She doesn't want me,
keeps the cauldron
barely boiling
while I wear her
short leash,
knowing
it is not healthy.

Thus, I decide
I won't settle down
and stick around
in her life,
because  
I am not
the settling down
type.

So, I don't
understand why
I get jealous
when she
talks about
the other guys.

I didn't get
an invite
to my
high school
reunion,

but that's alright
high school
was a rough time
in my life.

So, why
am I
but hurt?

I say
I don't want to
live or write that way.
I don't do it
for the money or the fame.

So, why does
it cause me pain
to see less gifted
writers get it
when I tried to deny
any desire
but self-improvement?

I am tired
stretched
in wretched
stress
and social agony.

So, I close my eyes,
lie still to see
the night find
its calming darkness.

Till,

the bright lamplights
make me restless,
while I was trying to rest
in the late evening.

Instead, the white knife
lightning strikes
leaves me barely breathing,
halfway up and leaving
as my chest starts heaving
from the stress I have been
perceiving.

There is no sleeping,
only more frustration
as I lay awake
in an elevated state
of social anxiety.

I long for some silence,
a moment of reflection,
a break from my current state
of constant vexation,

but all the news stations
are busy playing
up all of the discord
this nation is facing.

Banners displaying
hate and race bating,

anti-Semites
run rampant
in modern day life,
as ****** makes
a grand return.

Nero watches
Rome burn
while wearing
a spray tan
covering up
a mental sun burn.

So, its my turn
to add to the acid,
and I do not fail
with my poetic tactic.

Makes me wonder
do my words
help one bit
or am I
another *******
stirring up
more political
*******.

White haired head
leans in
to his hands
to hide the tears
that threaten
to swallow
the last bits
of his resilience.

An American tragedy
all those families
crying out loud,
what a shame
for America the proud.

An anti-Semite
takes another life
tonight.

Another,
skin head,

another
neo ****,

and the president
panders to them
with hidden
nods to
the ideas
they salute.

Makes me
want to puke,
or drop from a plane
with no parachute
because these dudes
have no compassion,
and smashing
my body into the
form of a pancake
might make
people take

I am much better now.
I do not wake in pain
softly crying.

But sometime in 2003,
probably close to
the days I was supposed to
look after
my baby brother,
I tried to die.

I tried to swallow
the whole small bottle
of his ADD medicine.

Like a selfish *****
I called him in sick
cause I did not wish
to pass alone.

Spent the day
in a manic state
questioning
everything
while I was
tweaking.

Then in
the afternoon
I took him
and my friend
to see the Grinch.

After that
the cops came
and took me to
a safe place
where I choked down
charcoal
to puke up
those poisonous pills.

It took over ten years
for me to
work through
enough of
the pain
so, I could write at night
about it
without feeling
its sharpness
again.

I am actually doing
pretty **** good.

I wanted to want you enough
that I could be swept up,
not just distracted by
our enacted lust.

I wanted to do more then
spend time being bored
as your daytime boyfriend,
be more than a weekend
***** you are constantly
breaking in,
whilst I am pleasuring you
then leaving
cause I have
more important
things to do.

I wanted what most poets
aspire to,
to desire you
like an epic poem proclaims,
to feel your name
inflamed
on my skin
as you devour my flesh
and I sink in
to this loving authenticity
living in tranquil domesticity.

I wanted to want something normal,
but I am constantly seeking
the new thoughts
that need speaking.
I am constantly watching
and learning
which leaves little time
for burning
in your passionate presence.

I wanted you,
but not enough
to change
because I love
my freedom
more than the chains
love makes.

Let me tell you a story
something deep
and meaningful,
something
that links us
to the universal.

Let me tell you a story
something you can see,
something you can touch,
something you can believe.

Let me tell you a story,
something that helps you deal,
maybe fictional,
but let it be something
you feel could be real.

Let me tell you a story,
and when I am gone
even if you forget me
I hope my stories
travel on in your memories.

My sharpest parts
are parallel
to your dull bits.

My quick wits
slice open
your dangling bits
as all of your *******
leaks out of
that flesh bag
and broken brain
you claim
is great.

Sic sewage water
backs up
and flows out
when you shout about
your social outrage.

Stinking mess
of hateful rage
cause you hate your days
so, to feel better
you want to spread
the pain
like spoiling butter
on crusted up
and rotting bread.

Halfway dead,
walking corpse.
What a waste
of potential.
You could have
sharpened your pencil
and penned
a symphony
of love and wonder
for our shared humanity,
but all you let out
are vapid spouts
of fetid breath.
Till, you burn yourself
with all that sourness.

Robot boys,
metal jammed
god dammed
hot gears burning,
synthetic sounds
static blaring,
nobody caring.

Chrome gleaming
engine screaming
in lust
ready rust or bust
a robust nut.

Don’t startle them
or they will bolt.

Pre-programed
young to old man
machines made
to work
drink
and act like jerks
while they are
****** around.

Till they
finally shutdown,
no reboots or sequels
just scrap
for the junkyard.

I put a period
at the end
the sequence,
despite the lack
of them in
previous
stanzas,
just to indicate
that this is where
the end was made.

The punctuation
is intense
confusing
common sense
cause poetry rules
are not the same
as basic grammar school
English rules.

It bothers me
to want anything
unnecessary.

Desire seems
to be
compulsory
due to my
humanity,

a built in
glitch
in the
system.

I want
games, and
new clothing.

It is illogical,
wasteful
when pleasures
can be gain
freely.

Nature is open
to me.
The library
has all I can read
like a literary
all I can eat
word buffet
which is
intellectually sweet.

Then there is
the wanting
of someone
who is
unhealthy
for me.

Like a disease,
dangerous
and exhausting
costing
my sanity.

It bothers me
to have this
desire leash
tugged regularly,

but I know
with certainty
the only time
I will desire
nothing
will be
when death
takes me.

So, what
am I to do?

She sits in a field,
blowing off
flowing petals
from old dying flowers
as the fall sun
sets a light aura outline
around her entire body.

Long ***** blond hair
hugs her slender neck
then scatters
across her back
and the shoulders of
her lovely sunflower dress.

She spies me
with eyes of innocent
curiosity,
beckoning me
to come forth.
So, I move as she
commands.

Little pointed ears
protrude
from her messy hair.
Deep blue glowing eyes
study me quizzically.

I return the glance
eye line following her
small hands
to her slender
but dangerously
muscular arms,
then down to the side
where a short blade resides
resting menacingly.

With the voice of the wind
she asks me.
“Who are you?”cont.

I stutter in response
choking on my confusion,
thinking “this must be
some sort of Lord of The Rings
illusion.”

Hot sparks dart dangerously
from her flexing fingers
which are pointed at me.
I feel the burn
of sharp strands of
white lighting.

Daylight dulls
into an unconscious void,
and as I slip into nothingness,
I hear her whisper.
“Do not follow me.”

The light of a white
pale moon in the sky
meets my eyes
as I wake.

She is gone,
and my body aches,
but a small part of me
longs to chase after
and capture her
for the sake of my curiosity.

For the sake of my sanity
and safety
I decline that dumb urge
and decide to keep
the secret of this strange being
for my dreams
only.

History is a pendulum
swinging perilously
back and forth
over our shared humanity.

Slicing bitterly
at the air above me
with a visceral hatred
for all the good things
I hoped we could be.

Kinder to hater,
forgiving to denier
loving to crier
sharper it slices
cutting the air cleanly
leaving me feeling it keenly.

Wild rhetoric
going viral,
virus of ******* words
spreading like the plague,
a poisonous and bubonic phage.
I struggle to stop it,
this rising tide
of tired tirades,
republican charades
turning different skin shades
into the enemy.

These neighbors are our family,
but the pendulum sees them
separated by the serrated blade,
exhausted by the hate
and violence that blazes.

History returns to sicken
my sorrowfully stricken
heartbeat.

Desire is the thief of
a pleasant present moment.

Chivalry is misogyny
demeaning the feminine,
implying weakness
that needs defending,
and unending serving
by a noble male authority.

Courtesy in counter
is gender neutral
merely seeks to help
in kind
those it finds
needs or could use
assistance.

The city seems to be
a complex community
built around a series
of impoverished blocks
designed to move behind
strip malls and cracked sidewalks.

Long roads bare blaring billboards,
big shiny signs with adverts,
no cryptic intent hidden in them
just blatant contempt
for the poverty stricken
men and women
who can't afford to spend
their work week pay
on a holiday weekend.

So, the daily expenses
swallow them whole
as they drown in
a dark debt hole
and all of those
pricey baubles
make them feel
shallow and cold,
turn them bitterly old
cause the lies they were told
empty their hard-working soul,
till they get lost in the sea
of wanting the shiny new things;
Becoming devoured by
the business side
of the big city.

Not my biological daughter but
there is a well of
overflowing
pride and love.

Little teenage poet,
tiny bookworm
like me;

I remember when
you were barely
four or three
and I would read
stories to you
before you
went to sleep.

“Another one,
another one,
another one,
please.”

Then just as I
was about to leave
smiling and saying
go to sleep
you would offer
to read to me.

Little smiling devil
how could I resist,
“just one more story
then to bed after it.”

I do not have
my father’s laugh,
or even half
of his drunk
and high
life style.

I can’t tie one
on after work
to ease the stress
and the haunting
history of hurt.

Shoulders heavy with
the family life
he was working
to get,
but I am not
the settling down,
working myself
into the cemetery ground
kind of guy.

Body shoved hard
against the metal.
Back cracked
against the lock,
all my books,
knocked, dropped,
and lost
by school mates
passing by.

Rage face curling
in a horrible form.
Like a shape shifter,
I watched her
change faster
then any monster
in movies
or on tv.

So, daily
I wished
to be invisible,
not a superhero
just a perfect dodger
so, no one could see me,
and I could
sit peacefully
reading and thinking
about everything
instead of living in
daily anxiety,
jumping
at the slightest touch
overly alert, and panicking
too much.

I spent years
with poor circulation
nerve ends strangled
in abject agony,
following your insanity
while blaming myself
for the way
you obeyed your rage,
but I might be getting
a little bit better.
I might be
a little less bitter.

I spent years on fire
like a burning house
seeing every optimistic
inch of me
defeated and incinerated
by your incessant nagging,
and jack slapping.
Till, I nearly choked
trying to breathe easy.
When it took
two swallows
to catch my
anxious breath,
one gulp
then halfway down
another gulp
so, I didn't drown
in my own saliva.

Now my freedom
is a bitter sweet
symphony
and though others insist,
I do not need
you to be
in my life,
do not need
the present
or even the slightest hint
of past strife
to be happy
and complete.

When she takes her pain,
the pitch perfect darkness
that has pursued her,
the sorrow from all of those
who misused her,
and uses it
to illuminate
the void in which
other hurting souls
ruminate.

When despite
the years of abuse
he makes good use
of said experiences,
pardoning most grievances,
attempting to prevent
similar suffering
for others,
and his first instinct
is to offer assistance
to those in need
and those who
don't really need it.

When there have been
too many unkind men
knocking
and trying
to take
what was not theirs,
and anger
stirs in her,
when strangers
come near,
but despite
the rage and fear
she spends her years
studying and working
to overcome
previous tragedies
and share those lessons
with the rest of humanity.

When one child cries
and despite
the lack of age
another little wonder
of human flesh
expresses
genuineness
and tries to
calm the troubled youth.

Blood on the red rusted blade,

Blood on the bed sheet
where we once laid,

Blood on the ornate
porcelain plate

Blood in my throat
along with the
black burning bile
coming back up
my esophagus
and out of my mouth
in slick drips
of ***** and spit,

Blood in my soul
drowning me in
crimson style,

Blood in the hot headlights
blazing in my wrecked retinas,

Blood in the ground
rooted in my hometown,
you will find the blood
everywhere
if you come around here,

Same sick stain
paints my pillow
and my satin sheets,
luckily for me
I bought a red pillow case
so that blood
just blends in,

Blood on my hands

Blood in your veins

Blood in my heart
beating out loudly
driving me insane

Thud, thud, thud,
more blood mixed in the mud.
It never ends.
My spirit rends
itself asunder.
I can even feel the blood
in the coming thunder

Blood, blood, blood, blood.

I didn’t find my faith
behind a wooden pew,
from the singing choir,
or the books that I looked through.
The crucified figure
just hangs up there to wither
whether I believe
or feel I’ve been deceived.

I got no faith to speak of
I got no god to seek but
I can bare this burden
by myself.

Calvary ain’t doing it for me,
and despite the lie
salvation doesn’t come from,
a sip of symbolic wine.
You eat fake ******* flesh
and say that it is fine,
but I don’t want to waste
anymore of my time.

I got no faith to speak of
I got no god to seek but
I can bare this burden
by myself.

You can keep your wooden cross,
and I will take all that I loss
though the burden maybe heavy
it won’t crack my back
cause I like my facts
they keep me standing
semi steady.

I got no faith to speak of
I got no god to seek but
I can bare this burden
by myself.

He is just a man,
one lonely figure
left to sit here
and waste away
in the nursing home.

A man
with a withered hand
aching with
a newly acquired
arthritic fire
he desired
to be rid of,

wrinkled flesh
worn thin
and browning
with age spots.

Severe stares
of certain despair
live here
and are set to the tune of
a decade of love
and almost a century
of compounding
losses.

Each day he loses
the outer edges
of consciousness,
all willful fire
slowly simmering to
a soft boil,
then to a less urgent heat.
Until, he finds his feet
numb with diabetes,
then gone as he becomes
an amputee.

Forgotten father figure
fallen to the ravages
of a time war
no one has ever won.

Life is short.
Love is sweet,
so, it doesn't
ever bother me
to see
two men
wearing
mustaches
with
thick eyelashes
making
suggestive
statements
or subtle
movements
about their
shared
*******
affection.

Its been a long time
since I was rolling through
stopping by just to visit you.

It’s not a long drive
but the memory
of all we loved
and all we lost
isn't something that
I long to see.
Its more like a serious specter
staring down on me
while I'm checking out
our sad shared history.

So, when I don't stop
don't think that I
never gave a ****
or that I didn't love
all the time we shared
and all the stuff we did.

I'm just trying to move on
beyond the smiles and laughter,
beyond the time when
the grim reaper
chased after and captured
your frail form.

I love you
but your already long gone
so, I'm moving on.

There are some sins
that feel like
a constant burning,
shame so deep
your stomach turning
becomes a relief.

Good grief,
I am glad
that isn't me.
I may not be
perfectly at ease
but my shame
doesn't torture me
all consumingly.

It just buzzes in
the background
discreetly
like a handful
of lost honey bees.

It’s a sorry sick visitation
of your life in animation
cause everything you do
is humorous to you.

Colorful sketches
and comedic timing
set up the words
and keep some
for rhyming,
as Instagram,
Twitter, and Facebook
miming
meant to impress
those who
you think are watching.

Social psychology,
human imagination
puts us in a lie
with our horrible
miscommunication.

So, we watch the blue water
burn with all that fire
wait and see
the ocean bleed
because what we desired
was for people to pay attention
to our overgrown ego.

Oh, how it makes me smile.
How my mouth widens
like little tropical islands
spread on for miles
in continental drift.
How with one quip
I find my wit
the perfect fit
for the intelligent
philosophers and artists.
It is the heart of solace
so, please know this
your unique presence
makes me very happy.

Sincere hearts
no longer entreat
the love of fools
they once deigned
to desire and share
affection’s grace.

Instead, they
behold the tender blush
of a red-light passion
passing faithfully
unto the dust
that scatters itself
in eternity.

Bereft of depth
the cattle calls
a chattering clutter
of noises that bothers
saner minds
and their ****** daughters.

When fools ferment
deep discord
from a good temperament
turning sweet wine
into a bitter product
wilting from some
rotten vine,

and honest hearts
no longer entreat
the wisdom of fools
they once deigned
to share
humanity’s goodwill
and ever shrinking grace with.

Let them loose their tongues
and see drool dripping
like a sea of diarrhea.

For these things are
matters of darker dreams,
past times parting
partial truths
to the cruel schemes
of the obtuse
and greedy hearts
who abuse
all those
who challenge their views.

In all of our wisdom
we say knowledge is power,
but where is the power
in the information I devour?

When all of the words turn sour
and I lose a lifetime of hours
in the pursuit of
the unknown
that I love.

When learning becomes my drug
the one that opens all pathways,
a million-fold facts untold.
Until, I am paralyzed
by everything above and below
and all the things that I know
I do not know.

Would it be better to remain tamed,
relieve myself of this searching game
and settle down to fit in
as a perfect upright citizen,
as a family unit living in
domesticated tranquility
and mundane docility?

Sorry, humility
isn’t my nature
I will thrive and die
on my curiosity.

We focus so intensely on
single snapshot moments.
Till, our vision burns and blurs,
and we cry because
our head and heart hurts.

We try to see everything,
because if we don't
we are afraid of
the good and bad things
that we might be missing.

In all of the stress
we miss
the things that could have
been the very best
for us.

With her longtime lover
seemly gone forever
she gets undressed
on a cold stone precipice.

Hands to her *******,
she opens her flesh
as her heart bounds
from her beautiful chest.
Then she begins
chasing that ****** beast.

Following the running red line
that her cherished heart
left behind
she finds
brown branches baring green
moving in the evening wind  
whilst obscuring local scenery.

That is where she fell
sobbing softly
“please come back to me.”

But the dam thing
never returned
and she never learned
how to feel love again.

The sound of stranger’s
laughing and talking
while they are walking
cannot compete

with the rough sound
of the rusty train
rolling in the distance,
cause it disintegrates
all other noises
that life makes.

The white grey clouds
that chase the days away
at a dragon’s pace
cannot contend with

the heavy
acid laced
horrors
that threaten
to overrun the heavens.

The brown tree’s
multi-colored leaves
with its’ long trunk,
and the white blooms
that flourish
under the moon’s
same colored glory,

will not thrive
or even survive
life in the cracks
of this concrete city.

The brown mound of earth
slightly elevated
to support the tree
the children played with
but our parents hated.

The big old gnarly thing
outer skin
always barking
rough against
my young flesh,
but I still climbed it.

The thick branch
that hung out
and let me lay back
to read a book
in privacy,
despite the threat
of gravity.

The way I relaxed
free from all below
an unobtrusive
lonely ******
who was outside
to escape
the black hole
of a home
where darkness reigned.

The pleasant wooden memory
like a ship at sea
which carried me
to my present
where all those
childhood dreams
are obscured
by time’s
unalterable course.

Aint' it a shame
I hear them complain
as clouds of smoke
circle their faces.

Tight jacket teens
glare at me
dangerously.

Tallest of the bunch
growls angrily,
"stop looking at me
puke face."

I turn away
but not fast enough
cause mister
tough stuff
has something more
in mind you see.

Stomping over all
indignantly,
he yells
"Hey,
you ignoring me?"

I try to move
faster than him,
but a shove in my back
makes it clear
this is a race
I won't win.

So, I face him.
Two years older,
might as well be
twenty-three
to my early teens.

He pushes me
back up against a tree,
then goes in to punch
me in the face,
but my face
does not remain
in that unsafe place.
So, he hits the tree.

Cursing loudly
with a mangled hand
slows him down,
but doesn't stop his friends.
They follow me
down the street
and beat me till
I am out of wind.

This is were
this poem ends.
There is no
sweet revenge.
Time goes on.
I don't see them again,
and this becomes something
distorted and fictionalized
in these poetic lines.

I used to think
that I was the one
who was being wronged,
that despite how I longed
to stay
the people I loved
kept pushing me away
or gunning their engines
till all that was left
was the cloud dust
that I was seeing.

I was the big brother
that he needed
but because of
the pain I was feeling,
I left that little kid
to make it on his own
in a horrible home,
and I stayed gone
even after our grandpa
had passed on.

The rivers are crossed
and ready to overflow
so, I cross myself,
wash my hands,
and try to
let all of my
**** dirt go.

There were
two friends
close as family to me,
but things got complicated,
one love inflamed
one week spent
in lust and passion.
Then I was left in pain.
So, I took off again,
hating some immature heart
that wasn’t even ready to commit:
Seeing her later
caused all delusions to pass
when I asked
about all that was wrong
and she cried back,
“you’d know
if you ever came around.”

So, I breath in
the smoke of
someone leaving
and keep seeing
my loved ones grieving
in my wake.

I promised I would be there
swore that I cared
and all that I wanted was
to stick around for
the one I loved,
but when she chose
someone else to be with
I couldn’t be more of a ghost.
Every once and while
she sends me a message
trying to update me
and how she is struggling
and almost always saying
how she misses me.
I always respond sparsely
sparing shallow sentiments
but never really get into
the meat of it.

I’m not the single server
of a heavenly host.
Despite how I boast
of a great and kind heart,
I have committed
more than my share of sins.

I need a poem
that pulls at
the very
core of me,

something
deep, soothing,
and extremely charming.

I'll only accept
the highest quality,
cause I am
searching
for something
to inspire me.

So, give me
a soft elegy,
or if you prefer
save a beautiful poem
for my eulogy,
just give me
a sneak peek.

Crushed corsages
crumbling in stress,
come with
multi-colored
corsets
that are tightened
till you
lose your breath;

Straighten
your spine
till you are
a perfect line,
and everyone
says
you are perfectly fine;

Sick expectations,
people pass
pathetic pleasantries
as they continue
judging thee
declaring,
whether you are
or are not
a special beauty.

The hourglass
was never our friend
cause we were just
blurs blown in the wind.

The air leaves
a sour taste
while time leaves
more wrinkles
on this human race.

A grey beard
doesn't denote
superior wisdom
or intellectual growth.
It doesn't guarantee
that the life we see
was lived happily
or even with
a sullen ease.

It just means
the wearer
lived on
a slightly
longer lease.

I drive against the wind
and watch the wheat bend
racing away
in the opposite direction.

I see the solar glare
stain my rearview mirror.
It is almost blinding,
reminding
me
of the glint
in her glasses.

It is nice to drive away.
Even though,
I was ready to stay,
she took that
decision away,
but I’m ok.

I wash my work clothes,
then softly scrub
the last remnants
of her perfume
from my tired flesh.

I erase
everything
she ever sent me,
every message,
every picture,
but I can't
bring myself
to delete
the seven digits
that could still
connect us.

I'm ready to move on
but not ready
to move on that far,
not yet.

It gets late
as I digest
what I just ate,
some greasy food
and horrible news.

Slumber sneaks in
and I barely feel
it taking me
against my will.

In my dream
I see a pudgy
pale faced
angry man,
skin glistening
with sweat
and thin streaks
of sick salivation
sliding down
the side of his
plush cheeks.

A rumbling voice
of desperate rage
vibrates congestedly
from his strangely
changing face.

Bulbous bulges
of tumorous flesh
expand
in random places
and irregular
rhythms.

His eyeballs explode
from constricting sockets,
causing small jelly chunks
of red, black, and white
to fly at my wide eyes,
while his mouth expands
pulling back to expose
many new emerging rows
of sharp, small, decaying,
black, brown, and yellowish teeth.

His skin ruptures,
stretching jaggedly
in unpredictable places
as he bellows angrily.
Slick gore covered flesh
falls from his form
seeming to smoke
with the putrid smell
rotting roast beef.

Not fully free from
the last bits
of human flesh
the creature
lunges at me,
slipping slightly
on the newly greased ground,
but recovering just as quickly.
Then just as his mouth
is about to chomps down
on my left arm.
I awake
safe from harm.

My computer still blaring
is now sharing
terrible scenes
of the latest
war atrocity.

There are corpses of women,
men, and children
with shrapnel shredded skin,
even little baby bodies
scattered amongst them
in a crater from
some local bombing.
Crimson streaks
trail the frail
disfigured forms
that family members
struggle to carry away.
Strangers moan in pain
not physical,
but spiritual,
and emotional.

My stomach turns
as I yearn
to return
to sleep,
cause I’d rather face
a fake nightmare beast
then see the horrors
stretched out before me
on my computer screen.

The world is a deep shadow
cast over
the cold shoulders
of strangers
who need not be
so deeply
lonely,

when each smile passed
could be a blast
of cherished sunshine,

and each kind word heard
could be a warm wind
the hold us up
and takes us in
a gentle hug.

In moments of
deep seated grief
it helps to see
and believe
that there are
other true hearts
that bleed
similar ink.

I don't want to
get hit with
your brickfist.

I'd rather
put a rubber mitt
on it
so, I go
bouncing off
when you punch me,

or make you miss
by doing something
super silly
like farting
so loudly
that I blow out
my belly button,
making you
laugh so hard
that you don't want to
hit me
anymore.

You short haired
soft lipped,
round hips;

You shining eyes
of hopeful poetry
that beckons me
in nighttime
and daylight dreams,
wearing a white tee
without any brand promoting
icons on it.

You fellow snow white
pale skin,
blinding tint
that is matching
mine,
so reflective
that I see
all of time
in each crevice
and wrinkle.

You false hope,
heart of a
never was world
that never will
exist
only making more real
the pain I feel
in this aching loneliness.

Better I bang my head
against that
brown brick wall
till I fall
then let my heart break
with the fake
thoughts of you
who are
nothing but
an ill-conceived fantasy.

He’s a huffed up
tough stuff,
bulbous
but head,
shifty show pony
shuffling up
cause he thinks
he is so well-bred.

He’s a bad boy nuisance
with his lack of patience
and eloquence,
no verbal skills to speak of
cause his language
usage
is at less then
age ten
level.

It is so frustrating
cause when I go on explaining
why this situation
is so degrading
people just say
I am player hating.

It was marble mess,
shattered stone
and ****** distress.

It was so confusing.
If you are asking them
they’ll say that
it was a tragic accident
that left those men
trembling.

Button pushing
tragedy
unreality,
because in this piece
I turn fiction
into poetry.

I take the normal responses
I spent a lifetime observing,
use strange alchemy,
and make short
snapshot stories;

Shift and distort
magic metaphors
to make them contort
to what I believe
is a truth
others need to see.

Thus, this was a calamity,
crowd forming
a fake flock of family
making a community
from a small sub-section
of humanity.

To see some
unnamed thing
is not what I am pointing to.

To understand how we
can share a reaction
then after that
still walk away
from the unity
of human suffering
stumbling back to
our shacks to do
what led to
the same sorrow
we just viewed.

Tomorrow
is today
and they
will not think
about the pain
so, I will not bother
to name it.

Like life
there is seldom
a satisfactory end
or a reasonably
easy origin
to understand
all that keeps
happening.

The grass is wet and warm
from last night’s storm,
dangerously slick
but there are certain spots
where my heel still sticks.

Places where it
takes a little effort
to free myself.

There are vines
of people and time
that intertwine
with my intentions,
sometimes for the better
other times
for stuff
I'd rather not mention.

But no matter
when or where I am
there is always
something pulling,
deep and urging
like the tides
that are calling
my sea body
back to salt water.

I try to stay,
talk and play
with those I love
but there is just
something
that makes me
need to be
moving
even though
it might be
extremely lonely.

When strangers sit together
they still exist alone.

When they wander in
the wet weather
without their friends
there is silence,

the same silence
that stares sullenly
at a tablet, or phone screen
without reacting
to any human being
in the general area.

There are always a few
who long to
break through
the silence
and speak with
others who have
no business
other then
sitting and waiting.

Spirits waning
from some
strange rejection,
not outright
but at daylight
when strangers
look right
at each other
then turn away
nervously
refusing
to speak.