I have retracted
my high esteem,
and redacted
the way that you acted
from my memory files.
Now you are just
a bad dream.

There is no way
to unmake hate.
You will not
manipulate
me again.

I’d rather be
in a stampede
of caribou
than have to
go through
the **** you do
one more time.

I’m not coming back
for a round two
to watch a rerun
of what I know
you will do.

This is my hour
of deliverance.
I’ll forgo
giving you all of
my grievances;

Cause I am leaving
this very instance.

Let me be clear
I don’t want to be here.
in this month or year.

******* Valentine’s day.

You go on living,
keep on working
while I am giving
all the poetry I have,
all the jokes to
make everyone laugh.

But, I suspect
that we won’t connect.

I don’t want to ask,
but why don’t you
love me like I
love you.
Please come here,
please go away.
I feel so isolated.
Please leave me be.
I am happy with
my own misery.

So, I know
where I follow
you will never go.

I want to reveal myself,
share strange stories and relate
to those who suffer the same,
even though I am doing great.

You’re inspiring and beautiful.
I am inquiring about your youthful
passions,
passing certain questions
asking about shared obsessions.
You go out into the world
and really live in it,
while I want to see life
and write brilliantly about it.

Maybe, someday you will read,
feel and see all the things
that I tried to share.
I won’t be there
and I suspect
that even if
we do connect
it will be
far too late for me
to see.

How inappropriate,
she’s my ******,
cute and flexible
barely detectable,
definitely delectable.

She’s a wonderful,
super comfortable,
good dancer,
a little dangerous,
perfectly fit,
and slightly psychotic.

I’m a caterpillar
and she is
a caterpillar killer.

She is fascinating,
and good at debating.

What a dream
a tragedy
that she is
imaginary,
make believe
at least for me.

In reality she
is dating
the kind of guy
I have spent
my lifetime hating,
confident bad boy
without the brains to
back up that smack talk.

Chalk it up to
a society that
doesn’t value
the truth
but prefers
*******.

I am already one among many,
a stranded stranger in this city,
but despite my plight they still
try to steal my identity,
try to change my name,
leaving me out to dry as I
am barely hanging from the windowsill.

There is no place for a poet who
rebels against those that want to
make him into another reflection
of this destructive urban infection.

I would run with the wolves
but the only wildlife we got here
are the wall street predators
and the other beasts who drink
up the destruction and misery
of the lost souls creeping on
cold hard and hungry city streets.

The roads are slick, and I could easily
find myself slipping, and falling,
succumbing to the dark and beastly
urges that want to consume me,
as my empathy is drained and changed
into a deranged competitive side.

It would be better to become
the moon that loves the sun,
or the ever-changing stream
that runs through my dreams.

The forest calls with all of her
grand green beauty and wonder.
The stillness and quietest
place that supplies this
momentary escape and inspiration.

White petals floating in the wind,
dirt brown paths that go down
to the lake and then
back around to a field of corn.

but I seldom return to that safe place,
just muddle through a sick polluted storm,
brain dead instead of wearing a smiling face,
I start to blend into the crowd that is moving.

Tightly packed automatons,
memory fails and now the poet is gone.

The city devours the last brilliant hours,
and the poems no longer finds a pen,
and the phoenix no longer rises again.
The sleeper no longer dreams.
He just keeps walking and walking.

A stranded stranger still talking,
but not saying anything.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

She's a protester
not a warrior
but something
so much better,
a singer song writer
a warm and brighter
lamp that keeps us
from succumbing
to the mind numbing
dullness with which
greedy men try to use
to **** our muse,
and give us the blues.

We never walk in
the same stream cuz
these rivers are always changing.
Still, where you go
I will follow.
It doesn't matter if
the ground is
solid or hollow
because it is
the hope of love
that keeps me walking.