To be lost adrift
in a life of pointlessness,
to sink not swim
giving in
to the darkness,

knowing
that no amount of growing
will guarantee
one ounce of eternity,

that all which was lost
cannot be recovered,
only shimmering
reflections in our
collective memory
connect us to the deceased.

Brother, friend,
sister, father, mother
all figures trend
toward hopeless ends.

We are subject to
and subjugated by
a fear and certainty
that all things die.

This why tears
leak from my eyes.

Hello embittered fighter,
nighttime neck biter
who inspired
more monstrous stories
then all these gory
modern allegories.

How do you do,
you shaggy dude,
who howls at the moon
racing with all that
ravishing wolf prowess
as you go prowling
for your next victim
or late night
kibble nibble.

Hey there my yummy mummy,
how does life hang around
that shriveled form
time has bound
as you try to bandage
your immortal wounds,
while stumbling
and bumbling
with incoherent moans.

Hey fish face
lets race
to the bottomless black lagoon
where dumb surfer dudes
go to party
but end up sleeping with
the fishes,

and to my friend Frankie
I thank thee,
for lately
I have lost that old
monster loving feeling,
but you got the spark
that I needed to bolt back to
that old monster movie,
matinee madness I missed.

the clear, blue sky fills my vision,
the sea covers my right
and left,
peace engulfs me,
i reach up to touch
the vast sky,
i fly
high into the air,
i aim for the sun
but it is out of reach,
one day i will hug it
and comfort it,
like it did to me.

She is a black haired freckled faced
memory that I would have waited
many lifetimes to share a love with.

She is a tender ghost that has grown
into an adult I’ve never really known,
and even though I to have gotten old
a part of my heart still holds
onto the dream of loving her.

She no longer knows me,
and that is a tragedy
that makes me weep
grievously.

We are no longer children
who can believe in fairy tale dreams.
Neverland can not make us
immortal youths,
only death makes us
eternally young.
So, we never can
get back to that
old loving feeling again.

It is the shaker and breaker of worlds,
the painful maker of new rules.

It is the clouds that paint your irises
as you dream of past mistakes.
It is the memory that takes
all the breathes you tried to save.

It is an ocean of saltwater tears,
that paints the picture clear
of what you could have,
should have,
and all the other haves
that cut you in halve
and then again
repeating until
you cannot mend,
and you must accept
said sad punishment.

Sometimes it is fair,
sometime opposite
and crueler than
suffocation.

Other times it is a gift,
the great shift
of being complicit
forcing your eyes open
and making you change it,
so you can be better.

I know the lingerie is meant to be taken off, but
my nakedness makes my eyes dart quick and
count every hair on my skin.
picking scabs turns into scars that
I have yet to tell you about.
without permission, I close my eyes
as you love me in the dark and
I wonder if you’re counting too.

No wonder each tickle is seismic
There are mountains in your fingerprints
Tiny topographic maps
I want to sculpt a range of them
All peaks, plateaus and lowest points
All jades and pines and shades of you
And epoxy brooks will pool
Where swirls of myself etch the plaster
For if I touch you,
I thirst to water you
I thirst to water you

the mute poet of ages
born to sing
to sing even in silence
songs of the heart.

In a coffee shop
on 118th & 10th
overlooking teachers college.
Enjoying my coffee
and a day off work
i melt into my seat
trying my best
to lock on to the rhythm
of people walking by.