the seas endless crescendo,
summer roses,
shadowy inks of the stars.

I have been taught
by those much wiser
and more experienced
that if I am disturbed,
I have in some way
caused the disturbance.
Whether by ignorance
or inaction,
intent or mistake.
I am responsible
for the actions
I take; no one
can "make me"
do or feel anything.

Practice does not make perfect;
practice makes permanent.
Be ****** careful, then,
what you practice.

wordsmithing virus lyric
twisting lines empirically
like British empire builders
treating native speakers
subhuman /
reading worn cliché
daily lamenting regurgitated
form and style
while smiling at the beguiling nature
of multisyllabic structure ~
it’s easy to forget (in a legalization nation)
that the idea of utilizing parentheticals
is really
just using parenthesis  ~
creating space between the artist


                     and
                           the
                                reader


is pretentiousness personified /

it is our job to play Ishmael
and take them with us
not leave them shore bound
watching the speck of sail
slip into the stratosphere ~

come with me
lend me your hand
more importantly your eyes
and an open mind ~

then we can journey
together /

According to the gospel
As the lord and savior traversed the holy land
Preaching the word and showing the light
Speaking with god and devil alike
Speaking love to mankind
It is said
He would find the sick
The suffering of infirmity
He would lay his hands to their skin
And heal them
He would heal them
According to the gospel

My days are long
And I have bruises that don't show on my flesh
Impracticalities that should cause mental maladies
That would help me find the self destruction I fear
And that I fear awaits me
I'm tired when I wake up
And dead through the day
But I feel alive
Every time I put my words to the page
I feel a sage
Whose wisdom is generational
I feel hope

I may be sick
Maybe
I may be a lost and tortured soul unfit to exist
In this existence
Maybe
I may feel pain
I may
And the only disease I know is the brutality of life
Maybe

Poetry heals me
It is the hands in the desert
On the ***** in the cave
It is the words as rain to feed the seed
It is the sprout of a flower
And the bloom
It is my reason
And my religion

It is my gospel

And when the angels sing
If no one else can hear but I can
I'll know of peace
In a world of disarray

a hollow
swinging gourd
the swallow
snatches sustenance
mid-flight

an orchard
cherries rotting
on a mossy lawn
fodder for the
grounded dove

two shells
unhinged
sand erodes truth
the pearl
is an iridescent lie

a fissure
lost river deep
timeless echo
ricochet
repeat

The words are like rope,
wrapped around her neck.
The stares are like blades,
that cut through her wrists.
The laughs are like needles,
that tear through her skin.

But none of that can compare to her mind that is like a gun, the trigger pulled fast and the bullet through her head...
You see that is what had happened.
What left her dead.

-been