It is too late
and far too dark,
but there they are.

They are
a sad pair,
two young boys
who stroll the streets
like silent silhouettes
stalking death together.

Their mad mother
kicked them out.
Now, they are afraid
to go back
the way they came
cause violence
waits for them.

Thinking no one cares,
that there is no one there
to lift them from
the cradle of their despair.

Eyes burning
with fatigue
stare at empty air,
as they wear
bodies heavy with
the stress
they share.

They do not
know where
they will sleep.

Still, they keep
comfort in each other,
older to younger
little baby brother.

Cold and uncertain
both of them hurting
they keep moving,
but never get anywhere.

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.

That light enters
through my window
and lets me see
little floating particles
that seem to flicker
in and out of existence
like tiny twinkling stars.

I am stunned by
the dark swirling dragon clouds
that dance dangerously across
the quiet night.

Amused by the bemused
cloud dude
who stares back at me,
eyes wide
mouth contorted clouds
close to
the masks I knew
as comedy
and tragedy.

Such a kindness
for the night
to spare me
a second of delight,
a well needed reprieve
from all the troubling things
that I have seen.

Calmed, I go to sleep
and keep
this wonder with me.

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.

I am a dying mirror,
glass skin
melting
and caving in
following the flow
the goes too slow,
distorting
reflections
that I used to know,
extracting
exacting
moments
that stress,
impress
or depress me
greatly.

I see and write
the night’s lite
beauty,
let it all
fall out of me
in literary wonder,

and hope before
I fall to pieces,
shattering permanently,
you get to see
what I believe
is the wonder
of all reality.