We were merely mortal men
before you wrote the wars
that squeezed lemons from gems.

We were acid tip tongues that spit
every type of liquid that was poisonous.

We were the pit you put petted vipers in.

Then when you could have
elevated better men
you made us demi gods
whilst naming honest people frauds.

I'm in love
with a lie
that is older than me,

and a hope
that is younger
than
the most recent spring;

Not a parroted dream
but a queen
of deep schemes
that parses out wisdom
and better poems
than me.

I'm in love
with a drug
that I create
everyday,
not pill
that some take
but the thoughts
that make
my mind great,

and the shadows
that I see
make me want
to believe
there is something
greater out there
that is in love with me.

She told me that
she flirted playfully,
inebriated,
eyelids heavy with sleep
from the drinks,
and the Benadryl
plus, the melatonin
that he gave her.

Then he laid her
gently down
while she barely stirred
and made no sounds
other than the shallow
breaths of slumber.

He took her pants,
slipped her underwear
to the side
so, he could slide
inside
while she slept.

I wept with rage
as tears threatened
to consume my face.

She continued the tale;
Told me of how when she awoke
she did not move
or speak up
cause she was afraid,
and because
she was used to
being used up
that way.

A thousand mile away
I heard her say
all those things.

Then she said
he was coming over again.
That he knew better now,
and he was her only friend.
I was crushed.

I felt I had abandoned her
when she needed
someone to talk to;

But we are long distances buddies.
There was no way
I could just up
and walk to
her house to hang out.

So, alone in a world made of
shadows that say they love her,
then hurt her
she pardons each assault
bares each ****** insult
and heads back in
to the lion’s den
to risk said pain
just to have a friend
who isn’t
a thousand miles away.

She wears no hair
but multi-colored
plumage
around her *******
and over her
womanhood.
A scaled tail
swings swiftly
back and forth
in the
sparkling infinite
whilst black bat
leathery wings
allow her
to slow the
inevitable
descent
into a
watery darkness.

The air becomes
a thick and
burning liquid
heavy with
ionic energy.

She moves fluidly
in this mercury
piercing
the puddle
with her
fast flicking finger.
Silver ripples
work their way
from within
to without.

A soft figure
falls in
the firmament,
till the ether
tightens around her
forming a bubble.

Oily rainbows
bend and swirl
in sick distortions
that are reflected
upon the slippery surface.

The black water below
cracks and separates
leaving her to face
another cosmic creature,
a hungry hole
vast and black.

A permeable chasm
of nothing
draws her
entire being
down into
the chaos.

Then she bends
with the fierce force
of gravity,
pulled and elongated
stretched, and separated,
screaming in agony
as she is shredded
faster then
the speed of light.

In this entropy
my dear dream
dies
a horrid death,
of meaninglessness.

This is not pain
nor is it a verse
made for complaints.
It is merely a moment,
set in refrain
that occasionally
echoes
inside of my brain.

Time to die,
let it go,
nothing matters
entropy grows,
moments pass
and will not
come back.

So, let the flesh
become itself,
let my consciousness
recede from want
and need,
let the rot seed
the world we see
and let me
finally, be free
eternally.

Exclaims the fool
please let me rest
in peace.

My dreams are painted clean
Tucked and trimmed by a sewing machine
My mother's face is wrinkle free
And smiling for eternity.

My father's voice is soft and kind
My brother's eyes are sparkling blind
My sister's arm is thick and strong
My family line is clean and long.

My pencil fertile, conscious itself
Collecting brilliance without my help
My headache gone, my nostrils clear
Breathing sea air gushing near.

Inspiration well stocked, character for sale
My clothes well spun like a handmaid's tale
Garden promise behind shut doors
This is what my dreams are for.

Sing to me what you wish and curse,
in a choir or solo verse.
Scribble down A poem or rhyme,
i’ll give it all of my time.
Sculpt and carve me your heart,
with all its many complex parts.
Paint me all that you dream,
the simple or thee extreme.
Draw me things of what you fear,
or what you hold close and dear.
Speak openly about your thoughts,
all that you seek and all you sought.
Suggest it in A metaphor,
so I can envision what you saw.
Act it out in A scripted story,
so I can marvel at what’s before me.
Write it like A biography,
so I may behold your odyssey.
Free hand me how it is you feel,
so I can see something that’s real.
Be yourself come as you were,
that’s the you that I prefer.

The code is
encrypted
in the concrete
that has been
stained
dried crimson.

All that was in them
leaking out and about
dripping deep
dna markers.

The secret harkens
back to
the history
that birthed you.

Each chain
like a strand in
lonely islands
drifting in an ocean
of strange history.

Each particle
plugged in
its proper place
to become
part of your face.
or another attribute
that is uniquely you.

To take away
that code
would unglue
the truth.

It would rescind
the parts that
grow and mend
allowing us
to break
and remake
again
and again.

The spiral
spins in,
around,
and under
your skin.

Atoms
to cells
tissues
to organs.

Though,
such wonders grow
grand and beautiful beings,
It is only of passing fancy.

Tomorrow
it might be
the poetry of
space that makes
my thoughts swim.

A ***** yellow tarp
tries to cover up
an old piano,
but the wind
exposes
little ornate roses
that someone left
to mourn
the player
who has
succumbed to death.

The ivory keys
are cracked
and caked
with a thin layer
of dust.

No one has touched
this once treasured
instrument
in over a year.

In silence
the ebony keys
plead
to be played
just one more time.

But no one cares enough
to clean and caress
the keys
with the love
that each of these
things deserve.

No one remains
who ever heard
the elderly lady
finger out
the old gospels
she played for her church

The wooden frame
breaks with the waste,
wanting the compassion
of music,
for someone to use it.

For the soft flesh
of the young grandson’s
bare chest
as he leaned in,
letting it feel
the wonderment
that radiated from him
as he sat in awe
of the majesty of it all.

But the player is dead,
and the little boy has moved on.

He will only recall
the grandeur of it all
in dreams and poetry.