There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

As the blackness is dispelled
and the cold weather retreats,

As the winter returns
all that lost spring heat,

As the bird begin their seasoned production
of life’s renewal,

I will recall your small gentle smile
and how it was a glimmering jewel.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

Tomorrow does not exist
and yesterday will not be missed
there is only these fleeting moments,
let me enjoy them while I can.

Till the light I see collapses
and my body cannot move.
Till all my memories are lapses
and I never find the missing clues
to glue them back together.

Then the light will retreat,
and the shadows will descend
and there will be no more whispers
or softs breaths from any friends.

Not a country simpleton,
not the typical bumpkin.
Don’t have time to try and fit in
this redneck city I’ve been
living in
since before I was ten.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Devoured too many books to count,
searching for the fount
of knowledge and compassion,
searching for new question
to great unknown answers.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lost myself in star lit skies,
with clouds that stretch back
far enough to revisit my past,
admired the massive black tapestry
that seems to be punctured by
light holes from some unknown
set of new realities,
each one having its own star’s
worth of gravity.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Not looking for the eternal soul,
and any form of immortality
just seems like a sick joke.
Instead I keep pushing on.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

I’ll keep going on till this particular
configuration of particles
ceases seeking
new ideas that keep speaking
poetry into my being.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.

I am pretty sure
that this pretty girl
is going to wreck
my fragile world.

I’ve spent a lifetime
hardening my skin
to keep anyone
from creeping in;

But my barriers
have been dropping,
and this lead heart
has stopped stopping
potential intruders.

I feel very vulnerable,
like she is going to go
and turn my armor plating
into something pliable
and I am liable
to let go of my old
cold septic skeptic soul.

She is a rush,
as my breath
exists thus,
what this addict craves
that which will enslave
as I cave
to her encroachment,

and we haven’t even
had our first date.

I haven’t rested
in several days
and all the energy
I ‘ve invested
does not pay
back anything but
black rays of pain.

My mind is foggy,
my fingers fumble.
I am not coherent.
I merely mumble
as I stumble out
to deal with my doubt.

So, tired and I need
just a little bit of
sweet relief sleep.

My eyes are red.
My head is sore
I’d like an hour
but could take seven more.

My vision blurs,
and smoky mists
split apart in front of me
even though I know
they don’t exist.

Little off white flakes
fall like fake
snow,
but I know this is more ash
to feed the fast growing
sleep deprived madness
that I am showing.

The screen is becoming
a blur of red marks
meant to remind me
that my spelling
is worsening,

and I can’t find the end
of this late-night poem
because I am so freaking
tired.

It was stained glass dreams
of fire red rays
that burnt blood rivers
and sent blues sprays
of infinite squares
to cut up my madness
and sit me silent
in my stupefied stares
of chaos’s natural contemplation.

The glittering lights
Of the City below
Shimmer in the
Sunrise glow
As I perch on
My rocky throne
To admire them.
Neon snails slowly
Inch their way along
The distant highway.
Flocks of starlings
Spray themselves
Across the rosy sky
And I am content.
           LJM

the bird I saw at the water park
that bird flew so freely
it seemed so happy to me
because it has wings that I don't have

it is able to go anywhere it wants to go
but that bird is very lonely,  
because it's flying after departing its mother

the bird I saw at the water park
the bird I saw at the playground
the bird I saw on the plane

the bird that was always alone, will fly
freely to find friends
it's not lonely anymore as it flies together

hey, bird bird bird bird

the bird that was always alone, will fly
freely to find friends
it's not lonely anymore as it flies together

hey, bird bird bird bird

I am tired of poor perspectives,
of the hues that abuse the views
of abstract paths and messed up avenues.

I am tired of prior cues,
signal that set poets on cruise
as the roads roll up
like the broken blunt
used to burn through
the black and soulful blues.

I am tired of the cutsie fluff
that distracts us from the stuff
we should be paying attention to.

But mostly I am tired of
the muffled muse I once used
being stretched and torn
to make other artists conform
to the boring norm
of trying to sale things
we don’t need.

T’was the king of crows,
who cawed at me,

pecking and plucking
my straw furiously,
cause he was curious to see
what would become
of this straw man
he once flew from.

Eyes burning red,
whilst mine turn to dread
as a ****** of his brethren
began to follow him
and dig into my cloth skin.

I could not stop them,
with their plucking
and pulling
all my hay innards out.

They had no doubt,
nothing to fear here
it was very clear
because I could not
shoe them away.

So, they knocked of the hat that
was stitched to my head,
and ripped up the fabric
that held my button eyes.

If I was ever alive
then that was the night
that I died,
silently screaming,
begging, and pleading
for the crows to stop
chewing and eating
certain bits of my body.

T’was early the next morning
when the farmer found
a mess of straw and fabric
spread across the ground.
Though, to his surprise
no crows filled the skies
and not one part of his corn stalks,
not one pod, or kernel was taken,
or even shaken,
only my flaccid body lay there
exposed to the cold fall air.