I am data driven,
taking in
information
all the time.

Spewing
pretty but
polluted
perspectives.

Looking for
new directions,
and mind blowing
paradigms.
Then changing them
with the changing times.

More books,
audio, paper,
digital, hard bound.

More shows,
and music
so I can use it
for my own artistic
development.

Keeping going.
No settling
or finally letting
the sediment
under the water
stop moving.

I need constant
electrical currents,
cause if I slow down
then I will have to
face the sound of my
own unsettling thoughts.

Even though, I know that a
multiplicity of alternate realities
is not a certainty but has a minor probability;
I have an affinity for infinity and eternity
with all the weird entities therein.

If time is linear
then any human error
becomes inevitable
when the time is here
and gone.

Sorrow spilt silk streams,
thin lines of pain falling.
They are like old fuzzy dreams,
tiny inklings, hints to a puzzle
that I’m not trying to solve.

A spark of a memory
which I no longer recall,
a place in my brain
I don’t visit at all,
but once in a while
a shadow creeps
from the closets that keep
little pieces, jagged edges,
sharp parts of my heart
that have been shattering
for as long as I have been
living in this cruel world.

Tears come but I disregard,
hit reset so I can restart.
After all I’ve come so far,
too many miles to be hindered
by the chains of a ghost
I don’t want to remember.

Like a frozen dead bird
that refuses to rot,
just sits under permafrost,
I hope I never thaw
because spring will bring
all the sorrows of lonely.

You go on living,
keep on working
while I am giving
all the poetry I have,
all the jokes to
make everyone laugh.

But, I suspect
that we won’t connect.

I don’t want to ask,
but why don’t you
love me like I
love you.
Please come here,
please go away.
I feel so isolated.
Please leave me be.
I am happy with
my own misery.

So, I know
where I follow
you will never go.

I want to reveal myself,
share strange stories and relate
to those who suffer the same,
even though I am doing great.

You’re inspiring and beautiful.
I am inquiring about your youthful
passions,
passing certain questions
asking about shared obsessions.
You go out into the world
and really live in it,
while I want to see life
and write brilliantly about it.

Maybe, someday you will read,
feel and see all the things
that I tried to share.
I won’t be there
and I suspect
that even if
we do connect
it will be
far too late for me
to see.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

She's a protester
not a warrior
but something
so much better,
a singer song writer
a warm and brighter
lamp that keeps us
from succumbing
to the mind numbing
dullness with which
greedy men try to use
to **** our muse,
and give us the blues.

I abhor a bore
Don’t you?
I’d adore some more
Thank you.
                ljm

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.

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.