I made
a beautiful space
in the corner
of my shade,

turned venom
into lace
and raced away
from your hate,

swirled quicksand
with my tired hands,

petted pretty vipers
that hissed,
slithering
to where I stand,

chased fireballs
that were ready
to consume me.

I pursued
my own agony,
bit my tongue
to taste
my own blood,
then spit it out
not in spite
but to watch
the red grow.

I wept in
the spider’s den
embedded in
a cloud of webbing.

I slept in
the sinking ship
that fell into
the cold underwater
abyss.

I lay afraid
to move
and died in
the infinite
eternal
black
that was once
beautiful,
until
it collapsed
and took
all the warmth
I ever had
back.

In lines of age
we find a trace
of history,

weathered responses
that come to haunt us
as we are weighed down
by all the gravity
that we have found
in this life,

creases of flesh
molded to express
all of time’s
presence.

We earn each line
with perseverance
resisting death’s
determination.

Until, the end
when death finally
takes its revenge
and wins.

Bets placed
eternity takes
all the wrinkles
on our face,
and turns them to rot
and decay.

We are all
improbable,
impossible people,
preceding
all the things
we needed
to exist,
our ingredients,
our history.

We are
a culmination
of struggles
beyond
our imagination,
wasting
the faith
we place in
religion
and politicians.

We are
crazy,
lazy,
stupid,
violent,
destructive,
devastated,
prostrate­d
to the things
that should be hated,
fools
that fly
so high
on the shoulder
of older giants.

We are
beautiful
creative,
a spark
that made it
this far.

We are
born to fall.

I did not
go quietly
into the
dark night,

but willfully
astonishing
all who ever
looked inside.

Bigger and better
built within,
well intentioned
and well written,

I moved among
you,
talked
and learned from you,
begged and pleaded
for more decency.

So, when time
finally came for me
I did not go quietly.
I went lonely.

How fast my favored fuel
of rage burns,

pushing me to
ascend higher then
most humans do,

but not in the pursuit
of materiel wealth.

Instead, I prevail,
pushing myself
in the pursuit of
a better me,

channeling
all the things
I see and seek
into the art
that leaks
from my
poetic veins,
while most of you
barely change.

The sun sets
on your repeated
madness,
as you use drugs
to dull this
unsatisfying ache,
seeking simple pleasures
from the things
that others make.

As I strike
the golden core
of who I am
and who I seek to be
you are drenched
in the misery
of your sick
complacency,
rushing to fill an
ever growing hole,
with more
and more stuff.

Scabs crusting;
Feet wrinkle
with an unrelenting
wetness
in cold socks.

The soldier walks
reaching the point
of contact,
a swift interlude
of gorilla combat.

After the gun fight
he collects
small bullet casings.

Then when silence
finally comes at night
he takes them out,
rolling them
through and around
his fingers.

Various
colored casings
of memories chasing
each potential
point of pain;
He imagines
the cycle of sorrow
that each projectile
might have injected
into this world.

Then the soldier
buries the bullet casings
and
finally, leaves the battlefield.

You know I tried
the old suicide ride,
but I never made it past
the last
loop,
and I am not making light
of this sorry life,
I’m just making it through,

But if I want to
joke about my pain
then that is what I will do

I’ll put a swiss cheese bandage
So I can see the goo flow through
share all these mad metaphors
that allow you
to obscure the truth
cause I don’t want to
make you feel bad to

I just want one person
that I love
love me enough
to say

“I am not okay.
But, how are you?”