They try to keep
the deep blue deep
inside a plastic cup,

but I open my eyes,
point them towards
the turquoise sky
flying but never
getting high enough.

Break the clouds,
pierce the veil,
reveal the stars
that cook themselves
like I do.

Circle the curve
of time and space,
faster than the pace
I make to take
first place
in life’s race.

Inside my skull
a universe unfolds
as I write new rules.

Falling faster
as the atmosphere
incinerates my skin.

What horrible pain,
what a terrible shame,
but like the phoenix
I want to burn
and rise again.

There’s a cauldron bubbling
with all that’s troubling,
doubling dangerous ideas
that might someday
thrive here.

There’s a hub bub dubbed
frivolous, a contrivance
sprung from some pittance,
some door that was locked before
but now welcomes admittance.

There’s a dream between us
fanciful as a carnival
and as adventurous
as a traveling circus.

Soft slippers swirling,
dancers twirling and whirling
like a whirlwind of
brown hair spinning.

Inspiring spiraling spires,
while neurons fire
arms flail in exaltation,
an ecstasy of what could be
culminating in brand new dreams.

These rare things,
like gems sparkling,
go on harkening
to some happy future
whilst dulling the pain
of past darkness.

Is it strange to say,
I rarely feel this way?
Is this hope and joy,
that has been deployed
for my own amusement?

I dream of all the poetry
the world has written for me,
all the visions that I see
of sweet swelling glory.

A fountain of eternal stories,
a well of rushing water
ready to run over
and wash away
all the filth of despair
and give me something
for which I can care.

Green leaves over there
grand stars in the sky,
grey clouds fill the air
whilst kind hearts make me cry.

When I am well rested,
my spirit is invested
in all that surrounds,
all those sights and sounds,
a fabulous parade
of colors and shades.

In love and heartbreak,
I write what I take,
think, and explore
philosophies
and sights I adore.

Bursting at the seams,
crying out “I want more.”
There is always
something beautiful
just beyond the evening’s yawn
before and after
all of my dreams are gone.

Guilty pleasures lick skin
pressing in confessing sins
that aren’t that bad.
In fact, in the past
those where the best
pleasure I ever had.

Now they lay
behind me
as I walk away,
every step
another day
to forget
the laughing corpses
that paint my path
of painful yesterdays.

The ****** bones
of this broken lunatic
howling back at
other fanatics,
as the circus of
the ****** I love
just clowns around town
for a little bit.

Memories burn before me,
dancing clouds of smoke
as ashes aspire to fly higher,
leaving behind burnt offerings
of all those silly passing things.

Pleasure is partly pursued
by all the body parts
I never used, just viewed
and stored for some
later date.

With a flick of my fast wrist
I purge myself of all of this
frustration, leaking my lust
in tiny but thick droplets
and fall asleep cont.
on my sticky sheets.

I’m a hypocritic
hypnotist,
trying to
mesmerize you
with words
that fit
my poetic
scheme
whilst
directing
your actions,
but never
acting on
the words
I pass on.

A tricky teacher
or corrupt preacher
who doesn’t
learn my own
lessons,
ignores
my own
confessions,
whilst professing
deep unused
wisdom.

With a lot to learn,
I give men
instruments
for their
grand progression
but seldom use
those tools.

We cannot get back
to the past
that we once knew
cuz that would undo
all the progress
we've made.

Life's not like
a video game.
We don't get to redo,
no replaying
going through
old levels
that we want to.

So, if it's just one shot
one life that we're given,
one moment to live in
this game we're playing.
Then it's not about winning.
It's not about losing.
It's not about gaining another day.

I won't see you after I die
but you can always stop by
and read what I write.

I begin to end the wind
that whines in my mind,
and unwind the vines of time,
cause I hope to uncurl
the twine and find
a spark of the divine
behind the flesh facade
you have put on
to service everyone,
whilst denying yourself,
the kindness you are trying
to give away every day.

I am empty,
negative spaces
that do not reflect
or absorb
any light
or other
things of
great import.

Earth conforms
to fit the form
of my warm
footprints.
Plants bend
when I touch them,
but no one sees
my being
or hears a
single thing
from me.

I am the master
of nothing,
apathy embodied,
too tired to be
hopeful,
or naughty.

Warm winds work
their way
around my body.
Water falls all
around me,
but what
can a void feel
when it is not
even real?

Night after night
laughter just feels right,
cuz it brings with it the light,
that relief of delight.

I'm a porch distance
from other witnesses
trying to commit this
human wisdom
to other men.

I'm a poet
always writing,
inviting others in
to a shared understanding
but it doesn't matter
if I master
the technical skills,
if I can't relate
to what other people feel.

Then I'm still
just a second-rate hack
wearing an off-gray hat,
a Mayberry man
with two hands
on my gun belt
as I shoot myself,
whilst dumbfoundedly
wondering “how am I
going to come back
from that?”

It’s incomputable,
yet irrefutable.
Emotions are too
numerous to name,
range from strange pain
to shame, love, hate, and apathy
then back in again reworking
and adjusting what must be
excruciating
as inner monologues are debating
between placating the dissonance raging
or succumbing to one avenue that
let’s ****** picks specific emotions,
inspires wildfires, plucks devotion
from the rose of desire.
Till, that red flower expires
blooming and falling after
consuming all the air
inside and out there.
I don' t know who cares,
but empathy adds new levels
to this confusing and bruising
black brackish brew,
that mad man-made stew.
It is stirring, creating odd paintings
and then moving onto brand new
blank canvasses.
Who could manage all of this,
especially since it is just a fraction
of all actions.