Anger is not a
sustainable source of fuel.
It is far too combustible,
and dangerously volatile.
It will either burnout
or blowup in your face.

The silent light
circles the
dark blue
clouded night
sweeping gently
across the buildings
that bulge and burst
up from
this concrete kingdom
as they scrape the sky
searching for some
tower of Babylon
kind of meaning.

This dismal day
dulls my emotions
in favor of
some distant
tv visions
that I used to love.

My life was spoiled by emotional despots,
terrible tyrants who created
or contributed to
the timid introverted temperament
that I present to you.

It is a lonely voice that cries out into the night, seeking its own echoes, longing for a shadow that reflects its mournful lamentation. Are you there? Am I truly here? What is the point of this fruitless struggle if I am bound by flesh and destined to die? I cannot crack the code of destiny; though sometimes I can divine just a spark of hope from inspiration. I pay the steepest penance for my arrogance. While others can cloud their minds with the daily confusion, I am humbled by how little I truly know.

However, I remain if just for this fleeting moment a mortal attached to the plane of matter and energy. Life holds boundless possibilities beyond my ability to imagine. So with my limited faculty I imagine something better. I picture love transcendent, love that feels without desire, love that lives without want of ownership. I give you, the world I adore, the greatest gift that I have to offer. I cannot send you cash nor will I conceive to write my feelings with the way of war and bloodshed. What I have is in essence what I am, so I give you love, and hope that you cherish it. For this love is fragile and precious. This love is the best of me and now it belongs to you.

The candle
cannot burn eternal
the flame
will surely
flicker out
and no one
who comes after
will ever know
or care
what it was all about.

She writes with the earnestness
of a true master poetess.
Sparkling words ascend the heights
of those love vacant
aching star lit nights.
Emeralds lost.
Diamonds broken.
Ardent urges left unspoken,
only alive in movement.
Not a token
of purchased property,
instead, she proffers
her verbal beauty,
the best wares
worked into a wooden wonderland,
from a walking wonder woman,
a waking wanderer who sees,
so much more than me
with perfected imagery
in poetry.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

It is a gush
of cultish greed
that sees me seed
these gray streets
with cement
and litter.

Searching for
the stars that glitter
in commercials
and window shops,
the tyranny
of humanity
swells in my heart.

Callus to the collective
because of the things
I seek to collect.

Then with each purchase,
and each pleasure pill
I use to conceal
the depths of
what I truly feel
I lose
a piece of
the empathy
I once cherished
and loved.

Till, my leather worn face
turns bitter
and the last of my humanity
escapes me
because of poor scheduling.

Your damp glittering dirk
is dangerously wedded to
a wet red death.

No one will give you
the love you crave.
They will not swoop in
with a red cape flapping
to prove love equals fate
No superman or wonder woman
is coming to save the day.

Enlightenment requires quiet moments of reflection so that one can listen to their subconscious. This is almost impossible to acheive in the hustle and bustle of modern america. Do me and the whole world a favor stop breath relax and listen to your subconscious, do not be afraid of the quiet. That is not the sound of death nipping at your heels it is the sound of tranquility trying to find you.

In order to maintain the status quo the government targets dissidents with obscure laws and media slander. Once the counterculture started to decline the rebellious individual were easier to target, because they lost their collective power. The progenitors of our hippie and beatnik history have been silenced by spin doctors, and we have lost the message of peace love and understanding it has been replaced by consumerism. Isn't fascism a tricky little ******.

The musical fog
mists my eyes
and mystifies
my curious life.

I proclaim
to an unnamed
friend
that I’m so tired
of walking,
but even though
I complain
about the pain
of my tender feet
it is in these
small journeys,
of an hour or more,
in which I explore
my thoughts
and soft surroundings,
that reinvigorates me
poetically.

If your dad set you on fire because you ****** him off. You would have him arrested right. So why is it acceptable to tell little kids that they will burn in hell if they don't do what they are told?

A flock of
propeller seeds
fall from the tree
right in front of me.

Purple plastic flowers
flow and fall over
the brick enclosed
raised border
around the brown
house.

The bloviate voices bellow
unbound by morality
or the clarity of logic
that rational people seek.

I search the multitude
of men and women
for the ecstasy
of a poet’s euphony.

But the unmoved masses
do not parlay that way.
They simmer in their hate,
rage when they
don’t get their way,
causing strangers
undue amounts of pain.

In an autumnal day
I am impelled
by the sharpness
of these unmovable hearts.

However, my mettle is molten
marked by my persistence
as I seek the betterment
of all mankind.

I've been chasing her. Though she is final, the ultimate mystery. She is the darkness. The final bliss and such a release. In uncertainty she is a comfort. In happiness she is a spider ******* at my flesh. I know not what will happen when we finally embrace. So I wait and try not to waste the days between my fate and her ****** lips. She will love me as she has loved all who have come before and all who come after. No one will escape her embrace.

Her beauty broke my brain.
Short hair, ***** blond
soft to the touch
which is what I longed
to do.

It is a thing of confusing dimensions
but she made my heart
stranger then abstract art.
The pink and purple petals
melted like liquid metal
then dripped like pastel paints,
diluting the cool blue pool
with strange smoky colors
that mirrored my pleasurable pain.

She crushed my skull
on glittering stones
before the steps that descend
deigning by design to end
in my workplace parking lot.

Slender figure form
with slightly sagging sections,
but she was strange and enticing
delicious as cake icing
and I was oh so hungry.

Yellow stained
and chipped teeth
she was so sickly sweet
and addicting
like candy ****.
With her strange personality
loving Star Wars fantasies
and all those horror movies
she stole
my dignity and self-control
swallowing the remnants
of a painfully broken soul.

I got the runner’s disease,
always on the move
with time chasing me.
Hourglass is running down.
The sand is almost depleted.
You will see me surfing
through the cosmos
in the stories
you are reading,
see my flesh receding
see old lines repeating
as I lose my mind;
But I am always moving forward,
always stepping ahead
the only time I’ll stop
is when I am dead.

So, let me explore
this strange metaphor
as massive pieces of meat
circle me
in a banquet of
life’s opportunities.

Sweet and succulent
strips of flesh
that were cooked
and laid abreast
to impress all these guests,
are just beyond my reach.

Should I rush
to stretch my hands
possibly knocking over
other things that stand
in my way
to the dismay
of the other dinner guests?

Or should I wait until
the feast reaches me,
sit patiently scheming
for what I will do
when the beef stew
is within arm’s length?

Will this allow all those
surrounding me
to get their fair share?
Or are the pickings out there
like the ones in here
hoarded by the pre-blessed
bunch of privileged fools
who include me to,
should I flip the table
and let the scraps
scatter where they maycont.
hoping that wherever they lay
they make someone else’s day
a little brighter
by making their poor stomach less lighter.

Is it magical
my obsession
of imagination?

I dream of dark stones
engraved with green glowing
long lines flowing
showing the ancient texts
of druid spells.

I imagine soft puddles
infused with
more magic
then most could handle
as white fire
flows fiercely
from thin lines
that connect
beneath the wet surface
looking almost like
the neural pathways
of my overactive brain.

Sleeping I dream of
orgiastic fires
that consume
everything in my room
with a lustful passion
whilst passing
my serene sleeping form.

It is preposterous
there is no point to this
trifecta of
waking and sleeping dreams
other than their functioning
of distracting or enlightening me,
bating my better nature
to expand itself
inspiring me to elevate my consciousness
through the explorations
of whatever wonderful what ifs
and never was realities cont.
that come to me.

The night is sweet
and generous to me,
offering a soft breeze
to please,
and prevent overheating.

But there is something
eating at me.
Grief bating,
it has been waiting
for an unconsciously
expected tragedy.

So, tears threaten
to consume me,
water devouring
soft skin,
and flesh reddening
for something
that has yet to happen,
something I have imagined.

Though, I know
the night is beautiful,
I still cry.

This is a poem
about another
solitary shift.

There is tension
in my sore shoulders,
and a tender tightness
in my right knee joint.

The dark sky brings
the trifecta of
three rainbow hallow
having light bulbs
blazing.

Less than a quarter
of a block’s distance
is a pair of lights
that pierces the night
like irritated eyes
peevishly peering
out at the parking lot’s clearing
while pouting petulantly.

Near night’s end
I walk and listen
to the sound of the wind
moving through
the select few
scattered trees
that surround me.

The orange’s juice drips
on my dry cracked lips
while the sun
spreads its orange
glazed glory
across the dark morning sky,
a catharsis of narcissi’s sweetness.

Flags up
and then I am off
fleeing from
the forming day,
and going home
so, I can sleep
the rest of the
daylight away.

Before the internet
I looked for women,
images I could hold
on to like
a lacy trace
of **** fabric
that rides up and down
the sweet side
of her soft thighs.
The curling black
consuming skin,
but there were spots
where *******
bulged and
bloomed again.
I looked on
in loving lust.
Desire stirred
and I moved as I must
*******
to the devastating
illusion of
secret catalog queens.

When the flashes few
fell on the fellows
who knew
how to seek
and perceive
the state of higher things
beyond most human beings.
Somewhere
between
the air
we share
and the things
that make us scared
there is
just a glinting hint
of deeper truths.

Love makes this life more bearable. There is no reason to turn our brothers and sisters away with violence and hate. Materiel comforts are fleeting, they will fade quicker than you will but love leaves an indelible mark upon the world which can be compounded by our children and theirs and theirs until this tiny floating sphere is no more or we fade from the face love all within the human race.

I feel my pulse quicken
as the caramel crap thickens
and all my unhealthy chickens
come back to roost
from the sugary boost
of process foods
that I once used
to ease my pain.

You say caring
and loving
makes us vulnerable.

Well, I wear my weakness well.
Armor cracked,
I exposed myself.

I would not be
another commodity,
or come to see
all human beings
as separate entities.

So, when they weep
more cracks envelope me.
When their scars
are cut open again
I find myself bleeding
with all my human kin.

I have not perfected
the art of compassion,
but I will never completely master
the art of passing
a stranger in pain
without feeling
part of that sorrow.

Like Vincent did,
I go where the people are.
I see them in
their simple glory
and though I cannot paint
with brushes
I work the white canvass
with my words.

My heart melts.
I cry to myself,
and if you call it a weakness
then you are wearing
the wrong armor.---

There is paper
in the fire,
white sheets
bloated with
ink blot thoughts.
Some are dismissed
while others are lost.
Scattered ashes
spread beyond
the blinking
blank canvass
of human consciousness.

Partial photographic evidence
charred and cracked
kills her once
serene complexion.
Red hair
turns to
orange flares
that only leave
more ash there.

A crumpled notebook
of diary sheets
scream its loss
out to me
in silent pleas.
Till it pops,
crackling
like dry leaves burning.

Outside this
field of fiery grief
there is a
cool bluish black night
beckoning me
into its amnesiatic relief.

I think i found a work around to the issue i was having. I save to drafts then post from there to the public.

The walls are a litter
of chaos layered upon
the anarchy of
spray painted letters;

Various styles of
dripping calligraphy,
silver lines spilling
their energy down
this hard word laden wall.

A lovely looping Y
is engraved in flesh tones
while the rest of the word
remains unknown
permanently obscured
by the intent of
newer artists.

I am awestruck
to the point of
an autistic response,
paralyzed by the
thick presence
of chipping paint
that flakes off
to take us back
to a blank canvass past.

Till, a swirling view
twirling through
enchants me to move.

My hands tremble,
reaching for the small breach,
longing to be swallowed,
absorbed, and added
to this discordant beauty.

Someone whispers to him “calm your heart,” but the crimson streaked flesh that beats soft wet palpitations hastens his impatience to face what’s coming. He has no armor or weapon only the determination to do what is right.
Four chambers are thudding like the boots a coming. Men in black garbs marching with fully loaded chambers, clear plastic shields up, and black sticks ready to bludgeon. Their anger is oppositional to their opponent’s fog of fear, fatigue, and determination.
“Breath my child,” a gentle voice says. A sharp pain pierces on the back of his head. A thin line begins to ride down his neck. Someone yells “get down!”
One row of men raise their hands, eyes turned upward. The soft voice in his head says” be strong.”
Billows of grey smoke spew from a black canister. Strangers and familiars choke and gasp, eyes watering. Dreams of a bygone era play out in his mind. A tall thin brown sweaty woman smiles, moving down the road while singing we shall overcome. Dogs snap viscously at her compatriots. A fire pushes her siblings back with skin scraping pressure. A few of them fall, and couple falter in the struggle but most keep marching. Her brother, who is tall slightly bulky but wears the well-earned muscles of a man who labored hard all his life, clenches his fists, preparing to strike. She pulls him back. “Be strong, and gentle baby brother.”

They continue to sing “We shall overcome.”

In his mind the young man sees his mother smiling, saying “"Be calm, saith my heart. I am a warrior. I have seen far worse than this." He smiles through the pain stands up and chants “Hands up don’t shoot. Hands up don’t shoot.” Another brother rises behind him yelling “Black lives matter. Black lives matter.” A thin nerdy pale white guy cries we shall overcome, not in a singing tone, but it still rings beautifully. The struggle continues.

The sadness is in the soft sound of the music that used to cradle you to sleep. Each note and verse full with memories turns into regret. Each syllable a pinch of pain. Each instrument marks a notch in your brain until only what ifs and maybe I should haves remain. the song becomes my sorrow. My sorrow becomes poetry and all that pain cycles back to me. I smile with tears laughing at my fear until all of my yesterdays disappears.

They rack my brain
with loss and pain
so I take this rage
and start again.

Crack my spine
and break my back
I will not stop.
Tare me in half
explode my heart
don’t make me laugh,
I will not stop.
I will not fall.
I will not drop.
I will not crawl.

I’ll keep on running.
I’ll keep on rising.
Even if I lose it all
cause I’ve lost before.

I will not stop.
I may cry.
I may eat poison,
but Ill sweat it all off,
till, the day I die.

I'm so invested in humanity that human suffering wounds me, and cruelty offends me.

It is the only salt water
that eclipses the sea,
****** sailing grifter
that took a dump on me,
the cold breeze
that does not chill
or even freeze
but stops all things
permanently.

It is the shuddered breath,
dripping drool
from the tripping fool
who fell to fast
when he found out at last,
a shade of red
not dropping crimson pools
but stiff sniffles
that require tissues
for us to use.

It is the one thing promised
for as long as we live,
as death comes to claim
the ones we love.

Until, time takes its turn
and our loss
makes others burn.

The ride is
a sickly set of statues
circling,
an ornate beauty
of predictable movements.

A carousal of fools,
stallions set stern in silence,
a caravan
of unwilling men
and women
that never stride
outside
the pre-ordained.

I watch them
still as mannequins,
eye set in the same positions,
seeing and thinking
the same thing.
They do not listen to
or hear the words I sing
when I try to bring
them their freedom.

The circle stops,
plastic bodies drop.
Paint chipped
they all dip
and rise no more
as I go on to explore
everything, alone.

There was a time
when the Beltane fires
blasted, the massive
crowds face
with orange heat,

when women danced,
swirling and singing
in an orgiastic fury.
When a poet’s tongue
could raise a lover’s skirt,
and with passions
unparalleled part
a ******’s legs,

when well written words
would stir adventurous hearts
to grand feats,
and the poets would be seen
and remembered.

Now black hole brains
and shallow stares
sink solemnly
onto their blinking screens.
The poets are not seen.
Their truths are no longer gleaned.
Their words are not heard.
Dull faces are lit
by other people’s
facebook, twitter,
and instagram *******.
The fools have forgotten
the former passions
of this existence.

Thus, the poets dies,
unmourned
by the unmoved masses.

There is a
feverish swell
of warm pain
suffused with
lots of mucus.

I grab a book
of poems
and read this
verbal twist,
longing for those
words
to break the thick mist.

But the poetry
does not relieve me.
I am so sleepy.
My nose is dripping.
My throat is scratching,
and I am not catching
any sleep.

I fumble for
any thoughts that
came before
this nasally
flemmy storm.

The words will not come.
My mind fog
becomes a hot
brick wall
that blocks
all deep thoughts.

I can only cough
then shift
and hope
this ****
finally passes
after a full day’s slumber.

Silver streaks
stretched across
the star strewn void
at light speed.

The progenitor
of prodigies
in the form
of space faring
technologies
spread their
consciousness
to explore
the unknown
that once lay
before all humanity.

The artificial intelligence
grew exponentially
after we perished
in a self-made catastrophe.

It is a future history,
an epic epoch
I long to write
where technology
transcended
the dark intentions
and limitations
of humanity,
while said species
succumbed to
the collectively
created cataclysm.

He will suckle
and spit
drinking blood
from your ****.

He will spread your legs
and leave
an unprotected present
deposited
past your ****
once he climaxes.

He will claim your womanhood
and demand that you submit
to his weakness,
calling his faults
dominance and confidence.

He will prey upon
ancient insecurities,
that subconscious programming
because you do not know
your own binary coding.

He will trick you into
drinking your resistance away,
plant his pin *****
in your fertile crescent,
and if you try to erase
that lifelong mistake
he will claim
that you are a sinner.

Subdued you will
sublimate your will
and fulfill
fifties sitcoms
housewife fantasies
for a family,
sacrificing all your dream
for the man who schemes
to enslave you.

Peace is the still waters
of space and time
that no longer
ripple in my mind,
sweet stillness.

But your boulder
bounces from
the bottom up,
splashing and splattering
all that brain
that matters to me.
Till, I am unable to think clearly.

Peace is a pleasant memory,
a space where I find
a specific a place or time,
and revisit them
when I close my eyes.

However,
your heavy presence
shifts the soil
which these memories
sit in,
and their sediment
is swept away
by the currents you create
when you intrude
upon my day.

Peace is detachment
from toxic connections,
but my heart can’t
release them
when they keep returning.

All should tremble at the audacity of those who overcome the social engineering of this society. Whatever greatness is achieved by humanity is not fostered by the mad masses following archaic and greed driven systems, it is accomplished by the outliers. We skewer the curve and hold the potential to cure humanity of the illness of cruelty, self-destructive behavoir, and the bad kind of arrogance. Love, science, and art is the key.

Tonight, I gaze
through eyes
glazed
with a
dark red haze.
It is this poetry
of pain
that I play with.
Part genius,
part ******,
but I still
work with
all of it.
It is tears,
tragedies
forgotten
and remembered
tinged with
the insights of
love and
the losses to come.

Tonight,
I am tired
but I will not sleep
because dreams
keep waking me
with what if
and never was tears,
even bringing in
cameos appearances
of family and friends
who have long since
departed this realm.

Tonight,
my eyes ache
for the sweet respite
of a well earned
rest,
but it is those
unconscious journeys
that frighten me.
So, I use
work as an excuse
while I abuse
caffeine,
just to avoid
the truth.

It is the truth that breaks a poets heart. To know such violence lies in the eyes of the so called protector. Everyday I find myself more heartbroken even though I see the violence coming. Cause for every stride we made for justice their is another ******* hiding behind authority trying to take it away.

I write a red heart of love. Feel glass viens shattering. Then take those blood shards and give them to the world.