I'm losing my focus
so hard to concentrate
my mind is bouncing
like a rubber ball on
glass walls

Everything is weighing on me
like the fact it's been nearly
120 days since I last spoke
to the woman I love without
reservation

Or that I'm struggling
with my close friend
trying to mend the bridge
of the relationship is hard
when she never replies

Or the fact that my addiction
is spiraling out of control
burning me alive and yet
I can't bear to sleep with
a woman since my last

I'm losing sleep even faster
than the US debt is growing
no matter how exhausted i am
I wake up feeling drained
mostly dead

The worst thing about this is
I can't even commit suicide
because I'd rather ****** me
a little each day with the pain
because I hate myself

cracked an elbow making a tackle,
ruptured a kidney throwing a body block;
my less than illustrious football
career curtailed

so I chose to run:
an active verb--organs, bones,
are nouns, things to be damaged,
broken, frozen in almighty time

which slowed my sprint to a
jog, then my jog to a hurried hike
on my arid prairies and around
my wooded lane

where the young neighbors eye
me zipping by, deep in thought--who
is that old man pondering parts of speech?
don't let the children listen to him

for I know they have their own bones
yet to break, their own journey to make,
from fanciful fields of fame, to cruel knowledge
nothing remains the same--nouns decay

I'll keep walking wild as long as I can;
I recall making the last tackle, that final
fated block--those nouns now long gone, and no
adjectives can bring them back

Mud, whiskey, death
and bad debts, the river's
high water, mysterious birds
flying south disappearing
like a youngest daughter,
no good men, bad intentions,
changing seasons, unexplained
pains, all of these are reasons
I've seen good women weeping
after the hardest rains came.

Briar rose, ****** red,
Why do you dream of tangled
vines with thorns?
Briar rose, ****** red,
Why do you dream of the fair
maiden that mourns?
As pearls of winter fall upon you,
-How cruel is this season,
to inflict melancholy just by
freezing your petals in the
eternal swirl of time...

that afternoon,
the boy fried an egg on the sidewalk,
sunny side up

Mother said to waste food was sin,
though she had no qualms about dumping
Daddy's rot gut and gin

while Daddy was comatose
with drink, down the sink she would pour it;
the son knew the ritual well  

tonight was the same, Daddy ******
and couched, Mother cleaning his puke
before the dinner dishes

Daddy wouldn't recall a thing tomorrow,
another day which held mother's silence from fear,
shame--Daddy's from ethanol's eager eraser

Daddy would never know a transformer
blew but a block from their house, leaving
unsettled scores in the dark

or that for once Mother and son
wouldn't have to look at Daddy's hangdog face,
the incandescent haze which bathed it absent,
thanks to a blessing from a blackout
of another sort

Hey, Xavy:
If we're still here
When you get older,
Check out the potholes on my street;
Are we still planting telephone poles,
Accusing animals for sky blue holes?
Are there tourists in S.E. Asia;
Did Manhattan disappear?

Are people dying with different bodies,
Still thinking with their transplanted heads?
Do we build schools, did the shootings stop?
Is work still measured by the clock?
Do well-heeled shepherds still manage flocks?
Have you seen our  fingers evolve,
Does anyone listen to voices at all?

When you get there, Xavy,
Take a look.
Did they heed the Richter scales,
The geo-thermal warnings,
The snow caps' warmings?
Does wildlife drink from Winter's brooks,
Is the soil capable of growth,
Does Spring herald re-birth?

Your spirit is indomitable.
No problem insurmountable.
Denial is unintelligible,
The sacrifice regrettable,
But no other choice acceptable.
And the legacy left remarkable.

Ah, Xavy, What I would give to be a small part of your unfolding world.
But I've got to go.
All the Best.
Granda

I fell headlong into
the depths of her
captivating deep
blue eyes,

Now I'm drowning
in the endless sea of her
unquenchable expectations.

truth can be twisted
and often is
around serpents tongues

it can be ugly, faced with your animal
that part of you in the dark
the you that stalks its wants.

People live everyday
casing sirens of the past
piling a sequenced future
finding love that responds

People live everyday
jollying of the eventualities
forecasting the unseen pastures
surpassing pain and it's entities

Since a toddler I died
a death so painful and suppressing
in dark tunnels with flashing lights
beckoning me to walk on thorny paths

On those young years
a death that tortured the flesh for so long
striking spirit , piking, mimicking
strolling the soul , peaking,panicking

These days I don't even exist
I wake up a slave and merry in limits
wondering what they found on earth
hunting and making exits here and there