I’m a prisoner of this lullaby.
Almost asleep,
almost awake,
halfway
between
night and day
as I work
to make my pay.

Theoretically,
I am a zombie,
brain dead,
flesh fed
beast
who needs
to rest in bed
but I live in my head
instead.

Walking in the
wrong waking world,
on a ride to the otherside
of a goodnight,
but I just can’t
pass out with
all this disturbing ****
on my mind.

I’m so tired,
that I feel ill,
and intoxicated,
probably gonna wish
I had stopped and waited,
taken a fifteen-minute nap
at the nearest gas station.

Groggy and trying to drive;
You might see me,
My head may nod softly
as my car slides
and I hit those
who drive to close.
I’ll be
to weary
to even try
and cry out
any last words.

With our attitudes
towards IQ
and academic aptitudes
our human metrics
makes us
maladjusted
and unjust.

Materialism
is a modern
mass pathology,
perpetuated
by outdated
corporate
mythologies.

So, what gives rise
to precise
intense inner
creative drives
that elevate
and surprise
humans before
great creations
are fully realized?

The core of
creativity
is not centralized,
but synthesized
from your insights.
It is up to
you to decide,
bring out your
unique light
and brighten
our lives.

George Carlin
warned you,
Jon Stewart
and Bill Hicks
did to.

The fix is in
for the politicians,
got businessmen
buying them
our elections,

so if you are expecting
democrats or republicans
to fight against
the corruption,
you haven’t been
paying
enough attention.

I write as well,
tell myself
I’m not made
to perform on stage.

The blank page
is the place
where my grace
is the greatest.

I display this
humanness
by touching depths
I haven’t even
swam in yet.

I drown in
the sound of men
woman and children
moaning,
begging
for a living,
when no help is given
by those in power
who have been
taking without returning
a single cent
of human decency.

I can write clearly,
because I have time
to edit each line,
the same ones
which I hide behind
and pretend that I
am helping
when I am just
doing enough
to not be
the enemy,
less of an ally
and more of a lubricant
that helps
my own guilt
slide off
the walls I built.

I have tried
to understand
how those
who were denied
a helping hand felt
and mirror it
in my poetics.

But I am pathetic,
self-indulgent
pain appropriating
social movement
inactive student.

Taking out loans
I never plan
to payback,
other than
in writing
human events.

Some say,
I am a good man,
but I feel unworthy,
uncomfortable
because even though
they heard me
I don’t think
they were listening.

Life is a prison,
and I am self-convicting,
admitting that in my laziness,
I might as well be complicit.
I write so later on I can ignore it.

Work hard to explore,
then exploit what I didn’t earn,
take all that I have learned
and try to make a better world,

but no matter what I do
I feel like a poser.
Even when I am trying to help you,
I feel like a cheap magician trick exposer.

Though, I am trying to foster,
a compassion movement,
I am just an empathetic
poem writing imposter.

He walks,
pine trails,
and high hills,
and partly feels
as if he is still here.

A young man’s energy,
a child’s idealism;
Hope is real in him.

Passing poet’s
parting pleasant memories,
imprinting kind words
on those who were
lucky enough to hear.

So, many years,
distance
between the loss
and those precious
instances,
such goodness.

Like the grandfather
who is lost farther
in my memory,
who spent time
helping families
in disaster areas,
another traveler,
another example of
what kindness
and love
can bring
into to being.

To two hearts of my past
goodnight
Ken Sibley,
and
Hugh Amos Graff.

I’d like to be celebrated,
for what I wrote,
what I stated,
how I used words
to debate hate
and help others
change places
with alien faces
so, they could feel
just a fraction of
the pain they instill
in those they should love.

I’d like people to recall
how I helped others,
a hand for those who fell
kind words to wish
those dealing with grief well,
an ear for people in pain,
and a joke to spring them
back up again bringing in
the remnant of past smiles.

I just want to be remembered;
Don’t you?

I’ve been tired,
been raging
against the machine
made for making
people hate everything.

I’ve been writing,
fighting back the tears,
cause I don’t want
anyone near to hear
how much of my pain
hides behind my fear.

Especially when,
I know my suffering
is not that unique,
and there are millions more
hurting worse than me.

I got it pretty good,
but I am alone,
reading and thinking.
I’m not a stone.
I’m just breathing,
bleeding and needing
a little love you see.

Won’t you meet me
in the land of sleepy dreams,
a place where children
no longer sit and scream,
where I am not looking
cause my dear you are
right here beside me.

Despite the chaos
that haunts us
in waking hours,
in this temporary reprieve,
my love, it is you,
whoever you may be
that I want to see
when I go to sleep.

This is my body
I think
You see some days I am not sure
Because it's covered in opinions and handprints
That do not belong to me
And they are dripping all over this better life I am trying to build

- Was this supposed to be winning?

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.

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.