I will not get to hear
or hold my dear
because it is clear
that my deepest fear
has become reality.

I wasted so much time
pretending to be fine
until I had fooled
everyone and myself.

But when the night falls
and the lightning crashes
when my breath
barely catches
and I am force to see
warm flesh go cold
of once young body
that is now broken
and old.

Then I will wish
I could turn back time,
take all the lessons
that where sown
and grown
in my maturing mind
and value those who
I wasn’t ready to lose.

I could be
a myriad
of mystical things,
abstract creatures
from your romantic dreams,
a culmination of your
creative schemes
as you unsew the seam
that seems
to keep your sweet sanity
stitched to this
harsh reality.

I could be
the escape hatch
unlatched
so that
you can get back
to that deep hole,
falling into
wonderland
then on again
to OZ and
Never Never
Land.

I could be a
great friends
and later when
you go looking
for him
I could be
the lover you seek.

Or, I could just be
a cold vagary
of nothing
never lasting
simply passing
on into the
the emptiness
eternity brews.

So, I missed you,
misused
the tales
that other dudes
passed on.

I stole
the swollen heart of
the dark art’s love,
in observing
and serving up
other peoples
stuff,

little notes
about their lives,
things that I
did not experience
or survive,
but I still write
about those desperate nights
bringing their realities to light.

I plagiarized,
with a chameleon’s guise,
took their truths,
rationalized,
and fictionalized
with little details
and larger lies.

But isn’t that how
strangers empathize?
Isn’t this how
creatives thrive?

A quick and queer query,
soft elegy revealed to me
within the silk melody
of the muses who wrote
history in the form
of a dying mystery

Oh, soft mud
that bares
the fresh print
those tennis shoe
indents.

Moist and sloshing,
my feet sinking in
the muck that is
clinging to my jeans.

I am two hundred plus
pounds of heavy
slowly descending into
the brown ground
that gives way,
up to my calves.
So, there goes my legs
as I am ****** in.

I wonder if this
dark and monstrous
situation will cease,
will this earth beast
release me,
or will mud become
my quicksand
graveyard?

I am in the now,
the ever-moving cycle of
moments dancing forward.

I cannot go back
or rush time ahead.

I cannot undue
history’s undue influence,
or know exactly what I am
able to do to change
the future for the best.

I can only invest
now with passion and
productive joy.

This is a festival
where beasts feast on fools,
a dark carnival
of carnivores
and cannibals
who devour those
they see as beneath
the wealth
they were bequeathed.

This is a field of grief
and greed
where those in need
never see
a single shilling
of hope,
because those
who hold the ropes
have made a noose
out of ambitions
and fashion shows.

Welcome to the nightmare
be wary, be scared
but most of all
stay sharp
and prepared
because if you slip
and are ensnared
there will be
no secret squad
of superhumans
swooping in
to save you my friend.

There will only be
blood and gore,
shades of grey
that split the day
and bleed to black,
to take you back
to the place from which
no victim can ever
return from.

This poem is dedicated
to the fire strangers started
to incinerate the broken hearted,

to the flames I had to walkthrough
that charred my flesh
and barred the rest
who did not have the strength
to resist this disintegrating mess.

To the pain I overcame,
though I dare not
whisper its sacred name
for fear of having to
face that **** storm again.

This is dedicated
to the trauma
that dissected
the desiccated frame
that no worthy lover
stood to claim,
and though those
throes and woes
from which I rose
proved to be in vain
since I am still stained
by the marks
that keep me apart
from the mundane,

this is for that which
taught me not to accept
all the *******
because I know
I am worth more
than all of it.

It would be easy
to turn my pain
and loneliness
into the rage
of an ageless
beast,

to become faceless
in this useless
race to achieve
that which I
do not need.

It would be easy
to let go of
the search for peace
and become
part of the disease
that afflicts
all of these
silly sheep.

It wouldn’t
take much
to hit the clutch
release the brakes
and pass a hundred
miles plus
at the speed of
danger.

But all of that anger
just stirs up dust
and damages the stuff
I didn’t even really want.

So, I’ll let
the users
get used
and let the bruisers
get bruised.

Today is my recovery day
and it is a day well spent.

By autumn lakes,
where water wears
nature’s fogging breathes
as white mists
roll over its
beautiful body,

when the cold air
catches spectral gasses
that pass
soft awestruck lips,

where sweet lovers
meet and sit
on the nearest bench
holding hands,
making grand plans,
and leaving to walk
the path laden
with many
multicolored leaves,

where water reflects
the waving limbs
and falling foliage
that finds itself
floating down
and eventually
disappearing,

where daydreams end
and strangers are
forced to return
once again
to the world
they have been
struggling in,
leaving tranquility
to become
a glimmering memory
in the sorely exhausting
work week.

The soft white
swirling flesh,
made of light,
made to divest
the deep darkness
that pulses
beneath your chest.

The simple sparkle,
the slipping droplet
that falls off of this
darling flower
of free association.

The tender yearling
licking salt,
seeking some
simple sating
of its primal hunger.

The placid pool,
of poorly lit
sitting liquid,
until it is
pierced by
something
falling from
the night sky,
and its surface
succumbs
to the chaos of
constant ripples.

I dip my toe
in a spot
I do not know
searching for
some inspiration,

and this is all
that I get
in for looking
for it.

A loser’s lament
left in contempt
for all of the
wasted time I spent

lover’s issues,
cause I was misused
by the good girls
who dig bad dudes.

What a tragedy
to make a
jealous *** of me
as I weep grievously.

Then I bend
to anger’s end,
to rise and defend
with my tragic
ego’s armament.

But, I don’t
go on a
beer binge
that would make
Bacchus cringe.

Instead, I trend
towards
self-improvement,
take this pain and frustration
and use it
to make myself better.

I finally got the piece of the puzzle
that people use to muzzle
modern dissidents,

this backpack loaded with
all the gadgets you want to get
so, you don’t have time to
join the resistance,

videos and social media,
games with rewards
they use to feed ya
a sense of techno satisfaction
from imaginary actions
kind of like prayer.

I finally put the hours in
to get my promotion,
getting home late
suffering from exhaustion
and other stress related
maladies.

I finally got fired
and rehired
to work my way
up the corporate ladder.

I finally got to retire
just in time
to expire.

I am a fully immersive
life size interactive
collections of facts
and flesh that
takes and gives back
what I receive
and who I long to be.

Expanding from myself
I am an amorphous blob of
compassion clothed in love,

a ray of light in many directions
speeding from the center
of my being for stranger’s inspection
as I generate radio waves
of repeated humanity,

faster than the speed of electricity
I electrify everyone before me
because despite my taste for solitude
I could never be boring.

There are too many modern maladies
in our over stimulated society,
of social media junkies;

flexing for the next fix
likes for your muscle pics
or a salty dish of something
so delic.

Dopamine rewards
makes us want to scratch
that itch
so, we continue checking it
when we wake up for just a bit
then struggle to go back to sleep.

Like toxic metals
this mental poison
fills our techno prisons.
Until, we live in
little broken bubbles
of preconstructed biases
that fit whatever side of this
binary plague we are infested with.

So, to exit this
I take a trip
facing the space
where no one lives,
into nature
the multi-sensual cure for
technological toxification.

I listen to the sound of
wind rushing through
the leaves that move
and sound like rain.
In this summer heat
water fantasies
are such a tease,
but I feel at ease.

I follow muddy tracks
that turn and head back
then diverge
just in time to merge
with familiar patches of grass.

I see tons of green
and brown things
but hidden gems
of purple, white,
and yellow flowers
fall into my line of sight.

I breathe it in
then take a breath again
as my pulse quickens.
An hour and my sour
soul goes from dead
to enlivened
and I take the notes
of inspiration I am given
to write a poem
tomorrow.

There is nobility in humility,
but discipline and persistence
has its value in this resistance
and I am always seeking
that self-improving
human empathy moving
kind of thing.

A cop blasts red and blue
distracting me
as I am driving through
while he is parked
passing out tickets to
some driver uncertain
what she should do.

Bright white lights
burn my eyes at night,
makes me wonder why
I have to drive like
it’s all my life.

They sear my retinas,
so, I flinch.
as a loud *** trucker
passes by real quick
and this other ****
just sits
on my ***
making it hard
for me to see anything
driving home on this
over illuminated highway.

There is nobility in kindness.
To take your darkness
and resist the urge to give in to it,
instead becoming
the one they are shunning
for the wrong reasons
as you take their cruelty
and give them generosity.

It is a sinking ship
that sails amidst
all of this madness
and maintains
that which fools
struggle in vain
to take from them.

“Look out for yourself.

Keep quiet,
and bow your head.

Do not stand *****
or act with defiance.

Do not try and deny us
when we tell you
you’re all wrong.”

There is nobility
in staying true to who
you are
and who you strive to be,

especially,
when you live in a society
that just wants another
cog in the machine,
another out for themselves
sucker super psychopath
who likes to laugh
at other’s suffering.

I’d like to exchange
this deranged life
for a little change.

I need a break
from the mundane
repetitive existence
that I have crafted
for my own comfort.

The roads repeat
and what I see
is a sour echo
chasing me.

But now I know
to be free I need
to move out and on,
take my bags
like a traveling man
running while I can
cause this beautiful loser
is checking out.

There is always a little doubt
but I am figuring
the small stuff out,
I’m building a bridge
to a better me,
so, wait and see.

Ten years later,
sad to say
despite the burst
of brilliant word play
I am still stuck,
despite the bravado
and desire to get up and go
I am still here.

So, what do I know.

Well, she’s been collecting
since she was ten
funny little knick knacks
from all of her friends,

goofy little trinkets
that she uses to recall
all the shattered pieces
of her broken memory.

Cause she had a little fall
and she hit her head
now she can’t quite remember
everything she did or said

So, every little collectible
comes with a diary entry
to cement its place
in her external memory.

Till the end of infinity,
all things
above and below,
and the
cosmic calamities
like collapsing black holes
that swallow
everything
we have ever known.

Till super solar flares
incinerate
all of the life
down here
on our floating sphere,
which let’s be clear
is more oblong.

Till, the end of
space time
when all things
cease to exist
and there will be
no one left to miss
the poetry of this
pathetic fool.

Semi-aquatic,
silver shimmering,
a swimming body
wet and exotic,

fluid motions
flying in
the pure parts
of our ocean,

she could have been
mermaid, kin
to lesser fisher men,

water friction
pulling her hair
like the wind
forcing each strand
to fall back
as she
flows forwards
faster than the *******
trying to entrap her,
and capture her rapture,

but hazel eyes,
long chestnut hair,
and limber limbs
do not tarry here.
They disappear
beneath the cresting wave.

She is saved,
but her pursuers
are washed away.

She is free to play
as death takes
those hunters
to a watery grave.

Though I wish it was
like the long-lost love
that I still miss,
or the sweet mist
of soft citrus
squished fruit
that squirted in my mouth
in my youth.

Time is a snake
devouring itself,
scouring souring seconds,
and removing buildings.
Till, thirty years later
I cannot recognize
any of the lost landmarks
from my long-ago life.

Stiff shouldered
older
bulldozer
of a man,
holds the embers
of distant joys
that he still remembers.

Hidden jewels
that once sparkled
are now blemished,
could be polished
but the remembrance
wouldn’t equal
past reality.

Those glory days
of lazy waste
when he would play
and devastate
the landscape
with dirt tracks
and rough houses.

These moments
are everything
he wants
in a daydream,
but the harsh rays
of modern days
forces him
to remain awake.

He is wiser now,
but longs for
the innocence
of youth
unexplored,
when he was
ignorant
of the imminent
end of all of it.

So, as time takes
his fellow well-aged
middlemen
on a fool’s errand
straight to the edge
of eternity’s
black abyss,
he looks back at this
and slips into the void.

A lot of things have changed.
A lot of good folks have gone,
and I’ve forgotten most of them.

Timbers tremble in the woods,
losing leaves these grieving trees
prepare to go where nightmares
fear there will be a terrible dry heat
burning every single thing.

Desolation on a scale
that makes reality
look like a biblical hell,
but I tell myself
we can do better.

We all know
that dreamers lie,
and I include me
in that tricky
category,
because
I do not see
humanity
succeeding.

I only dream
of fallen forms
retreating
due to
our self-inflicted
descent into
death’s dark hallway.

Nostalgia,
the pain in my ***
blast from my past
that passes
painful
memory lapses
of gut reactions,

sorrowful reflections
of never was
lost connections
and decisions
that I long to
unmake.

Fantasies
take
me
back to those
distorted memories
as I recall
fogs of vagaries
and what if
possibilities
that were never
ever really real.

Life was
time served because
everyone he knew
was struggling
too make due
with the ignorance
their existence
had been imbued
with.

A state of jail like isolation
when he was facing
a stupid population
with no ability to
think or adapt to
new information.

Not a prisoner
in his mind
he would
summon her,
the dark beautiful
summer dancer,
an illusion
to calm the pain
and confusion.

In states
of sick delirium
his cage could not
define or confine him
as he flew to
a mental magisterium.

Lying therein sharing
a dream space
with his imaginary queen
he would listen to her sing
forgetting everything.

To bad and sad to say
that one cannot stay
in such elevated space
without losing touch with
the real world.
So, his mind lapsed
and passed the last
moments of his mentally
bruised and blistered existence,
finally happy in another reality.

This poison pill
is not the hill
I wish to
plant my
flag upon.

This dull blade
that bade me bath
in the bloodbath
that warlords make
for the sake
of profits
is not the tool
I would like
to use to fuel
my creative life.

This crushing
weight
of unwieldy hate
is not the force
I would choose,
and yet
unfettered fools
debase and abuse
themselves
and all of us
for their wealth.

They seek to conquer
with sick implements
of destruction,
such impediments
to the betterment
of our human
condition.

Art’s armament
is not adequate
to defeat them,
and I do not know
if I alone
or all of us
can beat them,

but I will not
concede to their greed
and be what they need
to feed their profit machine.

Never was
this broken
curtain
a calamity
to all of us.

Raggedy
and full
of dust
it still
shaded us,

and once
in a while
it would
make me smile
as I watched
the weird light
run right through
the holes
and shine on
little specks
of floating particles
that dance
in the dry air.

I was a fool
before I met you.
I’ll be a fool
until I die.
But all the moves
I made to get to you
are the dances
that kept me alive.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

The summer showers
are so cleansing,
waves of rain
keep me moving,
shift the sands
and earth beneath me,
and their rhythm
keeps me grooving.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I don’t claim
to be an angel,
and I’m too lazy
to be a saint,
but the shame
they tried to
paint me with
didn’t fit
this portrait.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I was born
a broken bloom
rising with
the crescent moon,
and I hope I
was a boon
blessed gift
shared with
all of you.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I know a troll
who took
a leisurely stroll
with a goblin
and a knoll.

They didn’t
have a planned
place to go,
so, they
just went
with the flow.

Past the pleasant groves
where pixies played
and children
dreamed one day
they would
be able to stay,

beyond the
wood nymphs
adobe,
admiring
those virgins
unclothed,
then stopping
to get know
their cousin
in the river
bed below.

It was
I nice little walk.
Until, they were
stopped,
by an over eager,
righteous believer,
knight errant
on an errand
for his local liege.

He had no need
to give these three
a lick of grief,
but being oh so
brave and noble,
felt untitled
to act with
unbridled
arrogance.

So, the three
traveling hence
returned
from whence
they came,
but the knight
was never heard
from ever again.

Life is a dance
of many
interconnected
beings,
things
that move and swing
in and out
of being,

and in-between
this cosmic scene
we have been
always moving.

Every movement
an expression
of our true intent.
Even when
we intend
to deceive
we are already
affected by
the webs
we
and other beings
have been weaving.

The lines
we have been
perceiving
are patterns
we have been
creating and following,
flowing
without knowing,
we are going,
but still growing
some glowing
personal meaning.

It is a breath,
the cold grip
close to it
calling forth
those deathly lips,

stringent
reactions
out of the
desperate actions
made to escape
what waits
for my weary
body.

It is another
inhalation,
the light
high
fractional
exhilaration
of succeeding
in taking
the air
that I am needing
and feeding
my body,

while death
lurks
ever
omnipresent.

Trying something new,
I release
the tense beast
of burden
I was holding onto
as I exhale
and forgive myself.

For a long time,
my mind
lived in
a very thin
black cloud
that kept
pursuing me
and seldom allowed
any rest or peace,

and I believed
that I deserved
this dark disease
of shady self-hurt.

For a long time,
I believed
that doubting me
was the surest form
of safe sanity,
that confidence
and vanity
would damage me
to grand degrees,
making me
dangerous,
and a detriment
to what others need.

For the longest time,
I thought to be good
I would have to
sacrifice my safety
and sanity.
That maintaining
my financial security
and avoiding poverty
made me
a selfish *****.

For a long time,
I have been
the smartest
dumb ****
I have ever met,
but I am working on
getting over that.

The nightmare,
the place where
she kept me
in deep despair,

I do not go there
anymore.

The sharp shark shadows
that used to follow,
the cold hollow
shallow hallways
where I felt no hope,

do not remain.

I still feel
a tinge
of past pains,

but I do not
have to live
in that same space.

I know where
I come from,
the storm of
a raging mom
who is not capable
of growing,

so I am moving on.

There will be
no healthy
reconciliation,
no fantasy
family
reunion
and forgiving,
no grand
finale
happy ending.

There will
only be me
living.

I play this weird word tournament
with the last scrabble vestments
of my weak will and testaments
wondering if the waterfall
will let me get soaking wet,
cooling this confused form that has been
constantly suffering from a state of
severely deep dehydration,
whilst waiting for some fall confession
to ease the coughing wheezing
springtime cornfield sneezing
antihistamine needing
allergy affliction.

My life is lived in small syllable increments.
little lovely vowels, daring darling delinquents,
that I play each day in this weird word game.

I sit still to feel the thin threads
that I borrowed for the finer verb vestments
that I might wear and share out there
on some sad shady morrow.

But for now, I bow under the wonder of the waterfall
letting the water rid me of the nasty sweat,
and sooth my harsh summer regret
of having achieved nothing notable at all.

Sometimes,
we pick the scabs
of old scars,
pushdown
on the brown
and bluish bruise
that brands us
just to get in touch
with what
made us
who we are.

Sometimes,
we go too far
or stop just short of
where we were sort of
supposed to go
to show those who know
similar scars.

Sometimes,
we break ourselves,
crack our backs
on a torture rack
that we brought back
from the dirt an ash
of burnt out sorrows.

Why,
behave that way,
shaving days of pain
away
just to bring them
back in again?

I cannot say for certain.
I am only working
with what I got,
cutting the edges
taking bets on
what I lost
in exchange for
the chance to be
a boon to humanity,
king soother
with a little blasphemy,
witty repeater
of past artistry
as I string together
the broken chords
that still tether
struggling hearts
to the similar parts
of each other.

Hope is the last lost lover,
a seed sinking in
the times we live in,

a once sparkling
body of bountiful water
where the seas bring
life overflowing.

Hope is the opposite
of the cryptic
countdown
passing present sorrows
in favor of
the savoring of love.

Hope is the face of
a departed friend,
even in knowing
we will not
see them again,
we still feel
the shimmering
in the distance
of their solar
compassion
remembered.

Hope is a tragedy
for its passing
and lacking
its lovely illumination,
the void of it
is devastation.

Hope is a prayer
in the name of love
for the betterment
of all of us,
till death takes
its final toll.

It is a lonely god
who counts the ticks
on eternity’s
broken clock,

as time’s terrible
tidal forces
force him on
in a world
where all other
old gods
are long gone.

What a horrible place
where the last
of his race
lay in the waste
of human destruction.

The lone survivor,
late in life light shiner,
bruised body
who tried to
teach humanity.

His shadow sees
as much as he,
yet rests coolly,
while that immortal body
burns with sorrow.

Mushroom clouds
of bitter smoke
that choke the broke
cord of hope,

temperatures rising
as he is realizing
there will be
no great fantasy
or redemption
of humanity,
just a worried wanderer
who walks
on wavy ground
where no
joys are found.

I need a night long nap.
I need two more days of sleep.
I need a little more rest
to bring out the best of me.

My body doesn’t move
like it used to,
except for the jiggly parts
that burst through,
like a mushroom
overflowing
from my jeans.

My minds doesn’t work
like it used to,
all these words
do not flow freely
all these verbs,
they elude me.

I may be acting goofy
but it is because
I am super sleepy,
please give me
at least three more
hours before
I have to be awake.

It is so torturing
trying to only eat
healthy things,

passing on all
of those sugary treats
that I know aren’t
good for me.

Then later
I go on binging.

One donut
takes me
off the wagon
of healthy
living.

Then the
same shame
spiral happens,

no napkins
just two thousand
plus calories
of insanity,
leading to guiltily
working out.

What are
these cravings
all about?

I pick apart
the scraps
and shards
of shattered hearts.

I clean the
bleached bones,
sweep the
stained sidewalks
that ragged strangers
call home,
where they
sleep alone
or together
in whatever
good or bad
weather
they are
dealing with.

I read the words
till my red eyes
dry up and burn
with the tension
of spending
too much time
on this
disjointing
internet
system,
this connected
form of
isolation.

I fight
a lazy battle
to find the
right way
to say
something
meaningful.

It is just
spurts of dust
to connect us.
Not much
of the junk
I write
at night
is viable
or will hold up
to the light
of space and time.

But, still I write.

I got no swag,
just a split spine
that sits in a bag,
that I drag
everywhere
I go.

Dear daughters of Eve,
sweet children who bleed
because god perceived
that he was betrayed
when your sire ate
the fruit we believe seeded
the knowledge that we needed,

and the punishment given
was the ability to conceive
in a woman’s womb,
the greatest boon
from said fertility,

oddly,
something
that a man can
never achieve
despite his raw virility.

So, the punishment
for gaining knowledge
is really a gift on both ends,
cause the fruit of your bodies
is where each successive
generation begins.

Imagine
a world of compassion,
led by the well fed
not those with a passion
for keeping up with the
current Kardashian fashions.

Imagine,
a society
driven by empathy,
that would not stand by
while observing
certain tragedies,
would not let
curable maladies
fester for the
faintest profit.

Imagine
a reality
were science
and artistry
work with a
symbiotic
chemistry,
where
instead of
reality tv
presidencies
we have
well-informed
people who lead.

Imagine,
a place
where the human race
is not driven by greed,
but has all that it needs,
like more modern-day Medici’s
who support
the values we need to be
a better batch of humanity

Passion is the torch dropped
in some familiar spot.
The one that incinerates
the things you hate,
while trying to light
other fires of desire
just to motivate
you to create
something great;

But when that fury
simmers to
a soft boiled
version of you
then on to
the cold corpses
set for a passing few
to finally view,

when you
no longer
burn inside
of that steaming cauldron
of creatives juices,
and all of the energy
that this mortal frame uses
flickers out
like a little candle in the wind,

when windbags spew
passing platitudes
and clichés
like the lazy
writing
I am showing you,

who will ever remember
the flames that fell to embers
and floating ash in December
as a cold January
takes all this fantastic fury
and turns it to dull grey nothingness?

Here is a truth
when I do
what I do,
by not reaching out
to the few who
used to care
to stop and share
their time
and stuff,

then why should I
expect
when I get
back to myself
that they
or anyone else
would give
this ghost
any notice
at all?

Around here
they drink
**** yellow beer
that foams
at the top,
and they
don’t know when
they should stop.
So, after
those drinks and
a few shots
they drop.

Head spinning
ready for vomiting
cause they weren’t using
any common sense.
  
Around here
the sports channel
is always playing,
and people
are always praying
for their team
to take
the next game
straight to
the finals
and win
whatever
championship
they are
playing for.

Around here
smart mouths
come on
the faces of
morons,
and they
run faster
then anyone
can catch on.

Around here
they are all impulse
pleasure seeking,
no deep thinking,
just pushing
straight to the edge
and barely
stepping back again,
or finally giving in
and falling
all the way down
into the brown mound
of ground
the dig graver
left for them.

Around here
I live in a desert
seeking wiser sages
who long to
paint prose
on all the web pages,
and spread compassion
all over the place,

but it all falls
on deaf ears
around here.