The percolator didn't percolate,
The grounds became stale,
My clay colored mug remains empty.
As empty as my soul and my stomach
O! Will the World quit not why it haunts me?
Torments me?
Teases and jests me?
No amount of Glory or Faith or Starbucks
Can ever hope to soothe
the aches in my belly,
and balm my heart,
and In warmth enrapture cerebral fluids
Yet to awaken from droggy musings.

He has risen from the fiery wreckage.
Out of the sunroof and onto the highway.
Around him a blur, frozen in time are the medics, the smell of burning flesh, firemen, cries (cry).
                       "DID I CAUSE THIS?"
He questions as he stumbles over the rusted metal guard rail.
Tumbling down the small hill into the watery, polluted ditch that reeked of sewage and micro-organisms spawning and breeding in stench and refuse his eyes look up.
To the image of Christ- hands posed in prayer, robed in ethereal white-
                       "DEAR LORD-"
He begins only then noticing the horns and pitch fork decorating the graffitied mural on the side of the abandoned train car.
                       (FATHER, SON, AND THE HOLY SP-)
"I've fooled you,"
The spray painted relic booms,
"You thought you had won? HAH! You've sold your soul. Idiot. It is in my possession. Right here in your own personal HELL. Locked up in this train. For always and eternity."
The man cringed and something in him broke.
He touched the wound an inch to the left of his sternum
                      "FUCKFUCKFUCKFU-"
He watched the contortion on the Devil's face (hark! The herald angels sing) as he laughed at his misfortune.
Eyes heavy, (glory) clothing half crusted with grime, mouth (to the) ajar,
The man stands up and trudges back to his crippled car, slides through the shattered glass crystals, menacing, back into the drivers seat (new born)
And falls asleep.
Inhaling the ever-present smoke.
(King)
*Hallelujah.

The air feels fake.
Fictional even, when that tightness in my chest occurs.
Slick smokey and black fingers lurk
From the corners of any minuscule space I happen to be in
And creep, and lurch, and crawl towards me.
They drown out the light and **** up the oxygen.
Coal-colored tendrils,
Petrifying sea anemones,
Anatomical autonomous anomalies...
Awful.
I sit paralyzed.
My control comes in the form of doorways.
                                                       ­  Or windows.
                                                               Or room to move my arms.
But these creatures deny me the satisfaction of control,
                                                        ­                           of space,
                                                                ­                        of air.
Synthetic winds fill my body, rapidly, as if I can't get enough.
Shutting my eyes does not help.
It only enhances the sensation of them gripping my arms,
Strapping me down and maneuvering their way down my throat.
Churning my stomach and stopping the expansion of my lungs.
Each bronchial synapse screams.
Every AVM feels like it might burst and fill my lungs with thick blood.
Choking.
The fingers are stuck and tickling my esophagus and they burn,
Like ash from a funnel tunneling through me scorching my organs.
Behind buzzing hummingbird eyelids
Are kaleidoscopic misfitting jigsaw pieces
entering, appearing, disappearing, e x  i   t    i     n      g.
It won't end
It won't end
Itwon'tend
The world is ending all around and the arms and fingers won't
(gogogo go GO)
back to the corners whence they came
Until...

…….. What I am.

I am a hydra. When one head is cut off, two more grow in its place. I transform my pain into a new rebirth.

I am straining against my own skin, muscles stretch with the urgency that is clear cut and precise.

I am the urgency to take what I have, and can experience in this godforsaken and forgotten universe of awe inspiring mayhem and miracle and make it concrete with the words that spill from the tips of my fingers.

I am a writer. And a philanthropist. And a politician. And a needy, clingy, greedy, charitable, independent, WALKING CONTRADICTION.

I am a female.

I am all man’s desire in one tight body with the perfect mixture of two parts intellectual prowess, two parts sexuality, a sprinkle of desire, a dash of tongue, and a pinch of sarcasm to taste.

But, I am no Wife of Bath. She who gives life to 14th century anti-feminism. No, that’s not me.

I am self-evident and self-sufficient.

I am not some docile flower picker in a field of yellow nor am I frolicking.

I spit fire and breathe rage and seek alabaster truth.

Dusty hallways framed in Victorian fashion and front porches coated in soggy leaves are my hunting grounds where the scent of recently burned cigar lingers and the nostalgia of tomorrow sets in.

And I am inclined to reach out, not with palms wide so as to let moments slip through my fingers, but with hands gently cupped as if to catch the verses as they fall from experience and observation.

I am the bringer of emotion: unequivocal tantrums, unstoppable tears, and unrelenting sighs. But also palpable joy, vocalized calm, and requited love.

I want what I cannot have. Simple pleasures great desires and all things in between.

I drink black coffee and let the sour taste sit in the back of my throat while the warmth fills me from the roof of my mouth to my womb. I am dependent on this bitter sweet liquid, my heart beats quicker, thundering in my eardrums. I am high on the insanity I feel. I am not calm unless I am under stress, teetering on the tip of a needle pin pointing turmoil trespassing in my mental terrace.

I am always the same, consistently changing like Siddhartha’s faces in the river.

I am enlightened though it has taken hundreds of years of war and peace and flux and stagnation and pride and envy and wrath and sloth and gluttony and greed and lust but I am humble in these and others though I am far from free of them.

I am tired. Not just of body though there is much of that. But of mind and soul. I am tired of yearning for the urn and the nightingale. Thinking causes me misery.

I am misery, I am what keeps people up at night remembering sullen pasts and dreaming up realities that will never come into existence, never made, never fertilized, never solid.

I am what touches the deepest corners of your night stained thoughts, of your dreamlike nooks and crannies, I seep into you and spread to your bloodstream I am here, I am there, I am everywhere, and you cannot get rid of me.

I am in love with the universe! Although … I don’t think she loves me back. But the universe is for me, and so is everything else.

I am off topic…

Does any of this even resonate with you? Without you… who am I?
Without you I am none of this.

With you- I expand horizons by shrinking them down to the width of a page! With you! Only with you!

Let it be know what I am…

I am a POET.

For every second I spend weepin',
Father Time he comes a-sweepin',
To put things in order, things in place,
To wipe the tears right off my face.

If only you could trust the time,
You would accept my choice of crime.
My selfish want: To put first- Me,
Above all else, just simply free.

Though I'm no longer yours for keepin',
In my heart, it still lay creepin',
My only regret: The certain haste,
Out of my Mind, my Heart has chased.

Fear not, however, you live in rhyme,
Like blissful days far past their prime.

For every second I spend weepin',
Father Time he comes a-sweepin'.
To put things in order, things in place,
To wipe the tears right off my face.

If only you could trust the time,
You would accept my choice of crime.
My selfish choice: To put first- Me,
Above all else, just simply free.

Though I'm no longer yours for keepin',
In my heart, it still lay creepin',
My only regret: The certain haste,
Out of my Mind, my Heart has chased.

Fear not, however, you live in rhyme.
Like blissful days far past their prime.

My dearest Rocky,
You were too old.
Too old to chase after that mischief of mice.
But you were not to be halted.
And in return,
Hind legs destroyed.
Cut up and sewn together
In crisscross fashion.
Once a lazy *******,
Then a lethargic moribund mutt.
(But still a *******)
On your last leg, (or two) in a literal sense.
You dumb dog.
You balding, simple-minded scoundrel.
Christmas came and Christmas went.
A feast of elegance at your disposal.
Any indulgence you desired.
We bequeathed, as a last goodbye.
Brisket, frozen cream, pastries and more.
Up until the day, our eyes became sore.
One last car ride- One last roar.
One last breeze through your jowls.
Your clacking stomps and palsy-walsy howls,
Echo even now when I walk through the door.
Now silent and still, turned to ash and dust
I hope you’re herding that memory of elephants,
And leading that pride of lions,
In your infinite dream.
And remembering those who you brought joy.
But especially,
The one who carried you
Upstairs to bed
Every night.
I love you still, and always will.
Good boy, *******, good boy.