Sleep deprived
but I decide
how I get to
live my life.

Exhausted and a
little bit slow
but I know
the fog will go
when I catch
a couple hours
of sweet rest.

Then when
I wake
and finally take
the days first breath;

I may not be
my very best
but I will still
be better.

I paint you
with a brush
smothered
in blue.

Then write you
with only
a verb or two;

Nothing much
just a vaporous
presence
that stews
on the canvass
and inked paper.

So, I guess
I committed
to a friendship
with a ghost.

We used to
talk and text
for most
of the day,
play word games
and engage
in deep thought
connections.

Maybe there was
subtext on your end
but I was certain
we were just friends.

Even if
I wanted more
than friendship
from this
long distance
it was worth
a little hurt.

So, I did not suspect
that it would be you
who up and left.

I had no clue
that you would vanish
and my heart would be
permanently unglued.

What an idiot,
such a fool
and even now
I still try to
reach out to you.

All I get
is echoes in
an empty canyon
from a one time
internet companion.

It is dust, death, and hunger
that drives me.

Watching and walking
as other human beings
go on passing.

With each stranger
I imagine a world
written in untold pain.

A lady in an old jean jacket
with long wavy hair
walks out there
on the side of the road.

Carries a load of pain,
as she pushes an empty stroller.
Indentions in the fabric
mark where there was
once a dearly cherished child.
Now sorrow is the shadow
she lives with.

An old man lays still,
cold and stiff
with a whiff
of **** and decay,
as his mutt whines.
A pure white pit bull
with a faced messed up
by years of abuse,
then adopted by this
homeless dude,
poor pup will not move.

Whilst ten blocks away
in a well to do place
an elderly lady
is having her face eaten
by her little darling
chihuahua,
cause there is no one left
to check
in on her.

Then there is me
wandering to see
what is left of this world.

As far as I have gone,
I know I do not belong
because it is a mixed bag
of beautiful and *******
simmering in the inevitable
stew of loss.

Its been a strange life
and there’s hole in my memory,
but when I die, I hope
you will remember me.

The scars on my body
were from the fight
to not visit this cemetery,
cause life is hard
but dying is ******* scary.

As I was working
I was always a little wary,
people are messed up
and it gets really hairy.

But I tried to be the kind of guy
who went out of his way
to be kind and nice.
I wasn’t looking for
a great big reward
but I hope people realize
no one is perfect
and sometimes it took work
to not be a great big ****.

So, as I pass this last slapshot,
push forward with my best
sports metaphor
cause I always admired
the struggle it took
to strive higher
and inspire the fighter
in this lonely writer.

I guess what I meant by this mess
of poetic rambling and internal distress
is remember me
when I am deceased.

Well, me and my guys
are tired and it’s no surprise.
We got to work all day
and never get enough sleep at night.
So, we drive exhausted
and work till our brains are fried.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

With overtime here
and weekend work there,
if I ever see my kids again
they’ll probably be scared
cause I’ve become a stranger
to my kin.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

I got high blood pressure
and now I am in danger
of a coronary event.
Man, I am so ill spent
with this fast food temperament,
cause I have been eating
junk due to its convenience.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

That’s how I die at thirty-nine.

He lived in it,
thrived in the
full fledge
ecstasy of violence;

Submitted to
the purification
of punches
and kicks,
taking shots,
blocking hits,
feeling as if
he was a soldier
of righteousness,
the power of certainty
knowing he
was doing god’s *****
work.

All blood and guts,
all violence and viscera,
destruction,
self-immolation
when facing
less worthy
men than him.

All anger,
furnace stuck on full blast
way pass fully gassed
as he lit the flame
that he burned in.

Always warring,
and that is how they got him
in the end.

Watch as the water
boils up from the center
till the wooden steps splinter
shatter and explode
sinking my steamboat
dream load.

See me rise
with dilating
bloodshot eyes
as nightmares take
my sleep away.

I’ll sip a sic brew
of blackish crap
to stay awake after that
bad batch of mean dreams.

I won’t go back to bed.
Instead, I’ll let those things
scratch and crawl
through my head.

Till the tides
pull me from the shores
then drag me father
than my nightmare
took me before.

Till the shadows
pierce my tired eyelids
and force me to give in
and go back to dreaming
deep deathly shades.

A cartoon talent
that was unbalance
he guessed
they got dressed
and directed
themselves to
zany acrobatics.

The bad guy pathetic,
plebian, and antiseptic.
He should have suspected
they were heroes in disguise.

I used to love that show but
now I am a grown up,
so, though I like to look back,
smile, and really laugh
I guess I’ll have to pass
on that old loony toons
madness.

It had been a long week.
The news said several children
had gone missing,
and this had parents
and kids all *******
themselves in fear.

Some moved away
but I managed to stay.

Though, I was alone
a stranger came lurking
creeping in my home.

Shadows swayed
as he came my way,
curtains danced
in a wind that I never let in.

Unoiled hinges cringed
and boards creaked
where this being sneaked.

Shadows wavered
like dancing marionettes,
and I felt the return
of a feeling I had
struggled to forget.

A cold hand pressed
upon my bare chest,
and I smelled
his stinking devil breath.

Glowing eyes
took me by surprise.
I tried to rise
but his hand slowly descended
as my flesh caved folding in,
I could feel him shivering
with anticipatory glee.

I asked him “why me?”
He smiled and said
“I’ve been dead
for a long while,
but I felt a string pulling me
and stumbled for over a mile.
When I first saw you
I suspected
that somehow
we were connected.”

His arm disappeared
up to the elbow.

But I knew something
that he didn’t know.
The anxiousness
I was feeling
had slowly subsided,
and now I was becoming
super excited.

He lost his eerie grin.
His sharped teeth chattered
and eyes shifted quickly
to my chest then my face.

His elbow disappeared,
and soon he feared
the rest would follow
collapsing into me
as if I was hollow.

He struggled in vain
to reclaim control.
and I laugh at that.

“It is funny” I said,

“but how could you know.
Sometimes better predators
stalk their prey
out there in the cold
and sometime
they lure other monsters
with their favorite fresh flesh bait.”

I burped as I digested
what I just ate.
Smiling because now
it was very late.
I was full and tired,
ready to retire,
safe and sound
cause I had found
the monster out there
and he was in here
where a lot of other
monsters
ended up.

Many years ago,
I believed
death would be
a sweet reprieve;

That she was the lover
waiting for me
at the end of the lane.

I dreamed I would
no longer need to explain
in vain the pain
that invaded my brain,

and when I was wrapped in her arms
I would be safe from all harms.

With her cold clench and soft kiss
time for me would cease to exist
and I would dissolve into the mist
of being less than missed,
no longer noticed
in this miserable existence.

Sterile and disinfected
ready to be inspected
when my lover came to claim,

but I no longer deign
to daydream that darkly.
Death is not dressed so sharply.
Now it is more terror and barking
jaws snapping when I am napping
so, I awake in a start
with rapid beats from my frightened heart.

I used to be awed to the point of deafness
and though I finally express and confess this
I no longer long for or miss my mistress.

Death can take a number,
because for now I got this.

My last dance will be an inspiration
Hands to hands tightly intertwined
Music deeper than any revelation
And all done to in my own time

My last meal will be very delicious
Sampling a bit of all of my favorite things
And being my last need not be nutritious
Humming with flavor cause you know it makes me sing

My last slumber will be the deepest I’ve known
Dreams will no longer come at all
My essence thus departed receding from how I’ve grown
So there will be no me left to recall

My last conversation will never be my last
Though my bodies may fade
Becoming only an echoe in the past
My words will remain to be remade

Revisited over and over again
It may not be immortality
But it is as close as I can come my friend
Words etched in the collective unconscious
Until humanity ends

The river flows
As subtle as a golden rose
Scent straining to reach
Any receptive nose
Firing weird wiring
Synapses flare and glow
I fall into the clutches
Of what all dreamers know
Time and space is vast and fast
But I am small and slow
Beating back the wild waves
Shrinking as much as I grow
Such a sparkly little speck
How little I truly know

This is the final act slash scene
The end of all great things
What an amazing finale
Center stage the star is me
Waiting in the wings patiently
For my time to shine
I step forward from the shadows
While the other actors take their bows
Time to dazzle and amaze I am ready
And As I enter the spotlight seams unsteady
Oh my where has the light man gone
Oh well the show must go on
I look to the crowed
Bellowing my lines out loud
What A wonderful delivery
But then I realize no one is here but me

This is the comedy of life
I guarantee that by night
You will either laugh or cry

This is the tragedy
Life is full of irony
And all of it borders on insanity

And this my dear is the funny part
Life is so hilarious that it will break your heart
Before you even start

There is an arch of time that divides us, there are so many can you tell
Misconception and illusion create the prison we call hell
Even the shadows are forgotten there are no words left to explain
Searing images disfigured leave me rattled in my brain


If I claim to be a madman would you take me at my word
I’m so weak weary and sadden but the world still turns
There is a flower in the water it floats away down a stream
Like the fathers and the daughter nothing is ever what it seam

I always thought I was a genius instead it seams that I am a fool
In my folly I can see us, a million people used as tools
We build the building that we live in pump the gas we use as fuel
All the while and all around us they break and take away or schools


Ten thousand years of written history I’d like to see ten thousand more
But if these rich men have their way we’ll barely make a hundred more
They are the demons we are the angels we are the masters of our fate
But if we fail to see it coming then our salvation will be too late

So these are the words of wisdom that I offer listen to them if you can
I may not have all of the answers cause it up to us to make the plan
Lets us start with something simple I’ll call it my step one
Try simple act of human kindness and see how they snowball when we are done

One day ago
rays of gold
strayed from the fold
falling and following
paths unknown,
exposing things
unshown,
nourishing plant
ungrown.

Sometime
in the past
I sat back
and basked
in that
brand new light,
felt the rush
and blush
of new warmth
rising from within
ready for the sharing,
nurturing and caring
to conquer previous
shades of despairing.

Now, I am replenished.
My spirit once diminished
stands elevated and nourished
by the cherished light,
even though that glorious ray
has given way to the end of the day
and now I lay in evening shade,
I still sing its sweet praise.

Once in a December
when the bodies we remember
grow colder
while living loving ones
grow older.

Skin folds with time passing.
Memories fade far away,
unless we ask our parents about the past.

I use verses and flows
to go where we know
these shadows still exist.

Flickering images
faltering under the weight of
all the loved one
we have lost,
barely lit by the candlestick
that drip and drips
losing itself
like little flecks of sand
falling out of a broken
hourglass.

I know all this will pass.
My memories
and the ones of me
will fall and fade to ash
as the world we know
is incinerated
by the fires of time.

We will not be
the red phoenix
of which children dreamed.

No resurrection
of rebirth
on this blue orb we call earth.

All that was, is dust,
and all that will be
will return there shortly.

He’s tired,
body aching,

feels the shivers
roll down his spine.

All the pain
is breathtaking.

All his limbs are shaking.

Eyes barely open,
lays his head back
to relax,
but sleep will not come.

He feels older than his age
with wrinkle he hasn’t earned.
Soft tissue and arthritic issues
are a burden
he was not ready to own.

He yells,
see tears sear
his reddening eyes.

He fell,
and he will never rise.

They put his body in a coffin
and laid him down to rest
but this isn’t a sleep
he’ll wake from.

There is no more pain for him.

What a lovely red pen
that inks it way beneath
the parchment skin.
Till, all markings become
oh so, permanent.

Pointed penetrator
that writes precise
but terrible delights,
as delicious desires
obscure the facts
with flights of
fanciful abstract
creative acts.

With these
written confessions
I call back
to my past
and ask
where did I acquire
this brush
that paints with fire,
burning with bristling fibers
setting sunrises ablaze
as I begin each day
pursuing the same.

I deliberate
as others wait,
and use my time
to compensate
for this transient state
by trying to create
something that will
live just a little bit longer
then me.

All things change.
The pen becomes
the special brush.
Then in time
like all that I find
the things I use
to write my story
disintegrate,
to the waste of fate.

It’s not nineteen eighty-four
anymore but we are still
waging a non-aging
information war.

Still pushing mixed metaphors
in a malformed mob mentality
that leads us to this brutality.

This not Mortal Kombat
but war mongers keep bringing back
uncountable atrocities and fatalities
too numerous to count
as we drown in blood and sorrow.

We got the worst case
of a full human race
ground hog’s day
where no one learns
that we need to change our ways.

The pressure is building up
the boiling tops
of racist *******
just looking for
the perfect chance to explode
and drop their lava like load
of violence and destruction.

It wouldn’t take much
just a little more love
for all of us
even the lonely street people.

But it seems to me
that these hopeful dreams
are just coins in an empty fountain,
like I am the last one
up this fractured mountain
where compassion got dropped off
at the tippy top
and now it is just a blood smear
on the city sidewalk.

I wrote you a sweet song,
a melancholy tune to pass on,
some lyrics and a rhythm
that were only mine
but now I give them.

I gave you the best part,
of this farewell I kept to myself.
A streak of tears
drops that no one hears.

I kept you in my mind
slightly shaded and distorted
by the passage of time.

I know you are not rocking
safe in some heavenly embrace,
and all that is left is a rotting face.

If I could turn back time
for just a few moments
I’d give you a day with
all of my loving hugs and kisses.

Instead, you pass on in proses
and passages in these poems
I wrote.
Each line written
was once hidden
but came when bidden.

A weeping melody,
for transient beings
whose life is over
but still it sings.

So, here are my tithings.
It is better than nothing,
noting my sorrow
and gratitude
that I lost,
but at least I had the chance
to know you.

We all long to be heard,
have them listen to our
well-intentioned words,
as we rewrite our world
turning in favor of
savoring the love
instead, of simmering in
the big batch of boiling
hatred and stupidity.

Welcome to another year
of pursuing my supposed
state of physical and mental
superiority.

Welcome to another year
of watching the world
dissolve right before me
as morons run it straight into
another apocalyptic attitude.

Welcome to the cessation
of deep and thoughtful creation
as each heartbeat breaks down
and each friend falls flaccidly
to feed this already rotted ground.

Welcome to the fruitless
endeavor to enlighten the clueless
as I become the best useless artist
of my dying generation.

All ego and fluff as I stuff
each page with my grand intent
to pursue the betterment
of every single human being
that could be served by my creativity.

Then, I welcome myself
right back to this reality
remembering that nothing I do
really matters to the universe.
I am just a speck in the cosmos
with a slightly bigger ego.

Barely a buck fifty,
gift from some
far off city
that was given to me.

A soft gaudy snow globe world
with winter glitter swimming in
clear plastic that a snow man
must have recently move to live in.

Cute as can be
even though
it was cheaply
made, bought
and given
with little thought
or effort.

In quiet nights,
in silent eves
when all the light
just up and leaves
and all that I
have left to see
are silver sparkles
in the blackness
of infinity.

When no one talks,
and strangers walk
just passing on
until they are gone;

Long,
before the dawn
when I’m alone
so far from home,

the face I wear
loses its grin.
The joy I share
dims from within
as I am left realizing
that once again
there is no one else,
there is no true friend
cause all we are
are fading water skins.

Though, I go on
most cannot maintain.
They lose the pace,
then fade away.

Though I survive
all the shades I face,
all I see is dark black
coming right back
to take the grey
and watch
the falling flesh
start to decay.

Though, I love these
cold moon lit eves
sometimes I need
the light of day
and a goodnight’s sleep
to wash away the grief
of things that were
and things I know
are yet to be.

Hope regenerates,
revives the lives
obscured and decimated
by the fear and hate
that others propagated.

It is the struggle
to not be swallowed
or let oneself
be hollowed
by harrowing
and narrowing
experiences.

It is brave beyond
the storms
that were never calmed
as children waited
whilst winds rattled
and eroded
the foundations
of nations
founded on
lies and illusions.

It weeps for
the millions
and millions more
who never got
to live and explore
the unscored
foreign shores,
while longing to share
what it finds there,
helping strangers grow
and know mercy.

There is devotion,
action driving from
the deriving forms
of flesh collapsing
in upon
as two become
a more completed one.

Skin as thin
as pink parchment
as lips of ink
write their desire,
circling and returning to
the points of exclamation.

Beauty to beast,
the savage feasts,
tongue easing in
and teasing,
showing what it can do
to summon
the body’s
humming
explosion.

Till, white springs
drip from the lips
of the interconnected,

flesh merging
where limb and cavern
**** converging
in a sweet sensation
of multiple fireworks.

There is no time
that I can recall
the feeling of
maternal security
or motherly love.

But I can still feel
that fierce tug
and elastic snapping
while her other hand
was slapping,
smacking me
straight in my
stunned face.

I can still feel
the tension of hair pulled,
but never ripped from
my skull,
or torn to the point
of a ****** scalp.

I can still see,
on certain days
that twisted face
of her hateful rage,
that vengeful snarl
with jaw and brow
contorted into
a blank eyed
monstrous scowl.

I can still feel
each righteous blow
as she repaid
all slights
from that day
to the wrong account.

Better yet
I can still feel
that magic thrill
on the day
I stopped her strike mid air
like a bad *** ninja,
in that instant
knowing
she could never again lay
her random fits of rage
upon me
unless I allowed
them to be.

Is it fatigue,
am I just too sleepy,
or is it the end
of a great run
of creativity?
Perhaps, am I just lazy.

It seemed that daily
I could breeze.
Writing came
with such an ease
that a sneeze
could bring me
poetry;

But now it seems
I need
extreme dosing
of caffeine
and something
different
then what I’ve seen.

Yesterday,
a leaf leaving
winter bear limbs
could send in
ten thousand
words.

Now the words
are sluggish turds
that won’t get out.
What is this ****
all about?

Brown and stinking
sinking while
I am thinking
that all my ideas
our thinning
and repeating.

Years ago,
I used to know
who I was
and who I wanted to be,

but lately
I am less swimming
than barely floating,
grasping for any lines
worth noting
but choking
before the verses
coming out.

Maybe this is
just creator’s doubt,
I’ve seen similar
cycles before,
but how can I achieve
greater leaps
in creativity
when my creativity
seems to have left me?

I am going to drown
in the gown
that was grown alone,
brown and dried
from the leaves that died
and the seeds of death
that were sown at home.

Several seekers speak to me
across the cold canvasses
pursuing something spiritually
or something that is merely
beyond the wind-swept trees,
those frigid fingers that formerly held
the beautiful leaves that so recently fell.

Little black-eyed buggy boy,
dimpled cheek cute as can be
stares strangely back at me,
like he is some sort of three dee
anime character that is breaking
the third wall
without whispering anything at all.

Little light sprites
warming their mushrooms seats
as they prepare to rush at me
if I get too close,
scanning me with those
dark coal
eyes,

and that large eyed
voluptuous
red haired
bar maid
that is trying to escape
this frosty day
but has lost her way
in the winding wooden
labyrinth,

whilst somewhere in
the mystic evening
an abstract astral plain
elven spirit blows
those little light sprites cont.
into a new life
like they were bubbles.

Till, the harsh crescent moon
beckons my little darling
upwards towards
its skull white form.
Earth’s dreaming daughter
flies as she dies,
and with her goes
all the shades of those
old daydreams
in these October paintings.

Obviously,
she freaking broke me.
I’m not exaggerating.
I am not joking.

her leaving
left me grieving
and drinking
nightly
for more than
a week.

There were nights
when I couldn’t sleep
and days that would need
a little legal speed
just to get through
to get to work,
so, I could make due
and move on one
inch and millisecond
at a time.

The evenings were long
and I preferred
to be impaired
by *****
and mountain dew
chasers mixed with
apple puckers.

Of all of my depressions
that I can recall,
that one beat them all.

Even now,
eighteen years later
I still think of her.

I could stand by you
steady as the calm blue
sky that refuses to move.

While pompous tools
prey on the tired of the day
with their exhausting tirades,

the witless but mendacious
cruel and ungracious
sick and severely racist
bearers of the worst hatred,

the pretentious and phony
fat *** jerks who are
full of flabby baloney,

impugn the serious
with their imperious
and possessive dispositions,

I could walk through
that raging fire with you
to do whatever you want to.

Or, if you prefer
I could leave you
well-fed and disturbed
to mingle with
the full of ****
hatters madder then
this modern warfare click.

If you desire that over eager
meager deceiver
you can always decline
this fine mind of mine.

Whatever you like,
take all the time
you need
I’ll be here
just being me.

Some say that he is horrible.
I say that she is adorable,
and that their judgements
are deplorable.

Cause despite how she is transitioning
there is an inner beauty still shining,
all that outer stuff is purely aesthetic
all that hatred is absurdly pathetic.

I like her to be
feminine or masculine
as she pleases.

It is my love for humanity,
that mourns the loss of its greatness,
in seeing it succumb
to the will of the wicked and the dumb.

So, now I have come
to disdain the vain claims
that cause men to maim
the innocent,

now I pay my penance
cause even though
I am not a participant
I am still complicit
because I have chosen to
abstain from doing
what great writers
should do.

Instead of fighting
I retreat in defeat
lay down on the ground
to feel life's heat
slowly ease from these
fingers that once teased
great poetry.

Now, I seek solitary inspections
of abstract reflections
waiting to die
knowing humanity
will follow me
swiftly.

I need one more poem tonight
but I can’t decide
what I want or need to write
about this real or
fictional life.

The glower grows
as glows a shiny nose
of silly whispered prose,

a wisp of wasted wind
that could have cooled
your sweat glistened skin,

a tiny tower where
Rapunzel lays her hair,
a glorious mane
that stories share,

a stray verse
spread to those
who wear tradition’s clothes
in dreamy hopes
that they will tread bare
and release the poet
that reside somewhere
under there.

She is a quick
drug trip
for this
dopamine
addict.

She is a bad habit
that will only last
one or two moments
cause that frantic feeling
will fade just as fast.

She is awe inspiring,
poetry driving
to passionate madness,
that makes me restless
with desire,

but when that fire
expires
I will feel ill.

Not with her
but I will
be disturbed
by my inability
to settle into
a reality
of companionated affection,
instead of the elevated *******
of severe urgency,
that previously uncontrollable
necessity to be
with her.

Since, I have been
devouring
old romantic notions
I will feel like a failure
when my devotion
slowly simmers into
something soft-boiled,
because that is not
what I thought
love was supposed to do.

What a tragedy
that though I used to hope,
there does not seem to be
any place for me
in this dark mirror
world society.

What a waste of this cold night
and beautiful white light
from the orb in the sky,
that glorious glowing sphere
merely passing by here.

It’s so terrible to see it so clear,
and not have a someone deer
to share the view.

What shame to feel the same
as autumn colors come to claim
every ounce of green I’ve seen
replacing them with yellow tints,
then onto orange and
settling into dry brown
particles that come crumbling down
to feed the cold December ground.

The world makes you invisible,
treats you as if you are an imbecile,
till the retching tears
tear across your tired face,

but I see you.

You try to do what’s right,
but that is not always easy to define.
It is exhausting seeking  
to steady a conflicted mind,
while trying to keep on
being kind,

but dear I know you try.

So, later in the night
when you lay your head to cry,
I know it isn’t much.
It’s not a kiss or a hug,
or that special lover’s
soft assuaging touch….

but I see you.

It’s seven steps to the door,
across a lava like floor,
flat feet searing
strangers nearing
somewhere out there.

It’s seven steps to the door,
only that and nothing more.
So, to explore the outdoors
I just have to move
across this floor.

It’s seven steps to the door,
for others it would be an ease,
strangers would stop and tease
laughing loudly as they please
if they could see me.

Seven steps to the door,
then out there seven more,
but then I would be
outside with the rest
of this mad society,
with the people
I do not wish to see,
those big barbarians
loud and threatening.

It’s seven steps to the door,
but fear holds me back.
Each step is an anxiety attack,
each inch agony
splayed in front of me.
So, at three steps
I fall back,
foolishly retreating.

Those seven steps defeat me.

Let’s keep it
simple and clean,
no glass shards
with sharp edges
to pierce our hearts,
no porcelain skins
ready for the
rupturing
as all that is within
comes spilling
out.

Let’s sit silent
in our sub city
of social misfits,
so, no one talks to
anyone else who
can relate to you
and what you are
going through.

Let’s forget
that there is
something there
underneath the hair
and that shaggy beard,
pass the tired eyes
haunted with
loss and fear.

Let’s just
have toast,
sit and roast
this material world
and all of those
little lost ghosts
who will not
return here.
After all its
a wild world
and I can’t save
everyone.

Let’s just give in
to social media’s
mad messaging
that says we are
just cogs in the machine
working
until we die.

Why would we
ever try to be
a decent human being
when we could
just continue
sleep living?

She is a beautiful echo
from so long ago,

a strange smiling face
that I no longer know.

Still, her presence presents
the emergence
of old feeling,

stirrings from dead synapses
reviving a past that is
something I didn’t even know
I missed.

Almost twenty years
since we were close friends
working the weekends
at Long John Silver
slash A and W.

A similar smile
beckons back
old feelings that
I thought were dead.
  
I know this is just
in my head
but we agreed
when we were forty
if we were single
we’d be together.

I am almost there
and she is right behind me.
I know this is a feckless daydream
but to live in it
I’d gladly go on sleeping
keeping the hopeful heart
of a younger me
returning
in love with
someone
I haven’t seen
in over fifteen
years.

If they deny the grace
of the color of your human face
then they are a waste
of the clay that made
the human race.

Human diversity enriches
this pittance
of an existence.

So, let them keep their ignorance.
True grandeur is lost on them.
Just know my poetic friend
that this pathetic trend
of labeling others
by the shade of their skins
is tragic and troubling
cause I am bubbling
with love for all that shines
from within
to enrich the beauty without.

Oh, the tears of joy
that fill my face,

the salted streaks
of liquid sliding
down the sides
of my age lines,

as I seek some
past time
of pleasant
daydreams.

Reflecting,
I sit dissecting
the poetry
of my past.

Organic
as it is,
it is like
a blast
of stale gas
from a painful
interval.

Familiar feelings
seems slightly
distorted
by the nightly
interludes
between
the two dudes,
me of now
and him
of then.

The work is good,
and I am slightly
plagued by jealousy
because my writing
is stalling,

but the falling
in love
and hurting because
that love drug
is not a sustainable addiction
was a terrible affliction,
which I do not wish
to revisit.

What matters to the heart,
is it matters that spark
a hard and sharp stark
emotional response?

Is it love
that moves most of us
or is it the other detritus,
the chaos that rumbles
inside of us?

Is it the anxiety
that we are missing out on
what the rest of society
is doing or how
everyone is getting along?

Is it terror
that drives
our night lives
into bright lights
in hopes of
escaping
death’s gaping
jaws?

Is it anger
that puts us in danger
of overloading
and exploding
our rage load
as we lose control
and destroy
everything we know?

Is it pointless
to ponder this,
till, I am wasted
and restless
no longer wanting
to express this
or anything at all?

We are all tourists in this life
but some are better visitors
than others.

Some of us are aliens,
cause we are
out of this world,
and twice as far
as two trips to mars.

We are all travelers
on a floating sphere
that barely keeps
the atmosphere here.

So, some people need to
replace their faith
with a new space race
cause this age is a disgrace
as we face a state
of climate decline.

While the cosmos
may be fine,
we may soon find
our visa’s have been
terminated
and our species
is near its end.

She broke my rip cord,
took a stick through
the cloth I used
to make my
parachute.

So, when
I was ready to
commit to her,
the fabric ruptured.

While I was falling
and calling her name,
she was moving
on faster than
any forest flame.

So, fully loaded,
a heavy form
fell from heaven
and crashed into
the ground that
made me go splat.