My modern masked queen,
writing word warrior
with flowing prose
as beautiful as the growing rose,
whispering inspiration,
forming a glowing sphere,
a secret sacred space where
I long to go to but
she will not let me in there.

A goddess of nature who owns the air,
vibrating and bending all the ears near,
piercing hearts who hear clear
what wonders my Amazonian friend brings here.

So many stories to tell,
so many things she keeps to herself.
Chaotic but she keeps it under wraps,
as she covers all her scars with laughs.

Layers upon beautiful layers,
multiple masks that overlap,
sometimes they come a little loose,
but she always puts them back.

I wish the façade would crack,
and I could see behind the armor,
that she would let me be
the sharer of strength that she lacks,
so she could finally relax.

My modern mask Queen
would probably have to ****** me
if I ever got to close.
It would be a strange exchange,
but part of me wouldn’t mind that trade.

Specifically,
I drift off to sleep
as my consciousness
dismiss me.

Encounter
all sorts of strange things
as I float through
a wide range of dreams.

Each actor is
a fraction of me
a reaction
generated
sporadically
forming
radical displays
of mixed replays
of my yesterdays
intermixed with
old and new ****
that twists and
shifts it.

It seems only
small parts
remain behind
for my waking mind
to find,
but only because
I am able to divine
a spark of
abstraction
that I can redefine
to make sense
of the mess.

Maybe, I’m a dumpster fire,
rash trash burner who
catches heat to fast
and hopes each burn
will be the last flash,
and that my heart
won’t turn to ash.

I’m chaos incarnate
because in the moment
my mind is gone to
another time to do
things I don’t always
want it to.

Afternoon snack cravings,
nightmare scenarios
where I am not saving,
or playing hero
but watching the ones
I love die slow.

I got to keep my distance
cause I want others
to mind their own
**** business,
while longing for them
to be my friend
and understand
that art I am trying to
pass on to every man,
and woman.

Go away, come back
why won’t you stay?
Get off my back.
Sincere empathy
paired with disdain,
sorrow for those
in pain
while I make it plain,
“Please just leave me alone.
Please come back again.”

These are pleas in literature,
Words retained to capture.
Interplays from memories,
Phrases for our enemies,
Thoughts poured onto paper,
Hopes held by A stapler.
Pain drawn out by words,
Feelings told in verse,
Aches etched through styling,
Love bound by rhyming,
It's all laid out as we're surmising,
If you think we create art,
Your not reading our writing.

and in that deafening silence,
i’ve never wished more to be heard,
wracked with endless demurs of regret and remorse –
impure, impure, impure.

ii.
but it’s my choice, isn’t it?
to bear the knot of pearls come undone,
to feel it shift from skin to soul,
to speak of loving, and then let go.
(i see this now as a luxury i could not afford.) iii.
if i don’t rise come blooming spring,
ring the church bells for those left unheard,
wash the red from the bed sheets,
please unhinge my strife from the earth;

and know this:

a man is no longer a man,
after his unbidden pillage,
has left an innocent soul shaken;
unholy.

holy, holy, holy.

There’s a multitude
of other dudes,
who look like me
but do not do
the exact same thing
or have a matching
attitude;

Parallels
played out in
lyrical fashion,
as I sit napping.
I hear them yapping
passing something
unseen
as strange beings
from different realities.

It’s not mimicry,
or fancy imagery
that I see
but endless possibilities
of what ifs
that will never be.

An athlete,
teacher, painter,
preacher, dancer,
fittest novelist,
world traveler
who volunteers
to help the suffering.

Such strange daydreams
that sometimes even leans
towards more fantastic things,
like a superhero or an
eager young
training cadet
trying to be
in Starfleet
on Star Trek,
trying to make
first contact,
and get to spaces
we haven’t even
imagined yet.

Of all the alternate
dimensions,
that float out and in
by miles, light years
or even mere inches,

the one that never fails
to stir my strange inner self,
is the one where I get my wish
meeting that finest fairytale figure,
that most beautiful myth.

Looking in the eyes of my
truest companion
after struggling for so long to find them,
and finally settling down with
my soulmate.

My identity
is a trick of the light,
shifting inside,
deflating my pride
as I try decide
who I get to be.

It’s a flickering screen
timing out before
it is fully seen,
fade to black
end this scene.

It’s shifting, permitting
me to be
an ever-transforming being.

Non-specific
till you take and pin it
and then my friend,
I up and spin
forwards and back again
discovering
new shocks from which
I need recovering.

Self-smothering
in a blanket of
familiar things that I love.
Until, I’ve had enough
and need a new perspective.

Super selective,
unless I let it
flow out
like a poem.

If anyone tries to define me
I will show those showmen.
Take all the loops and throw’em.
Until even I can’t tell
where I am going.

Who am I?

Brother, Poet, Friend,
Good Samaritan,
Introverted Comedian,
Selfish Altruist
cause kindness suits
my purpose.

I am not certain yet,
but as soon as I figure it out,
I’ll crawl back to my space of doubt,
cause I am bound to change again.

From the time when she was
a little girl with an orange bow,
she liked to dance and
put on a great show.

Tapping all her toes,
laughing as her smile grows.

Blues eyes,
short hair,
long braids.

Till the day
time took her youth away,
and it was more hours at her job
and less time to play.

Dress up to go to work,
stress out until her
heart really hurts,
and date another ****.

But underneath the years,
a beautiful ballerina danced,
sweet swans sang songs
as pink fire swam along;
No matter how old she got
she never lost that part.

Once, I broke through,
into a world view
of stranger colors
and proportions;

A place
where a cold
winterhold
held up
with bright
white
blinding lights
searing
and impeding
occasionally blocked
what I was seeing.

Where yellow banners,
and other
strange standards
stand *****
then collapse
losing their
regal effect.

Where parades of green
shades shimmering,
sway to
their own
rhythm,
the art of
growing
and living.

Where purple flecks,
blue floating
bits of paper
dance and waver
in the wind.

I embrace
this strange place,
but in the end
will go out the same
way I came in.

I may never be
a mainstream
attraction,
marvelous
man of steel
and heroic action,
or a midnight
web swinging
theme song singing
warrior bringing
hope back in.

I know I am not
the villain laughing
at human suffering,
never bothering
to try and solve
anything.

I hope I’m not adding
anything bad
and perhaps
putting back
a little good in
this human equation.

Maybe, I am
over explaining
struggling without
really saying
anything.

I’m pretty much
a middling,
poet spewing
verses that
are not doing
much of anything
but falsely inflating
my tiny ego.

This poet is not divine,
but some may find
the lyrical mind
omnipresent.

All bodies in
conversation
are a manifestation
of his unconscious.

First person,
second person,
or third person
narrator,

in the world
of words
the poet is
the greatest creator.

Not magical,
though it feels
that way sometimes.

Not perfect
that is why
lines fly
but sometimes
even angels
stumble in the sky.

Working verses,
fixing impressions,
twisting perspectives
while being introspective.

It is all a part
of the art
and creative process.

A sickly-sweet sea of brown tea,
and soft caramel treats
were placed before me
in my candied dreams.

A dark pool
of oil slick
black goo
inched ever closer
smelling ever grosser,

As ninja turtles
hopped over hurdles,
and captian Kirk
acted like a ****,
in the final frontier
a spot where I thought
it would be clear
that we could be better.

My body was bruised
as browns spots oozed
blood and ****,
but someone chased me,
so I pushed softly
and walls became doors
to a restaurant I used to
work at. I was
actually late for my shift,
and I had already missed
my favorite college classes.

My car was invisible
as I drove in it,
and when I woke from
my nap of merely one minute
it was gone.

Senseless, I watched this
all from different angles.
If this was supposed  
some sort of story
it was incoherent,
and I couldn’t rearrange it
into a workable plot.

Dreams are so weird.

i dyed my hair pink
it was supposed to be purple because i couldn’t dye it green
the developer...or whatever it’s called
is still under my sink
makes me think

and at three a.m. i’ll die again or at least try to dye
they both are very different things that still feel quite alright
so i fall to sleep with blue hair and hope that i just might

xoxo catch you later on the next flight