There are beautiful words
waiting to be seen,
poems waiting to sing,
like the diamond glistening
waterfall that plays me
to a gentle sleep,
as it sparkles
and leaves stranger in awe,
while giving me reason to pause
cause I to am dumbstruck
by my own dumb luck,
confounded by such glory
that I nearly trip on my
untied shoes,
racing forward to write
all that radiates from nature to
the amazing being of you
my emerald friend who glitters
just as wonderfully.

When we were young
we’d set our guns to stun,
play war game,
and make fairytales
to tell ourselves
that everything
would be ok.

But in modern days
machine gun ways
keep blowing us away.

Lies get harder to accept
and our innocence
gets harder to protect,
so ignorance becomes
the preferred state.

Halloween horror monsters
become less chilling than
those modern killing men,
and evading destruction
becomes an impossible feat.

While those who try
to fight the guys who lie
end up napping in
the dirt beneath our feet.

I am stumped,
shoulders slumped
as I stumble off in defeat,

and all that remains
to mark the pains
of our passing race
of humanity
is the poetry we leave.

I want to be swollen
with sweet word growing,
impregnated with that which
is made for taking darkness
and transmuting it into
a light of love for all to
fall comfortably into.

I want to take this language,
work and refine those fine
lyrical lines that make minds
turn towards acting kind.

But I have lost the eloquence
that was once my treasured gift,
and all that falls from my lips,
is red and brown drips of ****.
I’ve gone from child optimist
to exhausted adult cynic.

I have lost the fairies and dragons,
unicorns, and gentle care bears
and now dim dreams live there.

Vague impression of once vibrant
brush strokes, and dancing limbs
have giving in to warring men’s
disturbing intentions.
Nightmare too horrible to mention
have become my waking certainty.

But what is really bothering me,
is that it has become much easier
to accept this sick distorted reality.

The canvass of life has become
the splatter art of a billion broken hearts,
and I have mastered the skill
of numbing what I used to feel
in favor of current forms of
self-amusement.

It matters not
if in the end
all that I got
are a handful
of tender friends.

If my compatriots
do not forget
the goodness
that lives yet
in my poetry.

If only liars
and fools
speak ill of me,
but kindhearted
wise people
still feel
that I was
a man of
goodwill.

I know
nothing
waits for me
and eventually
I won’t even be
a fraction of
a lingering
memory.

But if
in these
minor instances
I insisted
on being kind
and that was
the worst trait
my detractors
could truly find.

Then I would be okay
to go out that way.

I used to hold on to grand ideas.
I used to believe I could change
how all the people in the world feel.
So, I spoke out, encouraged doubt,
directing people to the tools they had
to distinguish what was good and bad.

But after I had a thousand doors
slammed shut on my smiling face,
after each blow cracked the smile
and tears were sent in to replace
hope for despair for the whole human race.
I just settled in to enjoy the show.

Some claimed my actions were cowardice,
but in truth I was barely handling it.
Now, I’m no longer striving for justice,
just speed walking one step out of line,
just breathing several second out of sync,
adapting but not accepting how
other people act and think
knowing that we are on the brink
of destroying almost everything.

What is a foolish poet to do,
but write what he knows down
and give to all of you who
will not even deign to read it,
as you take our planet and bleed it,
of every natural resource
and ounce of human compassion.

Every act of violence is like a bomb blasting,
and demolishing every bud of hope that tries to bloom,
and even though I want to laugh have to I cry
cause no matter how hard I try
I’ll have to sit and watch as we all die
too soon.

So, you’ve decided to **** your planet.
This sphere can only take so much damage.
Your resources will not be expanded.
At some point no more trees will be planted,
so you will lose good air,
hell, with exhaust fumes and toxic towers
we are way beyond halfway there.

Your water will be contaminated,
but you don’t care.
There’s more pleasure to be had
by treating the earth bad
so why not grab
all that you can.

Congrats, on making that profit margin
grow year after year,
while you instill anxiety and fear
in those who work for you.

From what I’ve seen
it pays to be mean and obscene.
***** making energy clean,
human beings don’t need to exist
after you pass on from all of this
manmade chaos.

You didn’t even need a manual
cause you were a self-taught *******,
a perfect psychopath who laughed at
all those who tried to bring back
human decency.

So, king of destruction you win again.

You will be diminished
as others finish
life’s strange race,
as living leaves you
in last place,
and you face
a world without them.

You will pull
faded photos from your mind.
Slightly distorted mental movies
that have been rewritten by time
will become bittersweet reruns.
Lies will soften or harden
previous facts
as you try to look back
to the past.

You will lose loved ones
over and over until
you no longer feel
an inkling of their essence.

I haven’t been
working on finding
all the answers.

I’ve been questing
for the best questions,
pursuing strange obsessions,
seeking the sparks
that will start
different parts
of poetical proclamations,
teasing out
certain doubts
to understand clearly
that I am not nearly
smart enough to know,
but I am bright
enough to grow.

When my heart
lights up and glows
it’s one hell of a show.

All splendid sparkles
and black holes,
all gray dusty roads
and sharp rocks
that pierce flesh.

Inside, I hold more
than just myself.
I am an infinitude
of lies and truths,
of words I use
to gift all of you
brand new and pre-used
perspectives that amuse
and inform.

I am the fractional form
of past identities
and future possibilities,
a projection part
hopeful and cynical,
a self-created symbol
that you will
eventually interpret
through the lens
of how you feel.

Sunday morning is a spiral
of dimmed lights
and despairing shadows,
of stairways to nothing
that dance in the distance
and turn around to find
time no longer binds
this strange and tired mind.

It is a body of fatigue,
so tired that it turns blind,
unable fathom
what was once
wondrously divine.

Windows no longer open to
a whole wide world
that I want to view,
but are closed,
painted black
with spider web
thin cracks
that let less than
infinitesimal light in.

Hope is made for forgetting,
until a long sleep
restores my stores
of optimism and inspiration
allowing poetic explorations,
as the windows open
to finally let more light in
and the stairways shift
restructuring themselves
to new realities
of delightfully
exciting possibilities.

The flame of madness
cracked and expanded,
holds hearts unplanted,
soil sick with slick
mind worms that take
turns gnawing through
the muck and the goop,
and the rotting wood to,
seeing moods shift from
angry, sad, then numb
to become all spent up
without any passions left.

Peasant eyes
tell pleasant lies,
but journeymen
are mastering men,
commanding them
to do their darkest
bidding,
leaving dreamers sitting
sad and dismayed
as the con artists run away
with the heart of what makes
love and language great.

Do not let me
be vexed by
exemplary
poetry.

Cause I am
lyrically
fantastic,
like other
lexical lovers,
and word writing
art brothers.

I love the
sweet
syllabic
ecstasy
of channeling
language
for my own
enjoyment.

It is pure
play
and self-pleasuring,
as I go one
measuring
my verbal dexterity
in combination
with clarity.

There is
a sad disparity
in what I write
and what gets through
to the masses who
find my art
hard to digest.

It is a self-serving mess
in which I express
an observance
of the madness
of merely writing
and not expecting
others to grasp
half of it.

The sun
no longer
streaks the sky
but seeks to die
as I try not to cry.

I am too tired
to create
anything I deem
great.

Over dependent
on stimulants
to wake up to
a creative vision.

Brain fogged
to the point of
being a rotting log
wasting space,
just waiting
to decay.

In my
fatigued state
there is a fear
I may never make
decent art again.

But I rest
and get up
to type out
something
beyond my doubts.

One poem,
the first of
the week,
a stumbling piece,
not my best
but a relief.

The wind whistles hard
in my own backyard
with a haunting tune.

No birds fly by in
the afternoon wind
cause the sky’s ashen
and the past won’t come
back in a flash again.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Corpses sit in their
own piles of ****,
with no one left to
remember all of it.
The rot and the rage
killing king plague
that took over this place.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Poison in the ground,
silence is the sound
that’s most harrowing,
rivers run their course
but time finds hope
always narrowing.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

I will be the last
child to tell you of
our strange tragic past,
the final recorded
voice that afforded
no hope or recourse,
cause life is the wife
from which we all got
a final divorce.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

I’m already unmoored.
My heart turns sunward,
as my eyes look onward
towards towering distances.

As glowering visages
scowl inwards,
poisoning their innards
with all that stress,
walling in hate
and dying in that
disgusting place.

Cowards cower
loosing seconds,
minutes and hours
to the anguish of
forgetting how to love.

But I am
the whispering
walker waking in
the early morning
and working on
my poetic warnings.
Even though, my boat
is already untethered
and I have already taken
off in this wild weather.

I say what I can,
give them a piece
of this tired mind,
and leave mankind.

My ship takes sail,
as they let themselves
sink into their own hells.

This merry man
carries cans
of kerosene,
cause he's getting ready
to burn down everything.

I’m so deluded
cuz I self-secluded,
claimed I wasn't included,
but I avoided the party.

I was the ghost only partly here,
whining about my fear
of dying alone
when I stayed at home
on purpose.

I'm the one that didn't call
friends or family at all.
Guess, I was too afraid
to get on the ball and fall,
better to choose to be by myself
than be rejected by everyone else.

They say it is time
to arm up your guards.
The enemy won’t get far
if we protect our own
front yard.

I say this isn’t
the battle that you think it is.
This isn’t a war you can win
with more violent actions.

They say
the enemy is at the gate
and this fight is what
will finally make us great.

The tools of destruction
won’t serve you here,
but words of compassion
and knowledge
will make our purpose clear.

They say to teach the history of race
will bring shame to our white face.
I say we need to learn,
so we can work to earn
the better world our children deserve.

That which divides
weakens all sides.
That which brings us together
bring hope into all lives,
cause we can unite
in love and understanding.

**** your high society
and your sense of propriety.
It violates human decency,
suffocating what's unique in me.

So, I prefer the freaks.
There is beauty
in the scars underneath,
the experiences that free
true artistry and empathy.

I don't behave properly
and could never be that stodgy,
dodgy trickster that tries to
live up to a standard no one fits in.
I'll take the stew of life and mix in
different perspectives,
cuz I'm not made for
your standard objections,
or corporate objectives.

Rules and norms are always changing
relatively rearranging
base on social standings
and mood fluctuations;
So, I will pass on all of that.

It is better to know up front
that I don’t fit in,
so there’s no way I can win.
Especially when,
I can't be classified as a normal guy.

Hell, I don't know why
someone would even try.

They try to keep
the deep blue deep
inside a plastic cup,

but I open my eyes,
point them towards
the turquoise sky
flying but never
getting high enough.

Break the clouds,
pierce the veil,
reveal the stars
that cook themselves
like I do.

Circle the curve
of time and space,
faster than the pace
I make to take
first place
in life’s race.

Inside my skull
a universe unfolds
as I write new rules.

Falling faster
as the atmosphere
incinerates my skin.

What horrible pain,
what a terrible shame,
but like the phoenix
I want to burn
and rise again.

I am not the mystic sword
imbued with powers
and stored in a
gray scarred stone,
not wielded well
but a time worn,
battled weary blade.

There was no fate
for which I was born.
Instead, I was
weighed down
by a heavy heart
pumping out
uneven beats
of poetry
to the point of
collapsing.

The future was
not something certain
but patterns
easily perceived
recognizing what
I’ve seen,
I kept trying to
tell you the truth
and it broke me in two.

Like the oracle,
I saw through
to what life had in store
if people refused
to really use
the brains they
were given,
but no one
would listen.

So, with a tattered scabbard
my edges were dulled.
I lost my sharpness.
My bladecont.
reflected all the world’s darkness.
Until I could no longer see,
past the fog that caused this
tragic madness.

There’s a cauldron bubbling
with all that’s troubling,
doubling dangerous ideas
that might someday
thrive here.

There’s a hub bub dubbed
frivolous, a contrivance
sprung from some pittance,
some door that was locked before
but now welcomes admittance.

There’s a dream between us
fanciful as a carnival
and as adventurous
as a traveling circus.

Soft slippers swirling,
dancers twirling and whirling
like a whirlwind of
brown hair spinning.

Inspiring spiraling spires,
while neurons fire
arms flail in exaltation,
an ecstasy of what could be
culminating in brand new dreams.

These rare things,
like gems sparkling,
go on harkening
to some happy future
whilst dulling the pain
of past darkness.

Is it strange to say,
I rarely feel this way?
Is this hope and joy,
that has been deployed
for my own amusement?

I dream of all the poetry
the world has written for me,
all the visions that I see
of sweet swelling glory.

A fountain of eternal stories,
a well of rushing water
ready to run over
and wash away
all the filth of despair
and give me something
for which I can care.

Green leaves over there
grand stars in the sky,
grey clouds fill the air
whilst kind hearts make me cry.

When I am well rested,
my spirit is invested
in all that surrounds,
all those sights and sounds,
a fabulous parade
of colors and shades.

In love and heartbreak,
I write what I take,
think, and explore
philosophies
and sights I adore.

Bursting at the seams,
crying out “I want more.”
There is always
something beautiful
just beyond the evening’s yawn
before and after
all of my dreams are gone.

The corporate Kool-Aid
is not made to save
but made to play
big money games.

Business interests,
all of those investments
put men in bad positions.

Twisted ambitions
move forward towards
more and more
without exploring
what the opposite
of profit is for.

Infinite growth of capital
is impossible.
We will fall
like dominoes.

To gain people must be adept
at acting bereft
of any decency
of behaving without any empathy,
and if they get caught
other enemies of humanity
will grant them clemency
because they make the policies.

What was once illegal
becomes law you see,
but only for the real wealthy.

It is a sick form of necromancy
that resurrects bad aspects
of previous political ideologies,
and condemns good men
and women to poverty.

My quick wit
put me on her
stupid hit list,
but her hitmen
took their best shots
and missed again.

I’m a sneaky little devil,
a daring dancer who dwells
just this side of the soil
and Dante’s hell.

Guilty pleasures lick skin
pressing in confessing sins
that aren’t that bad.
In fact, in the past
those where the best
pleasure I ever had.

Now they lay
behind me
as I walk away,
every step
another day
to forget
the laughing corpses
that paint my path
of painful yesterdays.

The ****** bones
of this broken lunatic
howling back at
other fanatics,
as the circus of
the ****** I love
just clowns around town
for a little bit.

Memories burn before me,
dancing clouds of smoke
as ashes aspire to fly higher,
leaving behind burnt offerings
of all those silly passing things.

Pleasure is partly pursued
by all the body parts
I never used, just viewed
and stored for some
later date.

With a flick of my fast wrist
I purge myself of all of this
frustration, leaking my lust
in tiny but thick droplets
and fall asleep cont.
on my sticky sheets.

I'm tired of the ghost town
that this host found
where there's no sound
and salvation isn’t a choir
required to sing here.
The loss just stings dear
when the message isn't clear.

So much is different
but nothing seems to change.
Desire is just a flame
that burns brighter
and higher than any forest fire.

Life isn't a white trash
trailer wife that won't hit back
when you beat her.
It isn't meeker
than the soft poetry speaker.

It is a strange picture
that I am trying to save,
the one you keep trying to take
and put it in its proper place.
Instead, I put it in a heart shaped
piece of jewelry you misplaced,

but now I want to
shove that lost locket
in your empty eye socket,
then light a rocket
right up your keister.

Today is dull gray
with dark shades
that portend
bitter ends,
as I keep yelling, telling
humans what’s coming.

Instead, of people listening,
I get the busted lip
of a trusted friend
trying to **** in
and help again.

Why should I
be surprised
when I get
a back hand
and black eyes
from those guys
whom I'm trying to save.

They’re not my enemy
but when I look and see
a crowd of red hats screaming,
ignorance blooming and seaming
to overcome any sort of reasoning,

I wonder who are they
and how did they come to be
people who suffer bigots so easily?
How do they let the greasy
****** con-men con them
into hating other women
men and children?
How have they not learned
their history lessons?
How do fools gather
more like minds to them,
then abuse the innocent
whilst using and confusing
the voting populace?

In the past I thought I had this
perfect proposition to position
myself as an artist and arbiter
of the truths kind hearts hold dear,
but it has become crystal clear;

In observing I find uncertainty
turns towards dark side
Jedi knight philosophy
but a little expanded when
uncertainty leads to anxiety,
and anxiety leads to fear,
which then translates into hate,
when one man comes to justify
corruption, and cruelty in the guise
of business suit wearing guys
even when it’s just with lies
they elevate and celebrate
the pigs who make them feel great.

The coyotes,
sick slick tricksters,
the politicians
priests, and
one more revolting man,
with gleaming eyes
of depravity;

The children scream,
and run away
to be recaptured
like they are prey,

pretty flowers
no longer bloom
as monsters pull
pink petals apart.

Pervy dictators,
and other pedophiles
rip innocence,
and ravage flesh.

Tiny arms
bone thin,
refugee hearts
broken again,
and again
as the beast
and his
greedy friends
**** and take them
violently
from childhood
to dark shadows
of desecration,
with vile acts of violence.

Not a QAnon conspiracy
but real horrors,
and I would wreck
a million cars
to crush
that traffic.

Tears of rage
burn,
and I would
like my turn
to turn
the world
of those who
victimize our youths
to chain gangs
that return
pain for pain,
dealing out
unrelenting
sentences,
with no parole
or room
for them to cajole
any leniency.

Look at your mind running
a million miles a second,
thoughts provoking obsessions
as you keep on stressing,
stewing, and second guessing
cause life has too many
variables to measure.

Half a mind on the future
while the other half
is stuck in the past,
so the present is tense
when your measurements
cannot fathom all the trends.
Maybe, you could use
a holiday with all your friends.

You’re edging towards
a serious coronary,
cause this level of intensity
is nowhere near ordinary,
so sit back jack and relax.

I’m not judging you harshly
or trying to be controlling.
I just wanted to pass on the truth.
It’s not much but I feel since I can
understand then I probably owe you
and this information is passed on
with a strong sense of compassion.

The rain falls
into the beautiful
river that runs
around the bend,
flowing and moving
with high pressure winds,
settling in the ocean
then evaporating and floating
up into the clouds
to reincarnate
as rain drops
that fall all
over the world
coming back to
that river again.

I got back fat
that barely *****,
and a front **** gut
with a belly button
**** hole
the jiggles
to and fro.

There are too many distractions,
too many actions to prevent
seeing other men, woman,
and children as humans.

It’s too easy to go a whole day
avoiding seeing people in pain.
It’s too easy to let politicians
and powerful corporate interest
rewire your tired and poorly fed brain,
to let weak rhetoric whip up and inflame,
making normal people act insane.

All the while letting strangers
suffer and die without questioning why.
  
But so much has been bothering me,
like how is it so easy for you to behave cruelly?
I want you to not be numb,
to see humanity in everyone.
Do not let the digital distance
keep you from the severity
of this instance,
or get doped up with
the self-satisfaction
of shared positions
created by weak religions
or the illusion of a binary system
that relies on one source of corruption
feeding both parties of politicians.

I need you to be freed from greed,
to look and really see other human beings,
to read the stories written in the skin
of generations after generations
of nations and nations
of human kin.

To see each bullet punctured body
as a failure,
each bombed burnt body
as a failure
each person murdered by the authorities
as a failure,
each time we chose profits
over the wellbeing of the world
as a failure.

I want you to see the dying
of those many miles apart
who are trying to survive
and not look away.

I want you to know
that if we are truly
kind and moral people
who want to be treated fairly
then we can’t treat death as casually,
as social media and daytime trash tv.

I am tired
and full of junk,
just a mess
of cluttered madness
stuck in my trunk
along with the skunk
that makes me stink,
makes me think
I will never be
the inspired version
of the poetic me
that came before,
the one who could
write four or more
poems a night,
and read a book or two
each week.

In fear of death
toxic products
sell themselves.

The landscape becomes
a graveyard of
rusted metal
and worn-out tires
surrounded by
green growth,
gray gravel roads,
and massive
towers with long
cylindrical tubes
that obscure the
heavenly scenery.

Boundaries are cornered by
fields of unfulfilled
corny potential
and metal fences
that gives the pretense
of security.

Twisted tangles of tiny blue flowers
are pursued by the perfect pollinator
as black birds perch precariously
on long stalks of wheat swaying in
the wind till the bird takes off again,

while a sassy sweat bee
keeps stalking me
cuz, I am super sweet.

Cut that country music in half
and laugh at that,
cause it has become so weak and sad,
sorry sentiments bend in a season
of uninformed political reasons
for patriotism,
a schism, and vision
for dumbing down.
Until, this clown
self-selects
for Darwin’s award
of a dumb death
that makes the rest
of humanity
smarter on average.

I close the curtains,
let darkness consume
my small bedroom
till blue light blooms
from the small screen
that sits between me
and everything.

In my resistance
I live a safe distance
from a regular
human existence.

Digits tapping out
syllabic strokes of
love and doubt,
whilst constantly
struggling
and pursuing
truths others
weren’t using
or even viewing
to expand myself.

A universe within,
the garden I tend
as I parcel out
tiny packages
of unused wisdom.

Light becomes
darkness
and night
turns to day.

A day to live
and die again
awaking refresh
as a new version
of myself
gets up and repeats
similar patterns.

I’m a hypocritic
hypnotist,
trying to
mesmerize you
with words
that fit
my poetic
scheme
whilst
directing
your actions,
but never
acting on
the words
I pass on.

A tricky teacher
or corrupt preacher
who doesn’t
learn my own
lessons,
ignores
my own
confessions,
whilst professing
deep unused
wisdom.

With a lot to learn,
I give men
instruments
for their
grand progression
but seldom use
those tools.

It's technical proficiency,
consistency, transparency,
and coherency
that he needs
to transplant the seeds,
transposing the pearls of wisdom
he is exposing
as plants that need
feeding and watering
for their growing,
whilst showing
what this knowing
fool is good for.

Grade school memories
of hidden recesses,
the depths
that he still possesses,
parts of his inner being,
poetry playing out in partly
remembered past dreams
that he pastes as prose
to placate the thorn that grows
despite that cancerous rose
attached.

Treacherous as
the lecherous man that’s
drawn to the hottest bodies
just to be scorched by their
blazing beauty,
able before disintegration
to translate his fascination
into something glorious.

Verbs become his identity,
acting out absurd words that
breach the vain veil
we used to hide
our truer selves.

Today is the third
a day to work
cuz I prefer
to not be disturbed
by the holiday hustle.

I don't like that bustle,
so if I can work
through the weekend
to get to the work week
and avoid people
who bore me
then it fits perfectly
with my developing story.

The sky is eclipsed
by dragon lips
that snort and smoke
while white wisps
work their way
across a
turquoise day
as observers say
“man that's a strange.”

We cannot get back
to the past
that we once knew
cuz that would undo
all the progress
we've made.

Life's not like
a video game.
We don't get to redo,
no replaying
going through
old levels
that we want to.

So, if it's just one shot
one life that we're given,
one moment to live in
this game we're playing.
Then it's not about winning.
It's not about losing.
It's not about gaining another day.

I won't see you after I die
but you can always stop by
and read what I write.

I was made for retreating,
enjoying the fickle flicker
of hair follicles
slowly flowing,
falling and
folding over
as I am feeling the
fleeting airflow
of the early evening.

As the ***** splatters,
it's not a fatter bladder
that really matters,
but the caffeine
that's been mean
to my work and
sleep routine
making me
a ******* machine
that's missing
a lot of things
by running back and forth
to the bathroom.

I begin to end the wind
that whines in my mind,
and unwind the vines of time,
cause I hope to uncurl
the twine and find
a spark of the divine
behind the flesh facade
you have put on
to service everyone,
whilst denying yourself,
the kindness you are trying
to give away every day.

I'm apprehensive
cause when
people mention
their own fears
it causes me tension.

But, I'm so glad
I brought my
small black
notepad,
so I can write notes
to pass the time,

cause I got 8 hours
of contemplating
devastating
and frustrating
lessons in waiting,
learning patience,
while debating
if now is the time
for innovating,
or for immolating
all of my
addicting devices,
and going back to
a more naturalistic
worldview.

This is what
I work out,
and it works to
ease me through
boring afternoons.

This will not stop
till we block cops
who get bought off
by the corporate crooks
who cook their books
spicing them up with
human suffering
and the law system
that keeps buffering
cruel politicians,
preventing the poor
from rising
while the filthy rich
gets more by demoralizing
and demonizing
the poverty stricken
along with all those
who are different.

So, wicked men keep working
wedge issues into
every TV appearance
to give the appearance
of righteousness
while stifling
true social movements
that try to move men
towards the world were
we can all strive for betterment,

but for now, we barely even get
cheap out of court settlements.