Our city lights,
however small in comparison,
nullify the countless Stars
of the wondrous night Sky.

Perhaps
this is analogous to how
things that seem to be
so very close,
so very small,
so very benign,
so very familiar,
so very attainable;
things of our conscious creation;
can preclude even the very awareness
of far greater,
far more beautiful,
far more powerful things;
both external and internal;
both transient and eternal;
and why we must
take great care
and
act with great tact
and
act with immense respect
if
we, as mortals:
curators of reality;
are to be trusted
with such effervescent potency.

She lives alone in a rented pigeonhole
with a lone window forbidden from sky
her skins now a parched scroll
in her eyes no more sparks’ fly!

In that april shadow as she stood at the stair
she looked an absurd ghost from faraway time
the world moved on but little did she care
rested her beauty cocooned sublime!

From across years looked her ethereal face
as if she knew the question haunting me
enough to shatter her fragile happiness

why you never did marry!

Perhaps I had my fill in that first moon crush
when my caged heart was dreaming to be free
pierced her words the evening hush

*one love was enough for me.

Last night your bedroom was tattoo-parlor-red…

You were a relentless *** machine
and your Alex Esguerra painting was knocked from the wall
during our rough housing. I found it
broken behind the bed
when I was looking for my second sock…
the other sock was still in my hand when I woke.

I love the way you always fall asleep diagonally
across the bed, so that
I lie awake, contorted and trying to figure out a way
to fit comfortably and proportionally
into your sprawling unconsciousness.

Yesterday, I loved your morning countenance;
void of expression
as you looked down your nose at the coffee press.
Your upper lip rested heavily on the lower, which seemed
immovable, that I’m not sure it will ever change.
It was too tired to be a pout and
I couldn’t look away –
so I must have loved it.

In the throws of passion last night,
you moaned that I made you sick to your stomach. I asked
if it was because I was too far inside you. You said,
“you’re always too far inside me.
That’s why you make me sick.”
And then you came and
rolled off of me.

I woke with only one leg in my jeans,
my mouth was coated with body paint,
and my chest was clawed into military ranks
by your flesh filled nails.

My other leg was propped on top
of an old pine blanket box at the foot of your bed
and my right arm was folded behind me
and numb. So I threw a sweatshirt over my shoulder –
I think it belonged to your old boyfriend, the one
you made the Esguerra painting with –
and I walked out of your flat leaving the door open.
Your cat slipped out behind me and
followed me downstairs to the sidewalk.
I didn’t care.

I sat blankly staring at Sweet’N Low packets
under a newspaper rack at the coffee shop on the corner,
holding my mug for what seemed like
an eternity of suspended animation –
the grip on it’s handle was the only thing
that connected me to the planet.

My eyes held that same lack of expression as yours did, but
my lips were parted so that air could
flow freely in and out if it
became necessary.

Sitting lost in state, it occurred me, that
I deeply and authentically affect you
and it has nothing to do with *******.

Your boyfriend’s sweatshirt was a size too big for me
and I could tell he wore Creed –
I saw a bottle of it on the toilet tank. It’s redolence
clashed with the aroma of roasting coffee and
I was startled from stasis.

So I left, walking out to a cacophonous city, where
the sun had just exploded over the horizon,
and I smiled into its blinding brilliance.
As the door squeaked closed behind me to a snap,
I looked to the right for a moment,
then turned left.
I had no idea where I was walking to and started
blithely swinging my arms
as I accelerated my gait.

I still had my sock in my hand.
And your cat is probably dead.

mercy-
left town
on a late night train-
running again
with no place left to go

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
don't come knocking
'round my door
-anymore

mercy-
I need mercy-
I need some more

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
where she's gone
i don't know

-mercy.

r ~ 9/14/14

I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue

my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills

a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.

do  it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.

was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.

come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower

warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?

defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.

simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.

Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.

Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.

my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.

hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.

poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.

Let me not to the intuit of true poetry
Cast aspersions. Art is not art
When it conceit finds,
Or bends with public senses
To be misused:

Oh, no! Tis an unfinished tome,
Of written prose fixed on ink and stone,
A beacon for generations to behold
Spoken for itself
And never owned.

Verse and prose yield not
To times whims,
Though ink stained digits
Decay within
Her sickled blade
Reduceth all to dust.

Our compulsion alters not
With her frigid certainty
But endures it out, even
To the edge of eternity.

   If this timeless effort 'folly,'
   And upon me proved,
   I have never lived
   Nor no one ever
   Truly mused.

~~~

~

Marching in the parade of fools
Trumpets blare and leading the pack
Nothing more than a dreamer, dreaming
Looking for the next day
The next step in this life
That sometimes seems worth it
And sometimes doesn’t

Feeling the pain of every saddened heart
Taking the weight upon my shoulders
Wishing to bring peace
Though often told I can’t know this pain
That I fit this parade perfectly
No one wants my help
But still I offer a hand

A deep lover of love…a believer that is comes
Waiting with a fragile heart
Too much understanding for my own good
Some one who can see but often wishes he couldn’t
A sponge, learning, absorbing, wanting
A white knight often with a tarnished shield

Unhappy with what I am, not who I am
Concerned about what I will become
But never fearing of death
That is another parade I know I will participate in
Tossing confetti in hopes
I am remembered, one way or the other
Nothing much...nothing more than

me…in a poetic nutshell

Have your bad day.
I'll be either strong enough
For us both, or
Weak with you.

These are the times
Of butterflies and honeydew,
Adventure and laughter,
******* of the kind

That makes the left side of
Grown men numb.
Popcorn and sofa cinema,
Good days and some not so.

Go ahead. Have your bad one.
It comes with the package,
And I don't need you to be tear-
Free, to love you.

Stain my best shirt.
Worry me with a frown.
Cry me an ocean of tears, be
Afraid that I'll leave, shake
If you must, with your every fear.
Just don't ever believe that
I'll drown.

Have your bad day, princess.
Have a year of them.
Just make me aware of them.
I'm the knight in white at
Your side to stay.
Challenge me;
I need scores of dragons
To slay.