Life is as slick
as the sand in which
your hand slipped
and now you fall
sinking in it all,
wailing in a pain
for which you
are not to blame.

So, when you’re feeling
tense and full of doubt,
I can be your armchair.
You can put your arm there,
rest your head on me,
knowing that I really care.

I got two good ears
ready to listen to you my dear.
Yes, I’m here to hear
whatever you wish to reveal,
cause I am a comforter.

I am of
something that
once sparkled
fiercely and far above.

I am earth and mud,
cells and atoms
all that particle stuff
that doesn’t measure up
to enough
to stop all the pain in
the world.

I am of love.
Peace and poetry baring
sharing my caring
and creative heart
a pebble to start,
a ripple that turns to
tear apart oceans,
with emotions in motion
that will eventually stop.

I am life
bound for death,
not remembering
how or why
children cry
or when I decide
this is my right
to live or die.

I am.

These fallen leaves
echo strange tragedies,
as roots rot, on the spot
and time’s fury does not
seem kind enough to stop.

Tiny green things, browning
and disintegrating,
as humans move to change
despite the desire to stay the same,
shedding memories like a lamb’s coat,
losing layers and layers to
our own frailty.
Mortality is the knife at our throat.

Fear is the thief of time,
and time is the rogue
who pilfers everything
we think we know or own.

The tree will go on but we won’t
leaves will come and go,
like the season’s melting snow
and all the rings inside the tree
will marks the passing of everything
including me.

Time from before the big bang
has not been seen or measured
in any significant way
that I am aware of.

So, I am wondering,
based on converging hypotheses
did all of this matter and energy
from our universe which appears to be
expanding and is projected to do so eternally
due to dark matter, come from a less compressed state of being,
space that had massive materials swallowed by a black hole
and became the clay and the mold
of our soon to explode
reality.

It’s a trade in
as wage men
are trading
their time
and health
to earn themselves
a reprieve
from being
deprived
of what they need
to stay alive.

But the clock
is boiling them,
slowly cooking
working men
in a stew of
exhaustion.

Good health
and happiness,
is exchanged for
lots of stress,
anxiousness,
and a mess
of repetitive
movement
impairment
paired with
pain.

Body withering
along with
a dithering
mind that
subtracts facts daily.

In aging
the dark corridor
comes closer
and the coroner
is waiting
just outside
the late night
shift life
door.

You don't bend
or work to make amends
with old friends.
You just muddle through
to the bitter end
cause it's a quitter's trend
that's got you shuffling
from one day to the next,
one nap with no rest
blank sheets cause your tests
are nothing.

I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.

My mind is wed to
weird worlds
no one else can view,
fantasy realities,
and nightmare realms
that haunt me,
such terrible
terrors taunting,
like stairways
to primordial days
or ancient ages
were massive
sea monsters
raged beneath
the deep seas.

I walk through
windows to
grassy fields
that yield
fond fairytales.

In my daydreams,
I am pursuing
my own undoing
ungluing
all that held
me to myself.

Ancient pines,
as close as I
can hope to find
to the divine,
run rings around
the years I’ve found.

I am dying,
whilst trying,
intensifying
the neural firing
of my overactive
spastic synapses,
these bio electric
responses.

Tender digits
from children
who fidget,
take the rose stem
and grab it,
pricked and bleeding
while delicate petals,
fall and float away
fleeing the dying flower.

Waking or sleeping
it is all a dream to me.

Even though, I know that a
multiplicity of alternate realities
is not a certainty but has a minor probability;
I have an affinity for infinity and eternity
with all the weird entities therein.

If time is linear
then any human error
becomes inevitable
when the time is here
and gone.

Sorrow spilt silk streams,
thin lines of pain falling.
They are like old fuzzy dreams,
tiny inklings, hints to a puzzle
that I’m not trying to solve.

A spark of a memory
which I no longer recall,
a place in my brain
I don’t visit at all,
but once in a while
a shadow creeps
from the closets that keep
little pieces, jagged edges,
sharp parts of my heart
that have been shattering
for as long as I have been
living in this cruel world.

Tears come but I disregard,
hit reset so I can restart.
After all I’ve come so far,
too many miles to be hindered
by the chains of a ghost
I don’t want to remember.

Like a frozen dead bird
that refuses to rot,
just sits under permafrost,
I hope I never thaw
because spring will bring
all the sorrows of lonely.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.