He was old when I was young.
Now I’m old, and he’s long gone.

Owner of a small-town store.
Plier of all those knick knacks
and delicious snacks that
a young boy desires and adores,
tiny fifty cent to a dollar toys,
a handful of penny tootsie rolls
and five cent laffy taffy,
with silly jokes on the wrapper
that brought a little lighthearted laughter.

Small brick building
and in the back was
his home.

Now the burnt red bricks
have lightened and cracked a bit,
like the memories of him,
fuzzing up while slowly fading,

till he is the foggiest of impressions.

I try to recapture any ****** expressions
but only recall vagaries.

The building falls behind the sun,
but his family has not yet moved on.

Soon the night will descend
consuming me as it has devoured
my memories of him.

She is the north star,

a precocious lie
I tell myself to get by,
but I wonder why
I feminize hope.

Is it that she intrigues
with what I think I need
to fulfill my basic being?

Is it because love
seems to be the highest thing
a poet can aspire to,
and desiring one of the few
who might be a little like me
and understand my artistry
gives me a modicum
of extra creative energy?

Or is it because
I am deeply in love
with death,
and being enraptured,
totally captured
by another
would smother
my identity
freeing me
from all suffering
by ending all I ever was
in favor of the new person
I might become in love.

Bad morning,

I say that it’s okay
to bare all the pain
grievously.

The sun is not
shining brightly
but smites me,
with harsh rays.

Dull day,

I sour and curdle
fall over the hurdles
I was trying to bound.

Dark present,

dreary moment,
I should own it
but my disposition
makes me hate
all the things
I once thought were great;

Except for the nighttime,

a sweet release,
as I go to sleep,
and don’t have to think,
until tomorrow
when I awaken refreshed,
with more optimistic words.

The past is
ashes,
burns as it
ask us
to do
what we must
to get by enough,
till time picks us
off.

It confuses
as it uses
all our truths
and illusions
to deludes us.

Nostalgic
daydreams
of never where
***** things,

fiercely fueled
solar flares
of incinerating despair,
with a gravity
that draws us
back to a path
that no longer exists,
to closest and corners
where we no longer fit.

The familiarity of all of it,
beating out the uncertainty
of a future we have yet see,
is so strangely appealing.

But I have a feeling
we should be living in
the here and now.

Our problems are
frequently creations
of our own social
and mental stagnation.

So, can you see a scenario
where the people that you
love and know
are dying fast and slow,
from a virus that we
could and should
have under control?

Can you comprehend
how helping your
fellow man
from different lands,
how communicating divergent
perspectives
can helps us solve
emerging problems
as they evolve?

Can you understand
how not learning
from a stranger,
reduces the likely hood
that your neighborhood
will thrive or even get by.

As this tragedy’s grip tightens,
as your children are frighten
by the horror you were not
properly fighting,
how will it feel
when you realize
you once had the resources
to survive
but chose fear and hate,
instead of choosing
to save your own life?

I’ve done
some
serious wrongs,
committed horrors
in these songs
as I worked out
where and why
I should belong.

I’ve made a lot of
errors looking for love,
not thinking enough,
drinking too much
to cover up
what a heart ache does.

I can’t say for certain
if I have caused
or eased
this world’s hurting.

Is the world better
for my existing in it,
or is it just
what it is?

I may never know,
and that’s ok.
I may never be
really great.
I can handle that,
cause when I die
I don’t plan on
coming back.

This point in my life
I am just enjoying
this self-generating light.
I may be uncertain
but I am certainly doing
alright.

They are living, thriving
beautiful social beings,
out dining, and partying

while I am surviving
in solitary,
pondering,
reality,
observing
the wonderfully perturbing
to the dark and disturbing.

They are full throttle,
heavy metal,
foot to the pedal,

while I am indulging
my quiet disposition
a perfect position
to sit and question
what most take for granted.

They are spectacular,
each one raging with
a deep intensity
that I really dig,

and I just want to be
left alone to ponder
all of it.

To write starlight sparkles
of glimmering wonder
that shine in your eyes,
and reflect
the natural wonders
you love and respect,

or a smile that is as warm as
a bright summers day
with full flowing lips that open to say
kind, wise, and inspiring words
bringing blooms of joy
to all the lives you grace
with your energetic pace;

I know every human body makes poetry,
but somebodies speak clearer,
break through the deep blue hued
crystals made to confuse
all that humans once knew
straight to the inner light of you.

If ever you forget,
I will be incline to
remind you,
you are a poem of flesh
carved and molded
by space and time.

In a world void of
myths and legends
you are a nature goddess.

Please, don’t be modest
cause you are a bad ***
beyond measure.

He is tired
of being
unseen
as he sings
sweet dream
into everyone else’s days.

Tentative steps,
softened breathes
slowed as
others gasp
and ask
what was that.

Blurry visions,
of what was missing,
pillow imprints
slowly losing
any hint
of human warmth,
as humans swarm
buzzing about,
crying out loud.

“Where did you go?”

Tiny tracks
are filled in
with time’s
ever moving
persistence,
and all of the
grown ups missed it.


“Joshua!
Where are you?”

No clues to use,
no missing shoes,
just a wide open window.

Parents ponder,
wondering were could he go
without sturdy winter clothes.

They forget
all the things they said,
memories mingle
with regret,
and a fear of what is yet
to come.

How young was the sun,
how warm could he be
as his body grew numb?
Why would such a little one
let himself succumb
to the cold creeping
forever sleeping
winter ending.

Freezing
was so much more pleasing,
a releasing
of all that he was seeing,
and feeling,

better than the bitter drilling
of brutal home beatings,
and grade school cruelty.

He preferred being frosty.

Not too far from his house,
safely sitting in
a metal spiral
ditch drainage
culvert,

stifling
any shuddering,
letting each thin limb
give in
to winter’s mercy
as his revenge
against all of them.

The screen reflects
an artistic perfectness
she tries to imbue
life with.

Words
whipped
from her wit
through
her swift
fingertips.

Dangerous
and lovely ideas
sparkle like
her best friend’s
very nice
glittered up nails,
and are
twice as sharp.

Each line laced
with youthful vigor,
such an energetic
expenditure,
and are flavored by
an ancient poet’s
wise old eyes.

All written
for herself
not made to share
with anyone else,

but I got a look
into the treasure chest
of her artistic mind,
and the jewels
you will find
if she is ever inclined
will blind you
with their glorious shine.

What are we
but the dirt
that was once
stars we
no longer
get to see,

the water
that once
was sea
plus or minus
parts ***
passing through
everything
in human history.

What are we
but the convergence
of what ifs,
what was,
what wasn’t,
what is,
and what will
never get to be.

What are we
but strange dreams
made in
waking moments,
passing pleasantries
fading in
eternity
and infinity.

Can you listen,
pay attention
to the distance
between
the desire of things
and the need
to be freed,

when you hear it,
and can bare it,
be enveloped,
but not drowned
by the lack of sound,

tell the story
in all of its
gory glory,
feeling a fraction
of your former reaction,
but not letting
past pains
rule your brain?

Your story will
end the same
way it began,
and you can sing,

“Once upon a time,
I gave up what was
once on my mind.”

It is too late
and far too dark,
but there they are.

They are
a sad pair,
two young boys
who stroll the streets
like silent silhouettes
stalking death together.

Their mad mother
kicked them out.
Now, they are afraid
to go back
the way they came
cause violence
waits for them.

Thinking no one cares,
that there is no one there
to lift them from
the cradle of their despair.

Eyes burning
with fatigue
stare at empty air,
as they wear
bodies heavy with
the stress
they share.

They do not
know where
they will sleep.

Still, they keep
comfort in each other,
older to younger
little baby brother.

Cold and uncertain
both of them hurting
they keep moving,
but never get anywhere.