I got no patience
for these agents
of deliberate corporate contagions,
or the minefield that yields
the bootstrap philosophy
that never actually worked
in this society.

The *** was not romantic.
It was the rapid succession
of flesh pulling and pressing,
pushing, and pounding,
sounding of deep heated passion,

no intellect involved
just pure raw uncoordinated
pleasure pursuing
by two who were viewing
a moment of unfiltered
animalistic movements.

I cannot seem to write
without rhyming.

It is not a simple matter
of timing
but has become
my mental wiring.

I find other
non-rhyming
poets so inspiring
so deeply
neurally
firing,
sparking
inspiration.

But my brain
has lost the ability
to make any poetry
without playing with
rhymes.

I am depressed.
because unless
humanity passes
this last test
we will be
putting our
species
to rest
post haste.

There is outrage.
Pain on open display,
as blood paints
the driveway.

There is economic
uncertainty,
so many people
struggling
financially.

There is fear
that the enemy is here
and it is not
a person or a group
but a virus.

There is tension,
built into the system
causing chaos
and destruction;

A boiling ***
that will not stop
till the top
pops off,
as loud as
the bullets shot
by cops.

Pressure building,
from painful feelings,
sorrow spilling
into to verses
as the poet
converses
with himself.

Writing all about
the madness that is
all around,
as the pipes
prepare to burst. cont.

Lines of words
release the valve
to let all of
that steam out,
and he is free
to go about
his daily duties.

Until, the gravity
of everything
start pressing down,

and he repeats the process
to stop this
from completely
crushing his
entire being.

You are so beautiful that you compelled me to write
And so I wrote about you with my favourite pen
Every day.. I poured my soul out for you on the pages of my diary
The pages would beg me for mercy
But I just couldn't stop
I'd write about every facet of yours
I'd describe the magnificence of your beautiful soul
The incredible moon like beauty of your face
Your long black locks of magic
Your deep blue ocean eyes
Your ridiculously charming smile
I wrote about it all
And then one day the nib of my pen broke
And your memories and thoughts were left hanging in the ink
I could no longer capture them on the pages of my diary
I was so heartbroken and frustrated
I wanted to write about you so bad...
And so I tried with a new pen
But with a different pen...It just wasn't the same
The thoughts just refused to flow
My hands would tremble
I'd just keep staring at the pages
I miss those thoughts of you
I miss the emotions that I wanted to write about you
I miss capturing you through my words on the pages of my diary
My colourful diary is now an assortment of blank white pages
My diary which was once filled with life now has turned into a graveyard
I miss not being able to write about you

Perhaps, I am getting wiser
in my slightly graying days;

Learning that it is not the pain
itself that causes the most grief.
It is the anticipations, and attempts
to avoid future events
that may bring it.

Sorrow is of the past,
future suffering
may never actually come into being,

and reflecting on all of that
detracts from the pleasure that
I could be taking in the present moment.

Life is layers of songs,
written deeply on,
thin skin and deeper
strands that are the keepers
of essential secrets
that I don’t know
how to read.

It is unexpected
not predirected
but moving in
its own directions
at its own pace.

It is as sweet as
sugar cane,
and as bitter as
the tea leaves,

seeing us coming in,
swimming then
drowning
as we leave.

Life is more
than my poetry
can portray,
this game I play
trying to make
gold from clay
as chaos reigns.

No matter how
I try to explain,
it is such a shame,
life is only
temporary.

It’s been years
since I lived on the road,
a gas station *****
searching for something
delicious and caffeinated,
to get me to the next place
I was scheduled to work in,
or be a last-minute replacement.

Spending a lot of time
with vending machines,
and gas station attendants,
making jokes and wishing
to do a little more sleeping,
and a lot less driving.

I was just surviving,
check to check,
barely one step
from being so broke
that I couldn’t even make it
to the hotel where I was staying.

Complimentary breakfasts,
per diem late evening
hamburger breaks,
adding to the weight
of my already exploding gut.

It wasn’t much,
but enough
to get me here,
to a steady job
and regular sleep schedule.

The night is a portrait,
of quietness,

such sad silence
punctuated by
loud lamp lights
that brighten
empty sidewalks.

This used to be
the bustling streets
of a busy city,

but now I only see
spectral memories,
people passing
like smokey figures
that dissipate
on a windy day.

Everyone has gone,
upped and moved on
from this listless existence,
while I have become
the dumb one,
stuck in the mud
like a big red truck
unable to roll away
or back towards yesterday.

So, I look longingly
at everything
that can no longer be,
and mourn the loss
of all of those
possibilities.

The radio doesn’t work.
It no longer distracts me
when I am driving
or obscures the thoughts
that used to hurt a lot.

I got new devices to
help me get through
dealing with what
American dummies
love to do.

Cellphone, laptop,
PlayStation four,
fun apps that
let me read
comic books,
watch TV,
and really good
movies.

In the race to resist
having to deal with
all the pain
we are all feeling,
I am killing it.

Don’t need chemicals
to fog or blackout,
don’t need to party
to ignore that nagging doubt,

I just fill every second with
modern tech ****,

so I can take my feelings
and turn the volume
down on all of them.

I used to know
more than one
super beautiful
poet goddess.

But in my old age,
and these late days
I can barely recall
a trace of their face.

There was the
beautiful blond
from some
far away
Estonia like place,
or was it actually
Estonia?

There was the wild
brown haired
young poet
whose Tumblr
is no longer there.

Then a friend
I’d chat with
almost every day,
she stopped talking to me
and that is ok.
I hope her life is great;
Just like the other two,
I cannot remember her name.

I only recall
the passion of their poetry,
not even the words themselves
just an inkling
of the embers
they stoked in me,
inspiring neurons firing
to make poems.

I am certain I would know them,
if I saw them.

But for now
they are lost echoes
of nostalgia.