There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries, here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
There are monsters
that walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

Clutching a stumbled-on handful
Of my now-obsolete business cards
I fan them like a deck of playing cards
And bitterly weep on them.

They tell me I once had a job
That mattered in the lives of others.
They tell me I was good at it
And never meant to give it up.

But evilness reared up its head
With prejudice and cunning
And finally conjured up a way
To take away my meaning.

I fold the cards into a stack
And put it over to the side-
The tossing out will have to wait
’Til I am stronger than today.
                ljm

There's ether in
the cloud at the
bottom of the hill.
Birthdays come and
go,
and they seal the deal.
Feelings change with
the wind,
but time is real.
It's a thief,
and it likes to steal.

So many human beings
Falling through the cracks of society
Parts of every generation
Simply lost
And as the cracks grow wider
More and more fall through
Falling into despair
They exist
Lost from the rest

And within their lives
They have little of anything
As others seem to have it all
Naturally they grow restless
Believing nothing will change
And the younger angrier ones
Become faithless and lawless
Becoming darkly feral
So many human beings
Lost

                          By Phil Roberts

as a kid
there's nothing
like wasting away inside a tiny
room
sitting on the backrest
of the couch
looking out the window
and seeing her
tread through the rain

a red umbrella covers
her.

Mother

she's going back
to the liquor store

Convolution's coming to the fore', with him
putting rumpettes "...in his Cabinet, Admin.".

But, of cour', when we think the as backwards
crew's in our rearview, their rule reigns.

The world knows they're every moment traitors
for e'er more, and ne'er were nothin' more.

Colluding to collaborating with their destruction
of nation, cannibalizing the pieces,

is treason too, it's not "stopping partisanship",
not "bringing a country together", not "healing",

only hurting, 'I undo the wraps from my
wounded heart', "...we(e),...", are keeping it's

broken pieces from falling apart with, 'covid's
gotta be stopped, gotta save quarter million lives',

'Ossoff and Warnock need us to help GOTV,
donate, to win GA's Senate seats for US',

but, it'll never be the same.  Thought crime
replicating la machine, the show that must, goes on?

Maybe it’s because we want to seem ok
To disregard the hurt and pain that we feel inside on our emptiest days
Maybe it’s because we wish things were different
To have the slightest bit of hope hanging from a thread, intertwined with the aching of our hearts
Maybe it’s because we aspire for change
To long of a time where the universe aligns with our internal clocks and gives us just one last chance.

But maybe it’s because we know that chance will never come
And the burn marks of our inner misery turn into scars we can never ignore
To wear our suffering on our sleeves and let the agony of our existence cloth the rest of us
Maybe it’s because in soul-time we know certain thoughts may never come and lie to rest
To let our daydreams last till nightfall and whisper our deepest desires to the moon.

But when morning comes, the heights of grey turn to yellow, for the sun shall always rise
And we awaken ourselves, returning back to the reality of lies
We look at our reflection, a clear image of our despair
For what we can see may never be of deceit
And our crooked smiles tell the real truth between you and me.

A family of Ravens patrol our valley
nothing happens but they know about it.
Any and all opportunity is taken.
Black witches flying around squawking.
They will fight for food, naturally.
Black feathered shapes across the sky.
Beady eyed deep thinkers, watching.
They may yet peck and pick over my carcass.