The green light lit
a pool of dog ****,
as I barely missed
stepping in it,
but managed to hit
a puddle of human ****.

Still, this is better then
the messes I’ve been
stepping in
my entire life;

Belt, boot, broom handle,
righteous salvation
in the distorted visage
of a vicious parent.

Locker collisions
as schoolbooks were driven
from hands to the floor,
cruelty that dulls with
time and distance.

Packaged pill urges,
dull knife intentions,
barefoot winter behavior,
death, the hopeful savoir
who never flew in
to save me.

Teeth grating
I have been hating
everything I ever was
because,

because,

because…

I can’t tell you why
cause now
I don’t feel like
the bad guy
who deserves to die.

This isn’t the greatest story ever told,
more like a garbage truck of bad luck,
with sad black moments sewn in
a swerving line threaded together
till the end of time
where we will find
the hive minds
dining on swollen swine
sipping blood red wine from the vine,
the one called the treasure of the golden sun,
the one for which we crawled and scrawled
useless scribbles of noisy dribble that dripped down
our sad clown faces, taking bits of chipped paint
and exposing our scarred flesh to the fearful crowed.

It is the way of the dead to lay in their bed
as the red wet stain spreads on wrinkled sheets,
as they excrete the remnants of feces,
dying to meet these
sick rotting expectations,
nature’s exploitation of our degenerating state of decay.

At the end of our life we donate this great feast of flesh
to the earth where we are laid to rest.
This is not some sort of sweet slumber
but how we count to the number
which equals nothing.

The unknown equation that some have guessed
while the fearful rest hang back depressed and obsessed
with buying into the very best excuses
to not do the math that help us see through
the illusion of immortality.

A shadow paints the moon,
a minor fleck falls from the lens of the telescope
to let us know the true scope.
I get by, but others fail to cope
with all that the madness of truth implies.

We will all die, and all the flowery words
cannot cover the stench of **** stained drawers
of unopened doors that lead to an infinite world
of what ifs.

The cosmos never forgets
because it never knew one inch of us
and gave the same measurement
of caring intent about our meaningless existence.

do you have moments, where you can’t imagine a future?
you’re lying there, staring at the
same walls
same ceilings
same words
with nothing but the same feelings-
empty and pale,
like there’s no reason to go on,
when you can’t even do enough to fail.
the future is coming, but you don’t want to be in it,
can’t imagine yourself in it.
where you just want to stop.
everything.
and just sit there for a while.
maybe not death, as that’s too permanent,
but something close to it.
when you can feel the rope around your neck,
the razor on your wrist,
the way the pills taste.
you can imagine it, and you aren’t sure if it’s what you want,
or just the feelings you imagine it will give you

Writing wages war on the monsters inside me.
I pierce them with my pen and lay them down to die.

Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.

He lay coughing up
some convoluted construct
of love,

lying about his intent,
investing in
the color of her skin,
the way she would bend
and moan for him,
confessing
her deepest secret
desires on a whim.

She caved
and gave in,
succumbing
to the enslaving
of her will,

believing in
the images he created
to make her naked
in flesh and thought.

She was his  
next great victim.

He was a chameleon,
sweet to violent
in several seconds,

changing her tint
from warm to bruised
then severely crimson
and finally when
the breath of flesh
started failing,

she became porcelain,

and he carried on exploiting
all that was beautiful
for his own profit.

It is not maturity
that decreases my levity
whilst increasing the severity
and frequency
of my seriously souring
disposition.

It is experience
that lessens
the greater qualities.

Draining me
as I cough up
blood and dust.
Till, I cease seeking
the better angels
in all of us.

As I rust
and prepare
to fade
several shades
evaporating
into transparency
escaping as I must.

Because
the inner demons
are doing
the spring cleaning
leaving nothing but
drying mud
intermingling
with what was once living
crimson.

No one gets in.
Steel door locking,
like a point guard blocking,
heart clenching,
gut wrenching,
never connection fixing.

No many splendid
or dependent
love addiction,
no bridge building
or repairing
the broken tokens
I was wearing.

No watching
people leave me,
or stretch the truth
to deceive me.

No defending
lies I long for,
no one gets in
my steel door,

and I never
ever come out.

For some green
is the sweet sight
of life’s seasonal growth,
nature’s lovely note
wrote on a mudball canvass.

For me it is the shimmering grace
that gets caught
in the back of my throat
as I fail to catch my breath,
partially because I am stunned
but also because of my
****** allergies.

However,
for the darker
green things,
creeping,
and consuming
the people using
flat paper bills,
I am filled
with two parts dread,
one part jealousy,
and three parts regrets
for the time I wasted
pursuing a wasteland
of consumer goods.

She was barely sixteen,
out late partying,
and intoxicated
when he came
and violated
her sacred
center.

At first, she resisted
but with his fists
he insisted.
So, stunned numb
she submitted,
laying still as a stone
that sunk
to the bottom
of a lake,
as she was forced
to endure
that horrible ****.

Disgusted and ashamed,
she almost took a shower,
but unfortunately knew
if she wanted to
press charges
she’d have to keep
his ******* fluids.

So, she let them
swab and start collecting
all the samples
they would need
to prosecute.

But at her
court appointed
appearance
it soon became
apparent
that only her parents
cared about justice,

cause the judge was
quite transparent.
Even though,
he made a production
of compassion for
her suffering,
he still let
that rich man's son
off with only a
slap on the wrist,

cause the lawyer told him
he’s just a boy and
he can’t do time in
the prison system,

cause it would ruin him
and it’s not his fault because of
affluenza.

What good would it do
but ruin the lives of two,
after all they had
both been through?

Several weeks
and more than three
pregnancy tests later,
she still felt
the violation
as a remnant of him
began gestating
like and alien
inside of her.

But her church wouldn’t
let her abort the fetus
so, despite the trauma
she had to adapt
to the fact
that she was trapped.

Four weeks later
she went from
at least this life
will need her,
to cold chills,
cramps, and a fever;

From ten to
twenty-two  
pounds gained
then to back down
and even lighter
then when
her pregnancy
began.

She went from
finally accepting
and preparing
to start sharing
her life
with a newborn,
to a ****** expulsion,
nausea, repulsion,
and hiding
said heartbreaking
pain in shame.