I'm not flossing,
but I cost men
a certain respect,
got those searching rejects
looking for objects
that might inject
a direct flow
into a system that's
too slow,
so they watch their engines
go too cold.

I'm not a bomb
but I blast holes
in those
violent episodes,
take the illogical
and repurpose it,
making poetry
with logic in it.

I'm not a gun
and I never want to
carry one,
but you'll get shocked
when you're shot
by the thoughts
that blow your mind
and help you carry on
at the same time.

I maybe grandstanding
demanding the handing
of banners back to the past
got citizens bleeding patriotism
cuz that cloth cuts like glass,
those symbols don't last.
After the harshest winds have blasted
flags just flap and go flaccid,
disintegrate brains like hydrochloric acid,
turning people into plastic
action figures that only think
and articulate in a certain way,
do what the corporate dynasties say
as the greedy businessmen repatriate
every cent they ever let us make,
while taking our rights and education away.

Fiery light from a dying star
Cools against your mocha thigh.
Desire formed like fingers
Rustles your hair’s dark light.

Body to body and breath to breath,
We are here and nowhere else.
Unposted selves,
Love without likes,
Hands without keyboards,
Voices in air,
The absence of absence.

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.

I'm not nervous,
just searching for my purpose,
knowing that the word is
possibly the closest
I'll ever get to perfect.

I want you to take me serious.
So, you must be delirious
if you're not hearing this.

I didn't plan it,
but on this planet
people take for granted
the fruits of the labors
I've planted.
Some people can't even stand it
or comprehend.
I guess it just depends
on where they're coming from.

So, you demonize
great guys,
never realized
that those lies
you've been telling,
all that **** you've been yelling
is worse than the crap crack
that the corner street
drug dealers are selling.
Such a bad buzz cuz
it's buried so deep in your veins
that it’s burning out your brain
till the point no longer matters.
Has me crying and constantly rewriting,
echoing the same **** question.
“How many times can people explain
and you still can't understand a thing?”

But, I'm still writing love, holding out
hoping that all my doubt
wasn't right and that I
can still be the light
that burns the night
breaking *** barriers,
and stopping hate carriers.

Until, my artistry
becomes art history
and I finally figure out
what the point of my existence was.

I failed and my penance is
to visit this sick monument
to our shared statues of despair.

I cared and tried to explain
how we share pains
but my explanations
were made in vain.

I raged against
greed and violence,
tried to craft the most cogent
arguments to prop up love
over hate and ignorance.

I survived
and my reward
was to live for a lost cause,
cuz I wasn't good enough
to get through
to all of you.

Now, I weep for all the youth
who will never get to try,
never be born so they can never die.

It’s so frustrating,
what I’m watching,
seeing the hedonist
mealy mouth misogynists
getting up in all of this
social madness,
elevating and celebrating
America making a great end
when it's a hate trend
that's been a revolting revolving door
going out and back in again,
cuz it's making wealthy men
and politicians more money
whilst making plenty other citizens
edge towards revolutionary wars.

I'm nauseous,
ready to *****
on these creeps
that caused such violence;

Tired of trying to solve it
cause the rubrics
of this cube
have multiplied stupid
times all of those who
follow the hollow
Cheshire moon smile
for miles and miles.

The media splits mobs
into mediocre redhatter's
screaming all lives matter
as they charged the capital.

It is in the past but
idiotic patriotic treasonous
fools who are reasonless
keep trying to whitewash
the **** we all saw,
makes me real raw,
want to gnaw off
my own arm
and runaway
from the harm
these buffoons caused,
trying to prop up
a lost cause.

I'm not made
for the marketplace
or the safe space
where people race
because they don't want to face
how it feels to be displaced
and treated like human waste.

But why is it
when dark dreams visit
they are as stark
as a shark's
sharp teeth
as those canines
are embedded in me?

Why do they shake
and take
bits and pieces
but never release
what this beast is
trying to eat,
making lines of liquid crimson
that swirl and dissipate
as I lose my conscious state?

I fight the fright.
I write
the nightmares that most prefer to hide
because my mind
is an art form
born in a **** storm
torn apart
for the hearts
that abhor
the dreams I keep stored
on my moist bathroom floor,
under my feet
where other monsters plan to meet
then come out to greet and eat me.

I remember there was time
when all I knew how to do
was write a simple rhyme.

When syllables were sounded out
and I never had any doubts
that people would come to
understand what I was
trying so hard to do.

But as the days went flashing past,
as every single poetic query asked
in hopes of harvesting
some sort of understanding
saw my heart’s standing
slowly decline and fall off the vine
to be crushed into pulpy and ****** wine.

Days of devotions
turned to weeks of
just going through the motion.
My grandest schemes
turned into dusty dying things
and my spirit withered
in the desert, starving
and dehydrating.

Now, I have a skeptic’s wisdom
and the dreams I once tried to
give to all who live
have become the victim,
eviscerated and desecrated
by the lies of those who thrive
on making Americans
into automatons
and all other humans hated
for not being dumb and isolated.

What is grief,
but the withdrawal symptoms
of a drug we may not have known
we were taking,
the transmogrification
of affection’s deeper emotions
into the compensation
and reorientation
of our strained
inner identity,
in the absence
of the loved ones
treasured presence.

I am sorry
that I am only
partly
here
and far away
in the same breath
while living
and sleeping
as stilly
as death.

Time
does not permit me
a true moment of
serenity,
cause my affinity
is for the cosmos
that I adore.

Furiously flashing
expanses
that have been
outlasting
every mortal thing,
all human beings
are just sparks
that play
small parts
in smaller hearts,
which is why
as time passes by
I am learning to fly
way past the night sky.

That’s why
I am not the guy
who could settle
for a simple life,

even when I am
holding your hand
I am dancing on
foreign lands,
toes twisting in
Martian sands,
and as it stands
I have big plans
to expand
what I understand
as I study to create
and elevate
my mental state
right past
the fictional holes
that blast
our fat *****
way beyond
purple space gasses.

Even though, I know
you to hold
multiple universes
inside,
I can only offer you
half of my mind
cause I am so gone.

An atypical yet spherical mass of spiritual
madness hides behind the mad mind of sadness.

It is poisonous but I am glad of this
biological drug sandwich
that is wrapped in my cerebellum.

I am crazy but I try to tell them,
all those children, women, and working men,
something is not quite right in this system
that tries to lie and sell them lots of corruption.

Reality is harsher than the scraping pavement
that savaged my already ravaged flesh,
tearing away tiny bits of skin and bleeding
barely perceptible drops of blood that are not compatible
with the white and gray grainy walkway.

Metaphors do not explain much anymore,
just cloud the conversation with pretty abstractions,
petty reflections not worth anyone’s inspection,
cause they are diarrhea of my own introspection,
a manifestation that seldom add ups to anything more than
other people’s interpretation.

No matter my intent these words
are just whispers in cyclonic winds,
I can’t imagine anyone cares enough
to let my strange thoughts infect them
with empathy and creative confusion.