Assuming there
are more poets
than murderers,
shouldn't the
News cover
poetry instead
of ******?  

Wouldn't you
just love to sit
at the TV while
a reporter asks,
What do you
mean by 'red
dog'? Instead
of asking a
clear psychopath,
'why did you do it?'
to no answer,

while the bearded
****** can go
on for hours about
the ******* 'red dog'.

It is a ****** battlefield
that does not yield
any healthy crops
just plants dark thoughts;
Seeding seething pain.

Those broken bodies
are fractured forms
fallen from
the ravages of war.

Former friends
fermented in
the vinegar
of vile violence.

Their depravity depends
on the whims
of more wicked men
and women
who spend
lives like bitcoin.

We are a chorus
of chaotic consumers
of materialistic addicts,
of capitalistic users.

We are violently virulent,
cashing checks
that are already spent.

We devour and destroy
to acquire
the new toy
or gadget we desire
to employ
for temporary amusement.

Then when someone
explains this,
claims it
can be better
we become bitter,
and break them
on the wheel of
social separation.

We consume and excrete
all the metal and plastic
crap that was manufactured
to satisfy this corporately
fractured life.

When I have time to think,
when the dark thoughts
are hailing me
like Starfleet academy
across the universe
of my undermine;

In the dark regions
of my dreams
where legions
of thought demons
come rumbling in,
there is a red wave,
a reservoir of pain
reserved for the perturbed
parts of my overactive brain.

When the melancholia music plays,
switch flipped to repeat
as I listen to the beat
of my heart’s history,

I remember all that
was given to me,
the bits I took for granite
chipped rocks eroded
connections no longer
able to be loaded
because they are just
echoes of binary encoded
in my overloaded
grief molded
dual lobed
computing *****.

Unconsciously
I write to me.

Ironically
the poetry
I give
to make others think
truly reflects
my deeper needs.

As I speak
eloquently
with grief,
recording
my own history
asking others,
to learn from
what they read,

I forget to
learn those
lessons to.

Until,
ghosts
emerge
as symbols
in my dreams,
lost figures
reaching out for me,
allowing me
to remember
what I forgot to
tell myself
as I was
reprimanding
all of you.

I am such a goof,
and it would be so funny
if it wasn’t such
an epic tragedy.

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon