It’s the internet
and I hate it,
dealing daily with
raving lunatics.

On a regular basis
I see raging faces
of uniformed racist
ranting about baseless
accusations.

I thought I had the solution,
to the mass confusion
generated by
all those pasty old guys.

I was certain,
and I rationalized
that once they realized
that the fox news dudes
we’re feeding them lies,
they would come around
to my point of view.

What a sweet certain avenue
I followed you through
thinking reasoning was needed
and that it would change you who
truly believed in the hate that you seeded.

But now I admit I am defeated.
As far as I can see
some people are not open
to changing and growing.

No more tears left in me,
so back to my bubble I go,
where my people agree
and know what I know,
a safe space where I will stay,
cause while the world burns
I am certain to be squirreled away
with the rest of my disheartened,
dry eyed dying idealists.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

As the blackness is dispelled
and the cold weather retreats,

As the winter returns
all that lost spring heat,

As the bird begin their seasoned production
of life’s renewal,

I will recall your small gentle smile
and how it was a glimmering jewel.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

Tomorrow does not exist
and yesterday will not be missed
there is only these fleeting moments,
let me enjoy them while I can.

Till the light I see collapses
and my body cannot move.
Till all my memories are lapses
and I never find the missing clues
to glue them back together.

Then the light will retreat,
and the shadows will descend
and there will be no more whispers
or softs breaths from any friends.

Not a country simpleton,
not the typical bumpkin.
Don’t have time to try and fit in
this redneck city I’ve been
living in
since before I was ten.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Devoured too many books to count,
searching for the fount
of knowledge and compassion,
searching for new question
to great unknown answers.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lost myself in star lit skies,
with clouds that stretch back
far enough to revisit my past,
admired the massive black tapestry
that seems to be punctured by
light holes from some unknown
set of new realities,
each one having its own star’s
worth of gravity.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Not looking for the eternal soul,
and any form of immortality
just seems like a sick joke.
Instead I keep pushing on.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

I’ll keep going on till this particular
configuration of particles
ceases seeking
new ideas that keep speaking
poetry into my being.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.

Staring at the stars,
never got me very far,
as far as you could see.

But in my head
when all was dead
I was flying free.

After earth and beyond,
in the time when
you all were gone
I moved on.

Solar sails
spread about
and there was not
a trace of doubt
to hold me back
as I traveled beyond the black.

Staring at the stars and past
as light years passed,
new questions asked
were mine to answer.

This cosmic dancer
swirled in the void
to explore and avoid
being destroyed
like my predecessor.

The one successor
to humanity’s endeavors,
the very clever me.

I do not look back
at my precious planet
but forever flee,
so I never have to see
the scorched scarred
planetary
destruction that haunts me. 

Now, I stare lovingly
out at the space
that beckons me
to travel in infinity.

Sparkling spiral galaxies,
unknown potentialities,
all these fantasies belong to me
as I daydream
staring at the stars.

I am the stone you skipped,
the heart you forget
as soon as you let go of it.

I am the lost horizon
once the hot guy comes in,
and you leave favoring him.

I the note not played
and the loss of it changes
the whole freaking arrangement.

I am the man you abandoned
because of your derangement
as you fawn over an *******
who can’t even pass anger management.

So, when you cry and ask
why you can’t find a good guy
I’ll cry and laugh at the madness
of even trying to be kind.

I am pretty sure
that this pretty girl
is going to wreck
my fragile world.

I’ve spent a lifetime
hardening my skin
to keep anyone
from creeping in;

But my barriers
have been dropping,
and this lead heart
has stopped stopping
potential intruders.

I feel very vulnerable,
like she is going to go
and turn my armor plating
into something pliable
and I am liable
to let go of my old
cold septic skeptic soul.

She is a rush,
as my breath
exists thus,
what this addict craves
that which will enslave
as I cave
to her encroachment,

and we haven’t even
had our first date.

There is a furnace
that burnt us,
turning smiles to dust
and kindness
to distrust.

A place where
suspicion
was sharpened
to the point of
cutting the hearts
that might
offer true love.

In that hell
some have seen
a shell
form around themselves
whilst others have internalized
the fires that fried their lives.

I have been there to
and turn those blazes toward
breaking swords
and building bridges
to places where we
can be a gentler breed
of humanity.

What makes us human,
is not easily defined?

What clutters this mess
we call conscious
is not something
I can measure well
with my mind?

What drives the feminine mystique
is a perilous penultimate peak
which I seek?

What moves us all
to walk or crawl
when life’s pain
is overriding
our common sense
when our existence
does not permit this
persistence?

What is the truth?