“Why?” The Voice replies.
“Because” the smile widens becoming manic “I don’t own a ******* gun.” He laughs. “Hell I don’t even own my own marbles.”
He slumps down on the bed. Two hours of random racing thoughts keep him awake. Then the cool release of slumber finally hits. His sleep is interspersed with nightmares. Twelve hours later a calmer less worn man awakens. He sticks his tongue out and raspberries the desk.
“I am going for a walk” he says with a saner smile.
Somewhere behind him he hears a chilling voice say. “See you soon.”

The devil in me does not need forgiveness
See him sitting and seeking stillness
Not the ill intent that they call darkness
Marring mankind with their kind of sin
The devil in me is only the devil they see
Because they believe in their messed up morality
Their vanity and vicious pursuits
The devil in me loves all humanity
Gay, straight, lesbian, bisexual
Black, white, Asian, Mexican
Buddhist, Christian , Muslim
The reason they think I am possessed by Satan
Is because I see the beauty in all humanity
Even when the painful actions of men
Are diminishing the returns

Not one bomb that dropped
Was ever stopped by prayer
Not one bullet shot
Was ever stopped by prayer
Not one starving child
Was fed on the whispering
Of the worshiping missionaries
Only visionaries who took action
Or inspired actions
Ever made a difference
It takes a movement
Not stillness in prayer

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

I do myself great harm
seeing the long arm
of the War Department
and all the innocents bombed,

while preachers and Mary Kay moms
go about their days.
I shift the rubble and clutter
that covers the internet.
I look for things,
I won't forget.

Forcing myself to see things
that make decent human beings
weep with grief and indignation
children lined up, bodies in bags
small faces wearing the veil of death.

I take myself to the brink of tears
and cross sorrow’s sick threshold
to learn and share my despair;
Hoping that like-minded hearts
will stop
what violent people have started.

The pain splattered
silence shattered
doesn’t matter.

The dusty plaster
shaped and placed
by the hands of master
doesn’t matter.

The feel of the drill
spinning its screwy will
into white washed walls
doesn’t matter.

But the days missed
cause we were working this
sweaty ambition
chasing the highest position
in our money situation,

Those lost moments
with family and friends
making them wait
till work ends
before we can tell ‘em
that we love them,

It is that time that
will not come again
that Matters.