She scratched
the brass latch.
So, I can’t open it
and get back
to my past
without a
a tnt memory
blast.

The bologna
is better
with the bitter
butternut bread.

Is there wisdom
to be unraveled
in the words
that she wrote,

perspectives
of a watercolor world
that I did not know,

abstract conjecture,
projections of
a future,
through
reflections
on the past?

Or, are these
lily white
pastels
of sweet
sophistry
only meant
to distract
or comfort me?

Is there wisdom
to be unraveled
in the words
that she wrote,

perspectives
of a watercolor world
that I did not know,

He wears
a dull faced
indifference.

Thinks I am
a dim wit,
because
I do not
pursue
the same
worthless
*******.

Brown eye,
brown hair,
well-trimmed
small beard,
love his
gold rush
reality
tv
show.

His goals,
are a product
of a limited
mindset,
rectangular vision,
in an oval like
world.

No mind expanding
conversation,
just me
patiently waiting
for him to dislodge
his slack jawed
visage
from those
cellphone images.

Even with
honest intent
any system
meant
to govern
men
can easily
go awry.

People
build up
big bubbles of
like minds.

Bobbling heads
bobble yes,
seldomly
questioning
the odds
of success
because
each individual
possesses
strange pieces
the point them
in the same
direction.

They build a shield
to protect
their power,
build a wall
to prevent
the incursion
of new ideas.

But any man-made system
that is not open
to innovation
will face disintegration.

She wears soft shades
of feathery white
and purple;

A sensual
fantasy
casting a
casual glance
back my way.
An artist’s dream
of strange beauty,

no hair
just more
plumage,

her ornate
tattoos
cause me
to further loose
myself.

An exotic
extra-terrestrial,
a being of
supreme
power
to influence me,

too bad
she does not exist
in reality.

Maybe, she will
visit me
in my dreams.

Two waterways
race
from separate places,
gathering silt,
and soft soil
as they move
towards
a bigger body
of bountiful
water.

One river
of sorrow
spilling
saltwater tears,
coursing
with all of
the pain
carrying
all of the
grief we acquire,

Another
river raging
with wild
undercurrents,
and strange
sediment,
fishy ideas,
wonder,
love,
and hope
that floats.

Two distinct
things
converge
into a different world
making something
better or worse
then their
previous parts.

Such a fruitless endeavor,
as this dullness devours
my endless hours.

I sit seeking stale stimulus.
Being used to immediate
gratification,
of the menial mental
*******
type,
I am stumped
by my listless response to
having everything to do
but not wanting to do
anything.

No movies but one
yet to come
stir my passions.

No tv shows
that I stream
or download
get me excited.

No outside adventure
unencumbered
by the once weary winter weather
inspires me
to get up and go.

No books
even garner
random looks.

I am merely
burnt out,
but just for now.

Do not let the darkness in,
completely inhaling
death and destruction
like poisoned oxygen.

Do not let
the pain of loss
distort your perception
of your own history.

Do not let
the gray gravel roads
you once roamed
disappear
behind you
as you move on.

Do not let
your kind intentions
drown in
a sea of salty
despair.

Do not let
who you were
and who you become
be defined
by mankind’s
horrible crimes.

It is the mind of a menace,
a monstrous figure
that shredded the air
opening
a doorway
from nowhere,
and released
a horrendous creature.

A dark and grimacing face
protruded
from the splintering
of space.

Fierce features
found their form
revealing
long sharp teeth,
and lighting like
eyes
which
further pierced
the dark skies.

A tortuous tongue
tormented
the villagers below,
violently lapping them up
to devour their bodies
and tasty souls.

Till, Helios,
the lord of light,
intervened
with a raging stream
of sharp solar power,
pushing this dark beast
back into
it’s nightmare realm.

But the crack
is still open
so, the beast
may come back
someday.

These digits,
fingers flexing
are made for grasping,
and manipulating
man made
devices.

These five things
have moved
to master
random rhythms
that I tried to tap.

Flaccid while I sleep
although I do not know
for certain,
perhaps they twitch
when I hit
REM.

They have pulled and pinched
plucked, and poked,

but my favorite thing
I have ever done
with my fingers,
is ****** and caress
feminine flesh,
and plunge deep into
a woman’s
moist desire
while stimulating
her *******
with circular motions,
bringing my partner
to the height of an
******.

Strange as dreams,
she rode a wild
broken horned
unicorn.
Until,
side saddled,
she fell
and straddled
empty air.

The horse
was never there
but the air
was as heavy
as a hot iron
and pushed her
deep down
into a mound
of muddy ground.

She swallowed
soft soil
choking in fear.
Until, the
earth became clear.
Gravity pulled her down
tugging her
tightly fitted gown.

She fell through
the center
but was never scalded
or incinerated
by the hot lava.
She fell
until,
gravity began.
to slow her
momentum.
*** end up,
her feet hit
the other side
and pierced it.

On the opposite
end of the earth
tiny men
gave her long legs
a wide berth.

Her feet shifted and swirled
smacking the air violently,
but she could not escape
her upside-down fate

Until, she was
shook awake.

The strange old house
with gray crumbling
tiles that were
exchanged for
off yellow siding

A place where
I spent so many years
laughing and playing,
personal history making

A place where
the stone sidewalk
was placed unevenly
from the screen door
and the gravel street

A place where
we buried
a lot of pets

A placed where family
would come to meet,
and speak
of important things,
where we would convene
for delicious meals

A happy place
that I sorely miss
as I write this
to sadly state
I no longer
go back to
that special place

Oppressed,
I imagined
the hand of god
swatting
and smashing,
causing flesh,
fat, and skin
to flatten
as bulging blood
and guts
expand from
the form that
was once me.
Till, I become a
crimson life stain.

I’m losing
from not using,
from excusing
my laziness.
I’m fading quietly
with disappearing memories
of the human being
I once was.

They split
the splendor,
hurt mother nature,
grabbed and slaughtered
her bright red, and green
bedded daughter.

They cut down
the tall brown,
broke with burning blasts
the bulging bottom
of the beige mountains
that were snowcapped.

They painted in plain mortality,
stained that verdant quality
of waving grasslands
that expands
before the curious swarm
of a young humanity.

They cracked the crust
beneath us
causing the gas
to come rushing up
and poison us.

So, now we weep
salty sea tears
tainted by oil spills
and dead otter bodies.

Till, at last
when all those
tragedies have passed
when stillness reigns
in our place
we are disgraced
and displaced
by our self-inflicted
genocide.

She is a runaway
out of place
with a beautiful
violin case.

A hungry hand holds
the short bow,
not made to hunt
but born to make
more music.

It plays,
drawing back
and letting loose
the vibrating strings.

The flow of sound
solidly pierces
all of those
within hearing distance.

When she was younger
and could not
find her slumber
she sat
on a burnt black stump
practicing
to the point
of satisfaction,
as close to perfection
that she could come.

Till, no one
could find any imperfection.
Now the streets sound
with the melody of her
musical confession,
this deep possession
of poetic fury
in the flurry
of changing cords.

The music soothes
the sick storm
that swarms
her troubled mind.

She plays as passersby’s
pass her fives
or drop dollars and dimes
for her music.

She plays one smile at a time
searching for a sign
but so far all she finds
are silent stares
of the strangers passing there
as she struggles to share
the ballet of her balancing sounds.

Change is scary
deranged,
contrary
to the arranged
and predictable
life,

opposite of
an existence
without
extraneous
variables,
boring and plain,
stable as a perfectly
measured coffee table.

But without change
there is no chance of
awesome growth.

Because I have enough
plus
extra to eat,

Because I have
clean water
to clean with
and to drink,

Because I have
a roof over my head
and something
that makes heat,

Because I have a car
so, I don’t always
have to use my feat,
  
Because I have access
to the internet,
a world wide
web of knowledge,

Because I can dream,

Because I have seen,

Because I can read,

Because I have
family and friends.

Because I have known
grief and other forms
of suffering,

Because I know
that I will die
and only have
this one life.

The grave was wet
with well water,
sinking flesh
fell farther down
into the brown ground
as it all rotted.

But, if I could
I would
pull you up
and out of that
cold black
and damp
death spot.

I would
warm you with
a loving kiss
and a tender hug
as I massaged
life back in to
your cold skin.

I would
bring you back
into a bright new day,
see your flesh
refresh
returning from
your withered
rotting form,
not a zombie,
but the warm body
that I remember.

So, I could have
one more day
to hear you tell
all the stories
you might have kept
to yourself.

I am coming,
the quick trickster
slick heart enchanter
dark dancer.

I’m coming,
heart burning
as ashes paint
these concrete streets,
as people multiply
and walked with me.

Sidewalks peppered
with plastic flesh
that is packed with
everything that leaks
and seeks
its own death;

A house of rubble,
a home of dust,
but I am
a traveling man
in tattered garbs
trying to connect you
to those who are
just distorted reflections
wearing similar scars.

They blasted us,
made more landfills from
the dust that was once
our skin,
toasted a succession
of successful thefts
as they took
what was left
of our hope
and innocence.

We crumble
into the rubble,
collapse into the past.
We cringe when
the fire comes,
but never run
fast enough.

They are so loud,
soft figures that crowd
crying out loud,
and sometimes
sobbing softly.

I can see them.
I can almost feel them.
Edging me away
with their powerful
feelings.

Sorrow splits my being.

A sign pleads
for something to eat.

A woman blames
herself
for the pain
inflicted
by someone else.

A child scratches
deep stiches
into her heart
and her arm.

A friend feels
like a failure.

An old lady
sits waiting
for people
who won’t
come to see her.

A mother still cries
at nights
after someone shot her
teenage daughter.

They intrude
exuding all of their pain,
and push me back
into my square room
were I am safely
sequestered away
from the shame of
failing to save
everyone.

Its heavy breathing,
heart stopping,
as a heavy man
crushes you
beneath the sheets.

You scream,
but he silences you
with threats.

Then shame
becomes the name
of you silence.

Years unsteady,
eyes unraised,
walking afraid;

Whistles
send shivers,
nerves
on an edge so deep
that sometimes
fatigue
is not enough
to bring you to sleep.

This is not my story,
but I am trying to see,
hoping to understand
so, I can be
a better man,
a helping hand
for those in need.

But when I speak to loudly
sometimes
you cannot breathe
because of the anxiety.

Then this poetry
of attempted empathy
becomes my shame.

Everyone knows
we are a bunch of
blustering bluffing
posturing buffoons
who cower callously
ignoring our own
broken humanity

Why do we allow
these shallow
stubborn *******
to acquire annual annuities
on slick sick
investments;

Like oil refinement
or weapons,
such detriments
to our social health
and our environment.

Will we be able
to restrain
this barbaric disposition
that manufactures
guns and
environmental disasters
with our false bravado?

I tell of the hell
that befell
a young whale
as purple pastels fell,
mixing in the foam,
bleeding colors
mostly unknown
in this aquatic world,
tainting the slick skin
of my orca acquaintance
I consider a friend.
So, that his kin
barely recognized him.
If not for
the sonic waves
that emanated across
the ocean floor
this purple painted
whale would have
died alone.

I will never be wealthy
but I can help you see
clearly to our shared humanity
in print and polished prose
that represent those
who are not close to me
but in poverty are me,
a part of this universal family.

I found a journal from a homeless man
and his words worked within
my previous position,
words with the same pain
I was once burdened with
when I was homeless.
I had a journal to
though this one
is a little different.

I came at a different angle
but this person is not a stranger
this is just one aspect
of our singular story
that should unite us in our humanity.

I come to my perspective
from a position
of privilege
with more power to express
points of view
that are oppressed
or ignored.

The fabric folds
around my fingers
seeking nothing,
which is what
I find,
empty pockets
perused
to amuse myself
and pass the time.

It is a field
of cubicles,
rectangle walls
that rise
chin high
on either side,
in a rainforest of
of random plants.

Two fish
swim in
their own
aquarium
prison.

I drive at night
and my eyes find
dark water that reflects
and stretches
carnival lights
beyond their normal
lines.

Will you feel me
and my lyrical poetry,
soft syllables
that speak easy
as the greasy
politicians fleece me?

Will you flee
to feel free
before you ever listen
to what I am giving?
Like all other
disappointing people
will you disappear
before you hear?

Cause I brought
my heart here.
It beats clearly,
thuds obsessively
begging people
to love me
because I am
so **** lonely.

Deception is the art of media, church, and state. It should not be the foundation of how human beings view and treat each other. That we are separate is a deceit. As humans we are all bound together, not in some magical web of destiny but as a human collective with a social responsibility to make this world a place of peace love and understanding; instead of a world driven by self-interest, and fear.

The red apple
reflects
the randomness
of this
wild world.

In hunger
the white
and seeded core
becomes
a fruity corpses
where when
disposed
will posses
the rot of worms
and wriggling maggots.

Then to the grave
this delicious treat goes
to seed the earth
with nutrients
that other things
need to grow.

These words perform
their sacred rites
and dance on tongues,
waking in working whispers,
passed on from one generation
to the next in line,
they shift in context
change in definition,
grow their influence,
and fall into exposition,
then fade into footnotes,
and finally become
part of a dead language.

I am alone
in observation,
a splendid
ascension
of sensations;

Textures,
tense fingers
find
tactile pleasures
smooth and cool
to rough and hot
from heated concrete
beneath my feet
to moist stems
and slippery grass
that barely allows
any traction at all.

A titan’s perception
my poetic obsession
with twirling words
in a myriad of ways;

Of tasting salty meats,
or soft sugary sweet treats,
of the quick dissolving
cotton candy
that clumps
then disintegrates
on the tip of my tongue,

or the blossoming pain
of a cracked tooth
and exposed nerve.

The blacktop
cracks,
and I observe
earth.
Till, my eyes
ascend to heaven’s height
and I perceive the slight
blinking lights
championed by
a bright beautiful moon.

The wind bends the tall brown stalks
of some unknown plant that I
am unable to identify.

What demons
darken
her deep
brown eyes,
hastening the violence
that seeks to rise?
Are they truths
that hurt her
or lies
that move
to mollify
any turbulence
in her life
so that
any gifts
she harbors
inside
cannot thrive?
Is it conflict
she needs
to seed these
plentiful rows
of dazzling roses
with extraordinary
beauty,
or is it
tranquility?

It is a painful boil
that we must burst,
lancing the tip
even though
it hurts,
see the center
bubble
and drizzle
up and out
of its
volcanic center,
so, the swelling
may cease
and we may begin
to heal again.

The words are my gift.
Like water skins
of wine
I drink them in,
drunken
with their delight.
Intoxicated,
I stumble.
Inebriated
until I am woozy
with their wonder.

They lift me up
on wax wings
whipping me wildly
around the world
in a whirlwind.
A tornado
of fury
felt,
a furnace
unleashed
in literature
and speech.

Oh, how I love them.
Though they
dally
with other lovers,
who are more gifted
then me,
I do not cheat.

I sing
in poetry,
and like a drunkard
fall with broken wings
swept away
in the melancholia
of knowing
no one will ever love me
like I love this language
you read.

My dog is
going to die
but the tears
do not come.
They are hovering
just out of reach
on the otherside.

This time
as someone
I love dies
I intend to
remain
by their side
as they journey
into that last night.

The last time
I was too busy
too distracted
to visit,
but in my defense
I thought
he had
plenty time
to live.

The time
before that
I cannot excuse
I left her alone
a withering
figure
stuck in a bed
till she was dead.

I know most
have the blessing
of believing
their grieving
is only temporary.
Their guilt is absolved
because after all
they will see
their loved ones
in heaven.
So, it is easy
to take people
and animals
for granted
but to me
this planet
and life
is a one time ride.
So, I will
hold this grief
and guilt inside
so that I remember
to be kind.

We live in
the evening
observing
other beings,

reading
new and old stories
following
the yellow brick road
even though
its full of dust motes
and black mold.

Trying to be strong
but we are depressed
and compressed
into
something new;

Unable to walk to you
or through the crack
in the soon to be
shattered glass
perspective,

you expect us
to conform to
your pews,
bending in devotion
in your church,

but we worship
in other ways
chase better days

When the fog of pain abates,
when you ask us why,
we do not know for sure,
perhaps we never will.

Come here
the general says.
The robot obeys.
Even though, it is
electronically dismayed.
Logically, it knows
that the reason
it was made
is no longer relevant,

but that is
the grey metal elephant
in the room.
The robot is not allowed
to speak until
it is spoken to.

The general smiles
with ****** gluttony
as he devours
this model eighteen
with his leering gaze.

He turns to another
and says
“you sure make
them look great.

I could ****
the ****
out of this *****,
but that is not
a discussion for today.

Robot,” he says.
“are you ready for
your orders.”

The robot nods,
with its tiny round
eerily symmetrical
adolescent face
and stares blankly.

The general commands
as he laughs with
the other man,
“**** the enemy.”

In a streak
of brown
an arm reaches up
and the general goes down.

Mission completed,
the robots chimes
as the other man
***** himself
and hides behind
the General’s desk.

The plain porcelain ***
is splatter painted,
a smoking crimson
as the yellowish ****
swims in the bowl.

The old man moans
from the agony of
an antibiotic resistant
abscess.

The nurses undress him
To find a score of bed sores
that were hiding,
open wounds deep enough
to touch bone.

Gentle hands wipe
while he softly whimpers.

The round and dimpled cheeked teen
watches, smiling warmly,
offering calm words,
emoting compassion,
and answering any questions
the dying man might be asking
in the last stages of
his drug induced delirium.

After the cleaning she holds him.
He calls her mother
and she doesn’t correct him.
Jagged breaths slow
as she hums an old
family Lullaby
and he goes
as peacefully as possible
into oblivion.

I wonder
will my words
reveal
the truth
of how I feel
or felt.

I remember
myself
curled in a
a curving
form
when I
was very
young
and going
to sleep.

Knee
collapsing
into my
stomach,
hands
around
my knees,
as if
I was a
rolly polly
worm
or a child
who was trying
to remain
unseen.

Why did I
compact myself
in such a
manner?

You are free
to dance
as you please,
swirl in a
thousand degrees,
burning like
a million
firefly lights,
a free from
swarm
of blinking
butts.

You are
the master of
the baptismal fire
that you made
your own
salvation
in.

It is not
their right
to define
your life,
so be the
salamander
or the butterfly,
the laughing
lizard
or the mighty
monarch.

You choose.