She told me what he did.
How he slid
his fingers
inside of
her,
how he pushed
and grinded her,
despite the pleas,
how he stopped her
when she tried to flee.

After the confession
I felt the fog of fury
consume me.

I set loose
my rage
and scarred his face
with scores
of scratches
and deeper cuts.

I slid my blade
inside his gut
and saw bits
and chunks
of vital organs
dribble
from
the gaping wound.

What fun to see
this dark adult
gasp and bleed
flapping like
a fish
grasping
for the ocean’s embrace.

With serial killer efficiency
I cleaned the crimson stained cutlery
and left him there to stare blankly
at the concrete.
Then I burnt my cloths
and wrote this note
for you to find
when I die.

It is a dream of colors
working in the real world
while I walk to work.

I look in to the water
and see a cool pool
of aquatic colors
clear to blue
and whatever
tint or hue
that swims or sinks
into my view
or merely lies underneath
this wet sheet.

I walk along the sidewalk
seeing cement gray,
wooden brown,
and grassy green,
falling behind me.

Red brick buildings,
and one poor onyx
colored car
with a black tape bandage
to match the
paint job.

One pale poetic friend,
and one brown skinned
friendly stranger.

One cloudless sky,
turquoise
then turning to
the darker night hue.

And journey’s end
find me soaking in
rain water
that becomes
a reflecting pool
of everything
I am looking at.

Female, male, Homosexual,
Genderqueer, Pansexual,
Transgender, Bisexual,
there is wonder in
the fluctuations
of identity’s observations.
Hunger swelling
desire blooming
then in a sated state
receding
no longer needing
****** fulfilling.
A curiosity
how such complexities
reveal humanity’s variety.
Not to be feared or hated
but celebrated and elevated
for the chance to see
something different from you and me
cause life is boring
without the beauty of novelty.

In emotional agony
one or many more times
I melted my own flesh,
pressed glowing orange thin
lit cigarette tips down on my skin
to prove I was
strong enough
to bare the pain,
but ended up
really proving
how weak I was.
Outer dermis mutilated.
Hot ashes flicked away
after the self-inflicted pain game
and adding to this strangeness is
that I didn’t even smoke cigarettes.

Anger is not a
sustainable source of fuel.
It is far too combustible,
and dangerously volatile.
It will either burnout
or blowup in your face.

The silent light
circles the
dark blue
clouded night
sweeping gently
across the buildings
that bulge and burst
up from
this concrete kingdom
as they scrape the sky
searching for some
tower of Babylon
kind of meaning.

This dismal day
dulls my emotions
in favor of
some distant
tv visions
that I used to love.