He sat,
sweetly serenading
the elderly lady.
Their hands
were clasp,
and she relaxed
as the pain
of living
slowly faded.

This was his gift
to take something
many were happy
to give.
With soft words
and strange energy
he channeled
his humanity.

A willing ear
open to hear
all songs
and melodies
of heart ache
and physical pain.

So, he sat
and passed
a chicken sandwich
to a strange old woman.
He listened and heard
all that she said
with and without words,
and for a moment
just a brief interlude
in the darkness
of her daily life
there was a sense
of love and kindness.

Hazel eyes
of cosmic wisdom
and compassion
he did not
see strangers in pain
and walk past them.

He sat,
with a sobbing stranger
who needed someone to listen,
gave him a ride,
let him use his cellphone,
and spent more then
a minor moment
willing to hear
what the stranger had to say
as tears moved
across a tattooed face.

Maybe it was
a fruitless endeavor
to expend energy
on people
society
had discarded,
the deeply scarred
and charred bits
of burnt out
hearts,
maybe one moments
is not enough
time to undue
a lifetime of abuse,

but he sat,
kind hearted
ears open
and willing
listen.

We can’t be expected
to be happy all the time
and at this point
I am doing fine
mostly.

Except this week
has been kind of
out of the ordinary
for me.

I am more tired
then I am used to,
been studying
the abuse
people go through.

I’m not surprised
about how
our government lies,
more concerned
how people
let themselves
be deceived.

I’m not surprised
that people are angry,
just concerned
about what has earned
their animosity.

So, I stare at still stocks,
look at photos
of children
being treated
worse than strays,
children being locked away
in silver gray
fenced cage.

Normally, I keep
that darkness
stewing in my
unconscious,
but this week
my gut is churning me,
tears threaten to
live stream.

This week
isn’t the worst one,
and I am sure
the sparkling
version
of me
will
make its
grand reentry
but right now
human suffering
is rightfully
making me
suffer internally.

All things change.
Rivers shift
their paths
and find
new points of release.
That water we see
will never flow
exactly the same.

All things change.
Feelings find
different levels
and different people
feel differently
every single day.

All things change.
Branches shift
with wind and water,
swaying and growing
at the same time,
living today,
but dying partly tomorrow.

All things change.
Jobs are lost.
Cities expand.
Businesses move.
Libraries do to.
Even loved ones
move on.

All things change.
We remember
and forget,
prune and regrow,
even though we know
we to will die.

I am just this side of
the lunar light
lying naked
open to display this
broken vessel.

My sanity
should be questioned
as I am questing
for the truth in art
for the part of my heart
that is made to
blow up and bleed
all over the
white screen.

I am sinking
and self-elevating
at the same time,
a caffeine fiend
and barely seen
best friend
to humanity
who works
behind the
behind the scenes.

My mind is moved to distractions
but loathed to take action
as I sit and ponder
that which all humans squander.
Till the ticking beast
finally beats me.

Introverted, with frantic outbursts
of playful manic energy,
unlike Freddie Mercury
I am not going slightly mad.
I am already way up
that particular banana tree.

Purple pleasures
poisonous pain,
nature’s perfect
colored flowers
hover
near our hearts.

The numbers don’t match.
They really don’t work.
I sit and scratch
my head
till my scalp hurts.
I add up all the variables
subtracting what’s right
and I am still confused.
It keeps me up all night.

The panel is cracked,
but it still opens when
I pull it back,
peeling
fat ***** of wooden skin
to expose
whatever lurks within.

I open it up
just enough
to look inside,
trying to put
pieces of my past
memories together
even though
they are like parts
of different puzzles.

My head pokes through
and I can see
that old tv,
the Nintendo,
and a little me
playing Mario three.

I can see the
soft recliner
laying back
as my baby brother
plays with those
little lettered blocks.

I push farther in
even though I am afraid,
terrified
that I might get
trap inside
my previous life.

I am trying to
recapture
the parts of my history
that are true
to share them with you,

but the bits get
blurred with time
and details get lost.
Till, I can’t find
the rooms behind
the other side
of the wooden portal.

A little voice
cries out at last
and makes his
first appearance here.

Pink skin
and thin black hair,
little belly button
poking out where
the cord was cut.

Wrinkled flesh
that’s spotted brown
lifts the baby
from the bed
and cradles him
in an affectionate
embrace.

Sparkles splashed
across her eyes
a smile grows
so large and wide
as she holds
this newborn babe.

The dominoes
of years
tip over too fast
as the little boy grows,
and plays those
board games
with his grandma.

Wheel a fortune watchers,
they both enjoy
beating the contestants
to the answers.

Long car trips
and chocolate chips,
she plays and sit
as the substitute
church pianist,
all soft interludes
of memories
he shared with her
had a tasty musical tint.

Later on, the boy is gone
his grandma starts to fade
and that once precious child
doesn’t make it back that way
in time to say goodbye.

People move
in fear,
migrating from
the dangerous militia
chasing them
with death’s gleam
in their eyes,
fathers carry
their daughter,
mothers urge
their sons
to move on
as miles pass.

Strangers
and
family members
are tightly packed
and stacked on top
of one another
as a world of choppy water
moves them forward
to a harbor they hope
is safer than the home
that they ran from.

Thin tired faces
hungry and anxious
hoping to escape this
nightmare,
easily inches from death,
move to march
across soft lands
and desert sands
seeking something
us soft bellied
cheeseburger
loving sedentary
men and woman
could not comprehend.

I hear the horrible hate speech
screeching out at me,
beer bellies bulging dangerously
with prechewed stupidity
denying the humanity
of these struggling human beings.
Tears of strained patience
crease my age lined face
as I try to explain
the reality of another being
who is suffering.

My peers do not hear me
instead they promote fear greedily,
But I see some strangers
holding up signs of love
speaking the same truth
that I eschew
to show all of you
that refugees do not walk
without a reason,
and we have enough resources
to be decent human beings.

I was not winter ready
but weary and worn,
sights set meant to carry
this heavy burden
that I have born,
the season slowly
finds its demise,
and green things
find their roots
and start to rise.

Spring is on its
mating high,
buzzing with
all that nature loving.
Until the heat becomes
too much
and pulsing passions
push to pains
of heated lust.

Summer strikes
quicker then
a ninja’s throwing star
or some other
adolescent fantasy metaphor,
aggressive expansion
of heated frustrations
scolding the core
of the southern
parts of our nations.
Till the lights recede.

Then I fall
like orange
autumnal leaves
coming back
so close
to those bitter cold
beginnings,
sleeves extend
with their own
warming intent
and sweat stains
no longer plague
my once
wet and darkened pits.

Then the frosty fear
returns here
and
I must write
a new winter poem.

The soft egg shelled mind
is soiled and embroiled
by the terrible turmoil
of technological silence,
with a key board click
we once lost it
however now
in swift with sic stealth
the quiet imbeds itself.

Sorrowful seeds dropped
sowing painful thoughts.
Small sprouts
peek and poke out
through the surface
to catch us all
as unsettled earth
is disturbed.

Fierce floods of
painful stuff
erode the
fertile ground.

Stillness brings
crimson flowers blooming
and fruits falling
to rot on the dirt,
it hurts
but births
new verses,
till there is
poetry.

America,
I am tired of
your bad boy
obsession.

I am
fed up with
the adoration
of this racist
nation
with confident
sociopaths.

See,
these guys
used to make me
laugh,

but there frantic
antics
got really dangerous,
and their harmful ideals
have become
a plague level
contagious
social pathogens.

So, America
please stop
enabling these
war mongering
old men,
with inferiority
complexes
that make them
keep waving
their rocket wieners
at foreign nations.

Or else the
nice guy minority
will take our
goodwill
to other countries
and let you deal
with the real
fallout
of your
nuclear
gullibility.

Stressed and tense
the young man
twitches and jumps
at any instance
at school.

But at home
he works in
a light tee
soaked with sweat,
as he
pushes the mower
listening to
his favorite songs
on a Sony Walkman
cd player.

Sprays of stray grass
blow back fast
sticking and staining
his straining calves
and ankles.

Even the torn blue jeans
start smearing shades of green
while he continues moving
and sweating profusely.

Small squirrelly animals
scamper away
afraid
of the loud machine
pushed by this
oblivious human being.

His hair is soaked in sweat,
the sweet relief
of strenuous labor
won’t pay off later,
but for a good hour
or more
he is completely absorbed
in the music and work.

The world ceases to be
any problem for him
and he has no tension.

I have all day,
the digital display
of my computer
will not display
the games I play,
or let me watch any movies,
It won’t even boot properly.
So, I go outside.

Walking, the sun warms
one side of my face.
I brush my hand
against the bush
that sits
just this side of
a ***** gray fence.

Thin limbs of light brown
poke my darting digits
that dared to ******,
observe, and explore
the texture of the
yellow green
miniature leaves.

I take my time,
see strangers stray
in a laze
walking slowly
away,
hands interlaced
in an unpracticed stage
of adolescent love.

The private school black top
is broil an egg hot,
but unlike long ago
I do not let my toes
touch that searing summer heat,
I do not need to test me
anymore.

I drive out to the country
just to relax,
and follow a road
that takes me back
to my brother’s
grandma’s and dad’s
house.
I haven’t gone there
for a very long time,
my mind says
I should go visit them,
but then I remember
they are both dead

I try to enjoy this
disconnected day
but, every hour or so
I catch myself thinking
I should look that up
when I get home,
or I will watch this,
or play that.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because upon inspection
you will find obsession
poetically enthralling,
and passion all consuming.
I will treasure
all acts of pleasuring you
to  an ******* quality
in excessive quantity.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because I am passionate
and extremely engaging
sparing all other engagements
to be in your stunning presence.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because my nature
is solitary,
and though I tarry
with you
I will be forced to
find moments
for myself.
Though, I longed to be
devoured by your desire
and engulfed by my adoration
of you
I will need time to reflect on
everything.
  
Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

no matter how hard I pursue you
because I cannot promise you forever
no matter how much I want to.
I can only give you
this brief spectacular sparkling moment
in eternity.

A flurry of fuzzy
flowers float in
a hot summer winds.

My beneficence
stems from
my shaded happiness,
because if I was
consumed by
anger or sadness
I would not
have the energy
to be kind.

It is lust that leads me
to observe discreetly
this beauty before me.

A tight, toned, and tanned physique
glistens spectacularly
with the savage intensity
of her workout.

Lines of definition
cut across her back
as her shoulders ripple
with distinct striations.

Superb human specimen
but I keep my distance
because I do not want to bother
this artist of flesh I have mentioned.

So, I struggle to be a gentleman,
working as hard as I can
to not lust,
but I am only human
eventually I must
release the energy
inspired by this
divine entity.

There are shots in the distance.
Teachers push their students
to the nearest exit.

Crying and afraid
one girl runs
all the way
into the woods,
while another
calls her mother.

Reporter asks if
she was surprised
that this happened.

The teenager
is barely able to speak
without trembling,
but manages to reply
that she figured
it was about time.

This has become
so normalized,
that we have
shooter drills.

Hallways become warzones.
Ceramic tiles are stained
with barely teenage bodies,
shell shocked students,
walking disasters
disassembled
and stranded in the middle
of American nightmare
that we can’t wake up from.

Summertime
drive to work,
car running,
hot engine gunning,
I keep moving
making sweat
roll down my neck.

All this heat
seems to sharpen
my senses,
intensifying
once dormant
emotions,
that make me cry.

Cinnamon and raison
memories resurface,
tasty pastry affections
from my grandmother
who made such delightful
treats,
and tucked them away
in her Tupperware tray.

A blue and white
small plastic pool
we used to stay cool
punctured by twigs
draining into
cracks of
the sidewalk
that worked its way
from our back door
to small the side streets
in the public housing.

Baby brother
on the back of my bike
as we ride
to the library,
baby brother and me
going to the movies.
Time keeps moving
at an uncomfortable
accelerated pace.
Moments are replaced
then changed
or erased by times
cruel intent.

The loss of pets,
the loss of grandpa,
the loss of grandma,
the loss of my presumed
innocence
is scorching.

Until, the season’s
rambunctiousness
slowly softens
to more bearable temperatures.

Her iris is absorbed in an
elegant explosion,
a big bang
of hazel glory
that expands from
the center of
her ocular universe.

It is a certain sadness,
an empty sorrow
for something I never had
but still miss.
I ache for any scent,
for any nasal experience
cause I have never known
the sweet smell of anything,
but if I consider it a blessing
I have never known the stench.
of anything.

Too tired to walk
so, I mumble
while I talk
and stumble
over the cracks
in the old sidewalk.
Too fatigued
to even think
about how I miss sleep.
So, if you try and
trip me
I’ll probably fall gratefully
into slumber land.

Curse the scribbles
that stretch to form
strange and monstrous feature
of beasts unborn,
creatures of never were,
sharp and violent
nightmares
moving silently
like ninjas
who seeks to
eviscerate me,
such unlovely things
that would ****** me
if they weren't
abstract reflections
of my sick imagination.

Palestinian
children
and women
attempt to
protest apartheid,
fighting against
those borders and walls,
walking towards boundaries
where snipers sit
settled in
to shoot the innocent,
and continue
freedom's infringement.

Soldiers fire to take
the lives of those
they dehumanize.
Two thousand
are wounded
and fifty plus
dead.

My government is complicit
in these illicit
acts of violence.
We support and supply
the horrible ordinance
used to brutalize
and end those unfortunate lives.
Our politicians
spin blood red threads
into golden ***** lies
and celebrate the bad guys
who have no intention
of compromising,
the ones who
go on occupying
and terrorizing the Palestinian people.

Meanwhile,
state supported
media guys,
are televised
to tell us lies,
go on air
to share a side
that shames
and blames
the victims of
new atrocities,
by their favorite
allies,
repeating
reports of agitation
incited by
Hamas,
but no one on
the Israeli side
was wounded
or died.

A ticket won’t take
these tired children
to a safe and warm place,

won’t help me escape
from the darkness
that stains
their strained face.

My fear is misplaced
as a scraggly faced stranger
stumbles out of the night shade
asking for the time
and any spare change.
My apprehension
is mine not his shame.

A shining sign
sears the night,
illuminating the people
who sleep
just inches from my feet
under a thin torn blanket
that barely conserves any heat.

Their struggle
makes me uncomfortable.
It is not love,
but guilt
that makes me give
the hurt homeless kids
a buck or two.

A day away
I barely
think of these
struggling
human beings
as I luxuriate
in my comfortable lifestyle.

We lay down so low
let go so slow.

Till, the tremors in
their voices
mirror our own.

Congested in fear
as we hear clear
the final call,

Green swamps
see sinking dreams
of stinking sewage
and hear our horrors
as we scream.

The earth is softened.
Till, brown mounds are moved
to cover your corpse
from their sorrow filled view.

It is what we fear most.
So, we claim heavenly hosts
will come for us.
We trust the lust
of a white collared thief
who sales us relief
from our fear and grief,

but we all go down
into the ground in the end.

99 desiccated corpses
bloated bodies ready
to burst from
the gasses building up
in the bellies of
our friends and kin.

99 bodies of newly
non-binary identities,
cause in death
he and she means
nothing.

99 tragedies
for all those families
who will have to
dig through
the bombed building.

99 sons, daughters,
mothers, and fathers
become a statistic
that no one will remember.

99 reasons to stop this horror,
to end our hurt making economy,
to stop selling weapons,
to the enemies of humanity.

A string of obscene things
came slip sliding
out of
the greasy hole
where you shove
all that sugary
junk stuff.

Crusty cursing,
crunchy coronary,
contrarian
causing you to
spit chunks of crap
back at me.

You spew your pathetic
prejudices at me,
spilling a stream of consciousness
racist river
right down my throat.

Your blood pressure
rises with every syllable.
Until, your constricted
blood vessels cause
your clogged
and shrunken heart
to stop.

What will we do
to achieve dreams
that few hearts
aspire to,

when mountain tops
try to impede
those who will not be
stopped,

when rage and ambition
become twisted mirror images
of our stretched in agony visage;

We persist beyond
what weaker hearts
claim is wrong.

We are strong,
affirming unseen possibilities
as those new dreams
unfold to rewrite
out future history.

He's a brawny brat
whose got bratwurst
for brains.
He talks ****
and complains
about less then
minor pains
while the whole
world is
going up in flames.

Silver streaks of starlight
come racing through the sky
causing tender tears to fall
briefly from my eyes.

Tiny drops of water
paint the cement walk
a darker shade,
as me and my grandpa
watch the chalk circles
that he made
become another color.

Warm wrinkled hands
hold me up to tickle
instead of accepting a hug,
yet still remind me I am loved.

A soldier’s flag
and five-rifle salute
sees someone I love
disappear permanently
from my view.

The shooting star
is gone before
I knew how much
I would miss it.

I seek peace
in observing
all things
that flourish
around me.

There are greens
and deeper greens
galvanized
by daylight
to a shimmering effect.

But every drop
of coolant,
or subtle variation of sound,
every unexpected vibration
makes me anxious,
because I am hyper aware
that my safety will disappear
because it is an illusion.

The earth beneath my feet
has been dried and bleached
to the lightest brown possible.

I am still seeking stillness
but my roommate’s presence
is a jagged intrusion,
with irregular outburst
of unpredictable rage.

There is the sound of birds
whistling all around me
unperturbed
by the train I heard
in the distance.

I make it to work,
in time to observe
smiling stranger’s
who want to converse
with me,
and despite all distraction
there is a certain satisfaction
to that human interaction.
It is a peaceful moment.

The practical pianist
played for perfection’s sake
not for pleasure
and that
was her mistake.

He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.

I project my heart
out into a universe
that does not reciprocate
said empathy.

Twilight falls, and I can see
stars twinkling in infinity.
Atomic explosions
push out plumes
of nuclear energy
but they don’t give
a **** for me.

The sun that shines
does not mind
if I live or die.
The buds that bloom
from the thin brown branch
will not be bothered
if I fall victim
to some horrible accident.

The massive mountain
with snowcapped tops
will not be moved
or stopped by the loss
of little old me

I am less than a flee
in the monsoon reality

I never liked the mud,
but I loved
the smoky mist
that was stirred up
when I crumbled dirt
into a dusty substance,

when the light would catch
the passing particles
and I would try to
hold my breath
as the mist moved in a
strangle swirl,
as if the earth
was smoking itself.

I enjoyed making
little smoke bombs
from handfuls of dirt.
I would toss them
on the ground
and disappear
like ninjas did.
Even though
everyone I knew
could see through
my trick dirt
to my dust covered jeans.

I like knowing
that if allowed,
if I’m not put in
some sable box
but left to rot
I will become
that silly dust stuff.

My life is a cup
that needs something in it,
a glass chalice
ready to crack
unless I fill it up.
If I’m not careful
I’ll have to throw it out
even though it is the only one
that I have.

It must be nice
in your neon colored
smooth four wheeled
driving life,
that law and order
kind of world
you exist in;
But I lived in
an age of uncertainty.
Authority to me
was unpredictably
violent.
I was the *******
bent over to be
busted by
belts, pots, brushes,
brooms, mops,
ping pong paddles,
and any other
implements
that could be scavenged.
So, you can have
your invisible pervert
who sits and observes us
from up above
to judge,
but for me and anyone
who has felt the lashes
or seen loved ones
abused by those in power
we’ll take the truth of now
not your rose-tinted glasses
of an overarching order
in the universe
driven by loving father figure.

I know that you are tired
that they work you too hard,
and you never get far.

I know that you are afraid
of losing your car,
of losing your job,
of losing your way.

I know that there are
daily concerns of
your children getting hurt
or your spouse leaving you
for some sexier ****.

but don’t let your lovely light
flicker out,
don’t let your laughter die
because I need
your good humor in my life.

Soft streaks of starlight burn,
like the light from
a unicorn’s enchanted horn.
Hopeful dreams
like firecrackers
sizzle, pop,
then fizzle slowly into
a young hearted laughter.
My heart flares there
in the words of a poetess’s
strange world
as I wonder
what wild treasure
such a deep mind
hides for the truest seeker to find.

He is an old
cold clod,
clay killer,
a muddy faced foe
of late
who I learned to hate;

Neurally neutered
by a network
of morally bankrupted
rich men
who tell him
what to think,

nervous and jittery,
a solvable mystery
that bothers me
because the enigma
could be easily
adjusted to improve
all of our lives.

Yet, he remains oblivious.
With a silvery shank of
stale ignorance
he stabs the very core of me,
promoting the gory,
and proactive expansion
of humanity’s worse traits.

A sea of sickness spreads
the black bile and poison of
oppression, sexism,
greed, bigotry,
and the intentional
obfuscation
truth.

As we age
we subtract
false fantasies
from scientific facts
and reality becomes
smaller.

As we get wiser,
and acquire
a deeper understanding,
we expand our minds
to incorporate
what is newly unknown
to us.

Then the universe
explodes
with
a multitude
unforeseeable
depths
and dimensions.

Cut her open
and you will find
immeasurable potential
hiding behind
skin and muscle.

Not a casual canal
but a tunnel to life,
brewing ingredients
deep inside;

The chance to grow
a being who will
develop unforeseen
ideas for humanity,

the chance to harbor
a hopeful artist,
soft hearted songwriter,
social worker,
teacher, scientist,
painter, activist.

A man does not wield
that level of power,
that wild wonder
of a body working
to put a new lifeform
together in a womb.

A woman’s body
is a gateway
to all worlds beyond,
it is the center
that pushes our species on.

They yell.

One father figure
far from
being young,
is a tired
diabetic,
with poor circulation,
thinning hair,
with missing
and rotting teeth,
he is a constantly
frustrated human being.

His roommate,
the other
middle aged
just turned
thirty-eight
who works
almost every day,
hair starting
to gray
just a little
teeth following
his father’s lead,
is also tired
and frustrated.

The old man is lonely
not only because
many friends
have passed
but because
his son
has to drive
fifty miles
each way
almost everyday
to work.
So, they only speak
in small spurts.

The middle-aged son
is tired because
his father always wants
to chat at the early a.m.
when he is still sleeping,
and barely even
able to open his eyes.

There are always
other little issues
like ***** dishes,
or some minor
cleaning concern.

But the son is always on the run
and the old man is always snapping
so, there is friction,

and a slight fear
that one day
when he is not here
the old man
with his health problems
will finally succumb to them,
and the son
will come
home to find
his father dead
or dying.

So, even after arguing
the middle aged-man
manages to remind his dad,
that he loves him,
even when
he is seriously considering
strangling him.

I am terrified
that one day
my identity
will wither,

afraid
my memory
will fog up,
only flowing
in and out
like late in life
late night tides,

that familiar faces
who have managed
to stay alive
will sit by my side
without a spark of
recognition from
this human husk
they love.

I am scared
that my mind
will shed
neural pathways
like a dog
sheds fur
on a sweltering
summer day,

that my brain
will shrivel
as it dehydrates
shrinking in a physical
and mental
fashion
as the demon
of dementia
possesses
and diminishes
me.

The butcher’s bane,
the ****** mess
I came to see,
a cracked carcass
laying displayed,
fetid, and crumbling
with rot
because the butcher forgot
to take a day off.

Now,
beneath the dust
the stench of
a week’s worth
of decay
sprays
out of
the doorway,
tempting strangers
who pass that way
to wretch
violently,

while familiar faces
face regret
for not checking in
with their old friend
the butcher.

I learn the most from those who do not obscure the facts or hide themselves. Why not be free with yourself, we are all beautifully unique. How can we learn and grow if we are not open and honest with each other? People can not make fair judgment of us if we do not expose our insecurities and being insecure does not make us weak, it makes us human.

There is mercury,
a thick metal liquid,
pulsing in my veins.

My damaged atrium
pumps
poor putrification.

Each heartbeat
is acid agony
pushing silver poison
through my body.

I cannot *****
it up
or sweat it out.
So, I must die
with this
sickening
substance
in me.

There’s a crack
in the back black
parking lot.

There’s a crack in my engine
so, my car
won’t start,

and there’s a crack
in my demeanor
so, any one
can look in
and see my
bleeding heart.