We are displaced
by pain’s past,
a place where
black roses bloomed.

Where sorrow was groomed,
but between
the waxing moons
there were small smiles,
light laughter
hugs, love, and
stories.

Though shadows came
soft kindnesses
kept madness at bay
with bright interludes
breaking through
shaking the core of who
we thought we were
and who we want to be.

Presently, I visit shade
to see the sun above the leaves,
to see the light shimmering
in small rain puddles that pool
in the streets by my old school
in the cool springtime afternoons.

The pain is a permanent companion
but through those tinted mirrors
of bruises and verbal assaults,
I see a sunny side of sanity
the goodness inside of me,

and in time
even the shadows become a pleasant
memory.

It is time for a mellow ride
To the musical side
Of this temperamental
Dark life

Last night the truth was in the bottle. It may be a tad bit cliché, but the stripping away of my cognitive functions was a relaxing endeavor. Okay, there’s nothing cliché about that last sentence. Still, there I was past the crowded living room, cluttered with soda cans and people, past the small kitchen and the three guys playing cards, past the three wine coolers sipped through a straw, and the mixed drinks, pass all that there was the truth.
Dropping the regular essence of me, I slid behind the idiot clown. I tripped and stumbled, babbled and mumbled. My emotions unguarded, I spewed love almost as much as I spewed chunks of a greasy sausage pizza with little chewed up black olives. It was fun. One moment of not thinking. One moment of not dealing with the concrete and the abstract, the struggles and oppressions, my realistic paranoia and dark observations. I plopped limply down on the couch then slid off the side of it jokingly. The ground shuddered with a soft thud.  My friends laughed. I laughed. The truth is I like the sound of innocent laughter. It is a relief. All those synapse spitting out calming fluids. Till, what little stress that was left disappears.

     Before that the truth was in caffeine induced writing frenzies. There were small interludes of creativity swirling around dark depressive moods. I pushed and prodded the black keys as if I was chipping away chunks of stone on a marble sculpture; exposing myself and my truths.

     Someone told me that to be a great writer doesn’t require me to suffer. I thought it’s a good thing they’re not mutually exclusive, because the truth is I was suffering long before I started to write. The doubt which comes from learning more and more bled me to the verge of insanity. Maybe it was vanity that pushed me to seek the truth.

     Before that the truth was in quiet walks. The strolls down old dirt paths and memory lanes, crossing the mental traffic of past and present. I lingered at the jagged grey sparkling stone markers, sitting on newly grass covered plots, just hanging out at the graveyard because it was quiet. I wasn’t some emo kid. The truth was that I just preferred the quiet. It was the same reason I raced through the day to get to the night. Night was as nonjudgmental as the pine infested graveyard. No harsh sun glaring down. No strangers staring at me until I had to turn my head to the ground. The truth was the quiet, and the quiet was liberating.

      Before that the truth was in books. Kernels of wisdom locked in works of fiction. Little leather bound universes creeping in and transforming my mind.  Now, I prefer biographies; back then I loved the fantasies. Though in truth all nonfiction is fiction, because all reality is perceived relatively and written thusly. So, I stashed book in my back pack and back tracked down old alley ways to read away the lonely days. I sat in those dark corners, the dusty gravel biting my big bubble ****, but I was there for the quiet.

      Before that there was science. Beakers and Bunsen burners burning out atoms, and chlorophyll. I never really felt I had a talent for their postulates or formulas. Yet their subtle certainty, mired in uncertainty was appealing. They offered ever evolving truths. The strange transition from one logical position to the next and I was willing to adapt to any new facts.

      Before that there was god. I was his egotistically elevated idiot child. I could converse with adults on their level because in this they were as juvenile as I was; those ancient books that no longer make sense to me. Then it was the emotion of loving unearned certainty. The comfort of cowering beneath the awe and love of an all-powerful and all-knowing father figure, I called it the truth.

      Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, cause a life’s worth of anxiety was hounding me the truth was in the music. Soft sounding syllables serenading me to sleep, moving to the rhythm of a calmly flowing beat. The music gave me something to focus on. It was a converging point to calm the chaos. Once in a while the music would play out some story or point out some struggle. My Tracy Chapman that was the truth.

       Sleep was preferable to the waking madness of daily living. So, if I was tired I slept. People used to make me feel guilty about it. However, I realized that sleep healed the body and the mind. Sleep let me dream. Dreams let me do things beyond reality. They directed me to grand fantasies, or pointed out painful truths about myself. I could wake up crying, or I could go to bed sad and wake up content. That was the truth.  

       In-between all these things I pondered relative and certain truth. Was it constant or changing based on perception? People passed, none returned. I got older. Now my teeth are starting to rot right out of my face, but I still devour information; listening to the wild tales of strangers. Sometimes, I trust too much, other times I trust no one.

      The truth is I exist, amidst whatever this existence is. Beyond that I cannot clearly define this reality. What is the truth?

For wisdom and knowledge
For understanding and compassion
I sold the fire of who I was
Saw soul’s light expire
In my fervent desire
To be better
Acquiring and inspiring
Art
At the expanse
Of my own happiness
Looking through to
The human heart of darkness
To help create
A collective lamp
That burns brighter and better
Then this dark bitter sun
And though I will never know
Such a sweet world
From my lonely mountain top
You will know
I love you all

Good men are slaves
to a system
that has them
trying to stay strong,
trying to pay rent,
to feed moms,
and their children.

They do the wrong thing
because they need money
for food, cloths, shelter
for car insurance,
for maintenance, and
for medical emergencies.

So, the goodness,
We would like to see
gets buries out of
necessity.

Kind hands
become calloused tools
and the hardworking man
dies at the plant,
were other good men
are struggling the same
with some minor variations.

No cell phone allowed
so I feel naked,
with just my notepad and pen,
back to the boring bank.
I am blocked by boredom
and for a while
all I see are blank faces.

“Would you like to add
a backup account to prevent
overcharges.”

Rain falling, black umbrella bobbing
like a limping parasol trying to escape
this mundane storm.
Not allowed to talk to the customers
for more than casual pleasantries.

“I have twenty calls to make
but they are the same people.”

Stranger in a black Toyota
parks in poor pools that reflect
the same cold dreariness
of this security shift work.

“She just walks in my office
while I am on the phone
trying to make my quotas.”

Balding ginger with a white streak
that cuts across his small beard
looks as tired as I feel.
Two grandmas hug and talk about
the same grandchild.
White paint covered man
comes in a with a wide grin,
and good greetings.

“I’m so tired of fake smiling.
Did you see the Lip Sync battle?
What are you reading?”

My fidgeting fingers ******
the notepad in my coat pocket.
I slip it in and out taking notes
on the people that come and go.
It is good for me to be without my phone,
but like an addict I am itching for
a distraction.

“Quiz me. I sort of passed.
Missed a few so  
I have to do an onsite test.
You know you can add
a checking account for free.
You only have fifty left in.
Do you want to deposit that?”

I bank each stranger.
saving them for later
racking up interest
in my interest of humanity.
I bank them in my little
red book, so I can write
about my basic observations.

“Where are you from?
Hey, where are you from?”

Oh me, nowhere important.
I am just a banker of stories.
Do you have one?

Today I battle
my own negativity
the dark side of
my moon
glowing cold
in the sear
of burns
those little
inflamed live
scars receiving
the salt
of tears
that I gather
in opaque blue
and indigo-hues
in the privacy
of the soft spaces
in the drawers
of my heart
little aches
that grow
as the hours
get smaller
little quakes
on low
in emotions'
faded squalor
and as I plunge
over that
spiritual abyss
draw in my
knees, let the
winds brush
my lips
in a mocking
lovers'  kiss
and try to catch
that beating mass
as it bursts
right through
my chest,
in broken slips
of shattered
glass
I tell myself
in whispers
"No, warrioress!
This time
you will not
be destroyed"
and I fling
my heart,
so bruised
into the
burning,
golden
void

We are star stuff recycled over and over again.
You are a reflection and an injection
of all the stars, cosmic junk, and other stuff
that cluttered space. Your pale face
wears billions of years of history.
Your eyes that watch the heavens
were once that which burnt the brightest
in the heavens.
Your heart pulses like the particles in pulsars,
which now constitute the core of your being

So, when we die, when the sun collapses
and all our mass is ****** in and spewed out,
I hope my particles play with yours.
I hope our atoms give birth to a new universe.
Let our being be together in purple clouds
that cross the cosmos singing song of static
in infinity
swirling in a universal dance.
Let me orbit you as my heart is want to do;
Even, if your molecules would rather
orbit another.

I should be so blessed
That if the best
Thing that happens
To me
Is that when I die
I am remembered
For a short while
While my words
Impact humanity
deeply

I hope when the stage lights soften
And my body chills
As the energy eases out
Of my old man frame
That I am with the people I love
Joking, and smiling
Till I am unable to do anything
At all

I am a river of longing
Swerving and changing
Draining myself
Into your desirous ocean
While you evaporate
Swelling the bodies
Of other oceans, seas,
Lakes, rivers, and tributaries
Leaving little love left for me

I could not find the words
To fulfill the fullness of this thought.
I could not bare to forgo
The wonders we both know
If such a thought was lost
So while you went on
I waited in this song
Searched for the precise way
To express what I wanted to say
Now you to are gone
And I might have been wrong
Lollygagging around
Looking for the perfect sound
While everyone else
Has moved on

The cross stich of humanity
Is too complicated to be comfortable
Complexity and uncertainty
Unimaginably inevitable
Unless one is blind with fear
Or merely comfortably ignorant