He confessed his love with open heart
A gamble the house had fixed from the start
He could never hope to win
Within his own tortured skin
Buried deep with hopeful eyes
Swollen tongue and blackened flesh
Worms digest the best
Leaving little here to rest
It was a gamble as I said before
But the house will always claims it take
Either rushed or relaxed we all pay the same stakes

To each writer who wears a world unique
Bleeding on their velvet sleeves
Infinity within their grasp
Heavens lips spread from present to past
Eyes denying all forms of hubris
Only blocked by human ignorance
To you my dear who’ve made it clear
That every day is a grand exploration
That every syllable is a new gestation
And each sentence a phoenix birth
To burn anew and be reborn with every generation
For you I have nothing
Because in your mind is everything

Be forewarn
that when I write
my autobiography
I will lie;

Sometimes by exclusion,
omitting the unfitting
bits from my narrative.

Other times
by the blindness
and biasness
of being
so far removed
from the life
I wish you
to view.

As I strive
to write
about my life
in truth,
I will fail me
and you to,
but not for
lack of trying
to do right.

In the night
the fountain
spits red light
streams of water
with a little
blinking blue
to skew the view.

Those stone steps
to the state police
rise to the
base where
the cops stay
to plot and fleece
the population
they are sworn to serve.
Even though,
they may believe
that they are not
the tools of the rich,
I know they serve
the wealthy man’s property
and not the poor people’s
need for security.

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.

The ebony
black bent gate
bends from the weight
of age
separated from
the scraped cement
while scratching
the great brick
supports beside it.

Am I
the self-styled
selfish child
who was wild,
or have I gone
beyond
that person?

I elevate myself
by understanding
the patterns
I have performed in,
in the past,
and not repeating
said sad weaving.

The way the wind works its whirly will,
the way the waves rush and wash upon
the sandy shore,
the way the stars burn bright with
atomic fire, such hydrogen fury,
the way the rain falls on any day
even the days which I make plans,
these things are beyond my control

The way I react to a verbal attack,
the way I chose to eat healthy snacks,
the way I build up what I lack
turning my weaknesses into strengths,
the way I treat everybody
as I strive to pursue
a better me
not a me who
is better than you,
is in my control.

It is fine to hate, hate bad ideas, damaging ideologies, suffering, violence, and greed. However, hating people, diminishes the hater. Any system or person that props itself/themselves up on the basis of hating people damages humanity, and decreases our ability to build a better brighter future.

I do not wish to succumb to the social defeat of drugging myself just so I can handle the horrors of mundanne repetitveness. I fear that in deadening myself with mood altering drugs I run the risk of loosing my awareness and accepting the ******* people try to insist is simpley how it has to be, or loosing my empathy and just accepting lifes atrocities. It is not wrong to feel the highs of love and the lows of sorrow they are ying and yang. Without these feeling one becomes a zombie, a parrot, or a parody of real life.

The water falls fast
while most of the strange people
are safely sequestered
in their silent homes
to wait out
this severe thunderstorm.

Strangers make their way
as the storm fades
out into the early day.

Tank tops are wet,
less with sweat,
and more with
the warm
summer storm
bath.

This humid summer heat
Is a like a sauna

Dark green leaves
move softly
with a cooling breeze
while pointing in
so many direction
and awaiting new
chlorophyll dreams.

Like long ago lullabies
those thick limbs
come tumbling down
and sinking in
the soft brown ground.

A minor mud slide
makes black sludge overlap
onto the grey cracked cement
leaving black tracks
when bikes cycle through.

The church black top
is finally down to
its last two
wet spots.

A sunken roof
with white chipped paint
makes the yellow house
look like it in
a lot of pain.

I miss sitting on the edge of a dock as the water flows around me, and just for a second feeling like I am moving

I was hungry
and you fed me
angrily.

I was naked
and you clothed me
then ripped
those fabrics
in random bouts
of domestic
violence.

I needed shelter
and you turned
a home into
a prison
where the warden
was you.

I was thirsty
and I drank
your poisonous brew
learning to hate myself
as much as you do to.

You were the chaos
of swift currents
sending me under
in a ridiculous
blunder
as I was consumed
by my desire for you.

Angry, jealousy,
all things I thought
I had discarded,

but the brick wall
that was ****** red
which I built up
to protect myself
crumbled
in your clumsy presence
as you intruded
in the life
I had carefully constructed.

Sleep deprived,
driven by emotions
which I knew
clouded my rational mind,
I still longed for you;

And the thought
of the loss
of something
that never was
caused
black waves
of anxiety.

Until, today
when I found me.
I am not hurting
or heartbroken,
but working
on knowing
that some attachments
are better than others.

In my life I have felt the bitterl lashes of despair. I have  walked in and out of the shadows of pain. I harbor not grand hope for a spiritual salvation, so in order to make my life count for something I have to be great, and I will.

On my way
to observe
the world today,
this reality
that will decay
as it fades
from green glades
to a cement sidewalk
city of strangers
onto crumbling towers,
then back again
to nature,
and a dark void.
Where is the art
and meaning in this
existence?

Another bit
of walking in
a water like flow
towards a direction
where no one
else ever goes.

The squeaking
car frame
inches
towards the
intersection,
changes lane
to head out
on an empty street
leaving only me
to remain
in silent contemplation.

Random red flowers
already budded
built up from
a brick bed
in contrast
to the car lots
that I past
it is confusing.

Into the small
white building
for scheduled observation,
for preplanned poetry
and for self-education,
I see random racoons
moving in the room
crashing in to
monochromatic clutter,
conceptual art
but I don’t get it.

Could it be
the chaos created
by consumption
in this modern
society?

I return to
my small room
to catch the sleep
that has been
chasing me
since I got off
at 7 am.
Still pondering
my weary wanderings
as I doze off.

Is life this the answer
to the art
that I have
yet to understand?

The winter falls as fast as hailstones. White wonderlands crossing every horizon, except from my bedroom window. Then she comes, in a fearful mood, mitigated by what, I am uncertain. Maybe I did something, maybe I did nothing. As a child I am almost certain it is my fault.

            A hand crashes forcefully against my face. Then again and again as I am restrained by the collar of my shirt. I can hear it stretching to its limits and tearing. I can hear this because I have stopped listening to her. Which makes her even angrier.

            I disappear. Why bother existing at all? There is a dull sensation of pain, but it is nothing. When she is done I come back. This is how I remember it. Although, I am certain this is wrong. I am just covering up the horrible stuff with some form of acrobatic escapism.

            When the fury ends and she is physically and emotionally spent, I am sent to my room. It is a safe prison, a place where I cannot confess my shame and hers to anyone. She is safe from the prying eyes of DCFs and I am safe from her.

            Ten to thirty feet away from window I watch the world go on without me. There is a painful longing. My neighbors enjoy the day unsullied by my darkness. I wonder how bad I must be. I cry and wish to die. This is a fact unclouded by time or wishful thinking.

            I read the bible. I sneak a real book and read it. The book is wedged between my bed and the wall. I conceal half of it in the covers as I read the other half, adjusting it carefully and as quietly as possible. When I can’t read I sleep. I sleep so much that I get tired, then I sleep some more. I work as far ahead in my assignments as I can. Thank goodness the teacher is predictable.

            I think, I breathe, I live, but it feels like death. When my sentence is over I am free for a week or so. Then she is angry again. Whatever, back into my cell as I watch the world change. Winter is in its full bloom. Sometimes, I **** in a cup because I am only allowed a certain amount of bathroom visits.

I sit. I think. I sleep. I dream.

I am not even safe in my own dreams. In every dream I am pursued. A monster in space, Freddy Krueger, or just her. I run but spikes start sprouting from the ground, and every step sends spasms of sharp pain through my feet. I can fly but only so far and so high. Electric wires act like rubber bands and sling me painfully back to the spike filled earth. There is no freedom.

            I am out for a day. Then back in again. Sad songs repeat themselves on my cassette player. This only perpetuates and deepens my agony. The children laugh and play slinging snowballs dangerously fast at each other’s face. Why am I the freak? Why can’t I be free?

            The violence subsides. Now there are only harsh, well extremely harsh words, hundreds of sentences to writes, and longer confinements. I come and go so fast that it feels like I spend more time in my room then I have ever spent anywhere else.

            Summer comes, and thank goodness she has to work. I have some free time. However, summer passes and the spring brings with it the same dullness. Now, I am back to winter. My life has become a sad echo. The kids can see that I am weak. Of course I am weak. I must be weak, because I can’t handle what must be normal.

            The snow comes, so deep, white, pure, and humbling. I watch it for days.  No one goes outside. My room becomes a strange universe with me at the center spinning but never moving. I never leave this room, except for meals and the occasional ****. There is something building up inside. I open the window. Then I slam it just as quickly. I open it again feeling the full frosty force of Mother Nature. What a glorious breeze. I shiver with pleasure and with the coldness of it all.

            In the past I have tried to **** myself, but I can’t seem to die. God won’t let me go, and neither will she. So, the window comes open again. I am overcome with another impulse. With no shirt or shoes I jump out the window. It is only a two foot drop. My feet bury themselves in the cold snow. I run around as long as I can stand it, till my feet ache with the pain of cold, then pull myself back in.

            The next day I do it again. I run about a block or so and return. It feels amazing. My mind can barely take in the magnificence of it all. I hope that winter will last forever. The pain and pleasure of it all excites me. My feet go from warm to frosted then I focus on the sensation of them warming up again slowly. It is like they go from alive to dead then come back alive again.

            There it is. The grand pleasure of a small release. No fairytales or dragons. I come and go as I please. No one is outside but me. Me reveling in the cold; me dancing like a madman. I do not get sick. The beast never catches me. She is defied without pain. My dreams don’t change. The world doesn’t get that much better.

            Then when the snow fades and children, come back out to play I am trapped again.But, but this minor pleasure remains. For a bit I came and went as I pleased, free to freeze or not.

They cast me out
into the open ocean
to float alone.

The choppy waters
rippled randomly
all around me.

As I sought to swim
I found a tree limb
adrift in this infinity
of water that was
trying hard
to drown me.

While I hugged the
thick brown wood,
my skin was
scraped and shredded
from the rough bark
and other protrusions.

After an unknown
quantity of hours,
daylight was devoured,
and the once bright sky
gave way to starlight.

Above me lay
an infinite expanse of space
which was reflected
in the water
where I struggled
to remain
afloat.

Then in an instant of fatigue
one wave captured me
and I screamed silently
as oxygen was replaced
by saltwater,
and I was swallowed
by eternity.

I’ve been looking for years
searching the streets
seeing the strangers
that I meet
keep being incomplete
while I am trying to
find the piece
that puts us all back together
how we never ever were;

Still striving to be better
not to be bitter but more clever
then ever,
I became the watchful walker,
the people stalker,
observing all in silence
absorbing all the
horror and violence
just for a chance
that I might find this
fantastic formula.

Many times I have come close,
seen the kindness that I know
starting to expand,
but something stops its growth.

Till, I realized
this quest was lie
I told myself.
The thing I was looking for
the dreams I longed to know
were only there
in the hopeful words
of my fellow poets.

I spent all my life looking.
Until I stopped,
cupped my chest,
felt my heart,
and realized
to my surprise
that humanity
was in my mind.

A sharp cry of fury pierces the quiet atmosphere of the public housing complex. Neighbors from almost a block away can hear incoherent statements of rage and disgust. However, they seldom hear the sounds of violence. One would have to linger just outside the door to get an inkling of the ****** noses, busted lips, ripped shirts, pulled hair, bruised skin, or reddening flesh punctuated with shouts of “I don’t hate you; I hate your action” or” you’re going to end up just like your father rotting in cell.” Even “say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry or else” or “If you got it so bad why don’t you call DCF and have them take you away.”
Though the statements varied and the violence was different it always ended the same. The young boy locked in his little room watching the world spinning on without him. No books, no games, no hint of fun allowed, or the ire of the matriarch would be incited and more violence would ensue. Only homework, bible, and sleep were allowed. Some days dark moments of despair would creep in. The little boy would eye the electric socket with curiosity and desperation. Thinking that all it would take is a butter knife. Jab that in there and this would be over.
Sometimes he would grab the blanket, crumpling it together till it formed a hill then trace the strange pathways around the cover like his index finger was a car, or imagine his route of escape from this silent prison. Other times he would lie on his back still as death only breathing. In and out, in and out over and over again till his body felt as though it was moving with the tides of an unseen ocean. On rare occasion if only for a minute or two he could almost feel his body recede and his consciousness float up and away. What a strange thing for an eleven year old to experience.
At night in order to fall asleep he would imagine himself with his favorite fictional heroes, saving the world, and being part of their family, accepted and loved. After an hour or so of strange heroic and familial fantasy the boy would slip into the safest place he knew. Daring to dream, reality would fold in upon itself. Spheres of varying color, overlapping and blending would float through his unconscious world. Space dust and sparkling stars urging him on into the strange void. Even the blinking explosions of dying star ******* greedily at his ethereal essence seamed a sweet relief from the daily nightmares of life.
In the midst of this mosaic wonder there was a perfect peace. He could softly surrender the darkest moments of the day. Bubbles of light would gently cradle him in their warm and wet reassurances. He could almost believe this was heaven. There were no loud or sudden movements of fury, there were no bruises or busted lips, only the sweetest freedom.
Waking, that world of wonder would retreat into the clotted corners of his already anxious mind. Until, their comfort and wonder became only impressions, which were eventually swallowed by the day. A day that would be spent ******* in a plastic cup or just draining himself on the ***** green carpet to avoid being yelled at or beaten for leaving his room.
From the window, he watched his peers play unhindered by the dark shadows that seemed to linger in every corner of his home. Sometimes he envied them, other times he found himself furious with them, laughing gleefully at the thunderstorms which interrupted their play time. Still when sleep released him to his playful peace there was just enough joy to sustain him, just enough happiness to get him through the day till the dreams would come again. Then again, inching ever closer to maturity, then to freedom of his flesh from the maternal *******, then freedom of his mind much much later in life.
Now with the ease of an old friend he visits those wonders each night; sometimes waking in tears of gratitude and pain other nights waking with a sense of reinvigoration and determination. Each day a blank canvas to paint a better world upon, and each night a brighter adventure then the one before.

Perhaps, I was a peasant in love,
a partly pleasant player
in the prose and poetry
that I present to thee
my cherished queen
of love laden dreams.

Perhaps, I was
the curious cockroach
crawling across
the curators
favorite canvass,
the portrait of our
beloved queen,
to be crushed
carelessly by
the callous king,
becoming a small stain
on the otherwise
unblemished
painting.

Perhaps,
before we past
parting ways,
pondering
old playdates
when we played,
I was your partner
in strange adventures
before my feelings
became too complicated,
before I became
the crestfallen fool,
the King’s favorite jester
who made you laugh
while I tore myself in half
for the sake of your wellbeing.

Now my twin wanders somewhere
out there
unburdened by the broken heart
and if you see him
send him back
so, I can be him
once again.

I am alone,
and it seems
I will always be
so eternally.

The only love
for me
will be ghostly,
a deathly bride
who claims me
for eternity
taking me to
the doors
to nowhere
and loving me
enough
to let
my body rot,

a gruesome
affection,
indeed.

Dear reader

I am wet with red death
wed to time’s inevitability
and all that is left of the true me
is here for you to read.

So, you should know
my beloved book lover
this weary word smith
must admit
that I love you.

I love you who
are here now
working with me
or against me
the sad, angry,
bitter, and lonely.

And I love you
who have yet to come,
the newly young,
the unborn babies,
the teenager
who will feel
so alone
but might find a home,
and solace from my verses.

And I love all those
who will never know
my words.

Cracks in the sidewalk
splinter concrete
but I can’t see
the same openings
in me.

Crunchy dry brown leaves
crumble underneath my sore feet,
a victim of this summer heat.

I bet I look suspicious
stopping on every block
to look around and take stock,
looking down every street
cause I can see things
that touch me
and use them for
my poetry.

Grandkid plays
his clarinet
looking for
attention that
he can’t get
cause his
hefty grandma
can’t even look up
from her cellphone.

Little children
outside playing
get fenced in
for their safety.

Older dude
works outside
while I’m
walking through.
He has
a wooden fence
and a ladder that is
wooden to,
doesn’t even
turn his head
to acknowledge me.
So, I walk on by
this human being
cause lawn care
seems more important
then our neighbors.

Even I
a sympathetic
nice guy
walk on by
people who look like
they could use some help,
because I just want
to be left to myself.

Black man identified
by his brown skin,
I wonder how many people
even notice him
in his superman shirt
with few good teeth,
hunched over holding in
the stomach pain
that is bothering him.

On a back street
next to the railroad
an old soul drives real slow
in a ***** brown van
careful not to go
anywhere near
the cops that drive
by here
cause he is homeless.

Now, I hit this business district
full of business men *******.
Politician ignore the
bums who inhabit it,
only care about how to
maximize profits.
Scraps of litter
spread across it
just like all the people
who cross the crosswalk
avoiding small talk
and the gazes of stranger
because they feel
like they are in danger.

An American flag flies high
down the street
from a stone church
were people meet
so they don’t have to think.

All for the sake of order
I to create human borders
to maintain my sanity
in this reality of pain.

Eight to whatever shift
it all feels so endless
as he works the grill.

Poor sore foot,
swollen in pain.
Blisters bubbles up
from the soul.

So, he goes
to the place
were the food
is kept frozen,
slips
his black crew
pair of shoes
off,
and then removes
his black socks.

A patch of ice
feels so nice
that he holds
his hurting feet
on that cold spot
till the pain stops
and then
again until
he can’t take
the frozen ache.

Then he goes
back out
to work some more,
repeating as he needs
when his feet
become sore.

What does it mean to be

inhaling oxygen
breathing life
into my weary being,

culpable to my constant
throbbing consciousness
as intricate webs
that were once woven
into my mind
crumble to
the onslaught of time?

What stories could be told
about the needle in
the metal garbage bin
in the gas station bathroom,

about the thin
brown skinned
woman
rolling up slow
as I ride my bike
while getting soaked
in the pouring rain
after eleven P.M.,

about the misconception,
the keys clutched in my
tense hands,
a heart of suspicion
that never becomes reality,

about the uncertainty,
if I should be at ease
or stand tightly on guard
while strangers watch
and walk around me,

about the social programming
that even though I know exists
still affects the way I react
more frequently
then I care to admit?

Little ****** baby brother,
tiny younger sister
ravaged by war,

Oh, mother earth
what have we done.

Oh, father time
when will this
madness be done.

Our Cities sit
on crumbling foundations.
States become
little failing nations
moved by hate
and I can’t wait
for the day
things change.

Oh, mother earth
what have we done.

Oh, father time
when will this
madness be done.

Until the clouds
of grey, white, and black smoke
no longer choke
the pristine blue skies,

until the oil spilled
no longer fills
the oceans with death,

until we fulfill
our potential
and become better
humans
who help each other.

I hope we do.

For some
She is pale white
a bright light
of deathly delights,

but to me
she turns out to be
a flowing robe
colored with infinity.

She is the blooming
of nuclear roses,
orange and atomic red
spread across
the grand expanse.

She is the sparkling space clouds
gaseous forms
that fill a fraction of the void
in the same space where I hope
my particle fly to rest.

She is death
full bodied
and embraced
in the only fate
I will ever face
neither scary
nor beautiful
merely a matter of fact.

A flag is not a holy relic. I pledge allegiance to the human cause for all my brothers and sister living or lost, for every person in every nation. Nk matter what flag you live under I pledge my love, and respect. My allegiance is not for strange abstract symbols or old patrotic ideals. A flag is not nation and a nation is not automaticly rightoues. No one dies for a flag. They die becuase no one could find a better solution.

I am not some black sheep to be shepherded by some make beleive creep.

Science and logic trump ancient scripture.

It is the sound I dread
when tires squeal
in stretched out agony
moving with the slowness
of uncontrollable motions
and anxiety.

I hear a car streaking
the concrete
with black tire treads
as it tries to stop.

I pause for a second
in silent prayer
please don’t let me hear,
the sound of metal
and glass crunching.

This world can be a dark, crue,l and hateful place. That is why we must be ever vigilent against the tide of racism and hatred that overshadows the land. Where there is cruelty we must bring compasion, where there is darkness we must become the light, and where there is hate we must be love. I hope all of us can live as shining example of the goodness within the hearts of human beings.

I see the tree
shading me
while I play
gleefully
indulging
innocent instincts.
I climb
forgetting
the lessons of
time, gravity,
and most importantly
the fact that I am not
as spry as I used to be.

Dear memories,

I regret to inform you
time will malform you
as you are retroactively reshaped
to deal with your limited
understanding of today.

Dear compassion,

I am saddened to say
this will not be
the end of your pain.
As you see more and come to learn
the world may still turn
but you will burn
in agony.

Dear heart,

It is my duty to tell you
that despite the breaks
that have found you
there will be more to come,
unless you decide
it is time to run.

Dear dreams,

You have been recruited.
Your hopeful nature
will never be disputed.
We must now work together
and find a way to
challenge each other.

Dear me,

I am glad that you
are not yet
a casualty
of the callousness
of our society and I hope
we shall overcome
the horrors yet to come.

I'm a wifi guy
cause everywhere
I go is a hotspot.

What a cute little demon
clumsy and incredulous
stumbling as I laugh at its
sharpened claws
that barely miss.

They swipe like silver blades
hissing as they slice the air clumsily,

with a hunger in its eyes
more dangerous then
King Arthur’s Siege Perilous.

Beastly in its countenance
when brave warriors encounter it
they found their bowls quickly emptied,
and scurried away like fools to be pitied,

but this little darling demon spawn
has actually never managed to
hurt anyone.

We are
two excitatory particles
placed politely
in an atomic
society.

We vibrate
at the same frequency,
pushing back
energetically.
Solid is an illusion,
a sensory confusion
that clouds the truth.

Whatever keeps
our bodies together
as a cohesive being
keeps me from being able
to walk my unified particles
between yours.

A small field of energy
blocks you from me,
so we can never be
what we yearn to be;

One in two
bodies together forever
cause I am in love with you
on a subatomic level.

This is one of the strangest realizations i have ever had. I thought that i hated myself. But when one hates oneself they do everything they can to avoid being alone in silence because quiet solitude leads to deep reflection and self hate and silent reflection do not mix well. However, i find a sweet contentment in these quiet moments. I am not terrified of what thoughts might bubble up from my unconscious.

My *** is a phantom limb,
of long ignored desires
that stir within,

Imaginary women,
****** fairytales
of strange scenarios,
silicone sexiness,
constantly urging
cupping and grabbing
licking and *******
my long meat stick.

I am unable discern
the reality of it
because it has been
over two years for me.

So, I give up
looking for love
and get down
to the ***** business
of amputating my desire
with *******.

Internet ****
plus hand equals
tension relief
and my ability to focus
increases.

She was beautiful, a bit small at first. There were wooden panels cutting a rabid swath from every corner. She had two rooms with the potential for more, and chance to start a future.
            Then came a room, and another. The wood was covered or replaced with grainy grey shingles. The grey shingle moistened and dried so many times that they began to rot. A generation came and went, then came back spawning another.
            There were ghosts, not spectral spasms or phantasmal energies, but memories. Walls changing color, furniture coming and going like the children. There was a beautifully brown couch and a rough static cushioned chair. Next to the couch was a misplaced metal shelf that housed endless trinkets, like old watches, batteries, photos, toenail clippers, loose change, a couple pockets knives, and any many other items that paralleled the houses history.
            A radio once adorned the center of the house, then an old box TV, and now a fat screen piece of crap with no character spews out the modern day nonsense, shallow and cold.
            The porch appeared many years after her birth. A stony or maybe metallic desk slowly filled itself with small pieces of the house’s history. There were puzzles with no box, and pieces missing so that only part of the picture could be made; a little black book of dates so far removed from the present that nothing inside was legible. Little toys and sports paraphernalia slipped and slid across the floor till they found their perfect and final resting place. Newspapers and magazine began to rise from the floor to the ceiling as if taking on a monstrous life of their own.
            The cellar went from a useful hole in the ground where jars of preserves were stored to a dusty place with dirt floors and hidden boogie men lay. The back porch, which had a cracked and uneven cement surface, held an old washing machine were the young children occasionally had their tender fingers smashed. Behind the finger smasher was an ancient magic kitchen cabinet where old battle scarred action figures with crack chests, or missing limbs would reappear after vanishing years ago.
            The yard, once full of the sound of children’s laughter and barking dogs, grew silent. Not even the old rope swing with the cracked wooden seat remained. The cement steps and small walkway lost their final battle to the shrubbery. Now the door is concealed as if it is some secret passageway to another land. Maybe it is.
            She leans lightly to the left, buckling under her own weight as she sinks slowly into the dirt and obscurity. This is her short story with more character then a Faulkner novel, and more love then most families will ever know. She was the soft cradling mother of three generations, holding their hearts and all of their memories.
            Now ghostly echoes remain. The second and the last tenant, the mother child who seeded the love and strangeness will fade. The house will rot, for that is its lot. The fireflies that once danced and blinked no longer come, the crickets now chirp their mournful songs. The mother inside loses what little dignity she has left as her mind falters and with her the strength of the house fails as well.
            But there was a time when she shone with all the glory the world had to offer. There was so much love and fun. There was so much safety. There was so much history, maybe a millennia of history that lived with in only a century of time. My other mother, a mask for the last past that I had any link to. I speak to her with the trembling voice of a child waiting for his mother to die, knowing full well that when she passes I will have to depend on this imperfect memory of mine to remember, because she will be gone.
            Somewhere a dog barks, a cat meows, the house creaks with the wind whipping harshly against its new aluminum siding; Just a temporary facelift for a dying beauty.

I wear a costume
of poorly executed
ink artistry
that could barely
be called calligraphy.

Claiming to be
a culture rebel
I write poetry
to challenge
this society;

But is my nonconformity
the camouflage that
I use to protect myself
sticking out at a safe distance
so no one tries to get
to closed to me.

Am I a zoo animal
of sweet entertaining intentions
on the verge of extinction
cause no one loves
my kind of disposition?

Faster than
a flash in a pan
I’m tossed in a can
the discarded man
who made spectacular plans.

Plans that spanned
beyond human command,

a hopeful hearted poet
alone, sinking in quicksand
the sweet gentleman,

a noble sacrifice of convenience
because my momentum
was already carrying me there.

So, in caring I shared
sweet smiles and jokes
all my thoughts and my hopes
to help you all cope
while I go boldly on into
that last dark night
you were all dreading.

So when I die
do not let our nation’s
flag fly high
a symbol of separating humans
by maps and accidental locations,
don’t sound soldiers glory with rifles

Point your pens
to the heavens
where dreams of space begin
send me into oblivion
with love
and hopes for exploration
and in my name
write a better
kinder world
then the one
I am leaving.

It is a nice lie.
They told to me
how nice guys
can find love
in our society
and they most definitely
don’t finish last.
But patterns repeat,
I recognize the facts.
I have been here before
and felt the fury
of the faulty furnace’s
fiery blast.
There is heartbreak.
There is anger.
There is self-hatred.
There is danger.
Then I begin
to lie to myself again.
I proclaim
that in my pain and rage
I can be a bad boy to.
But he is never
who I ever really wanted to be.
I planted the seeds
and cultivated a being
of generous disposition,
intelligence and compassion.
To bad that it so happens
these are the traits
that girls like
when they are in transition
from the **** poor position
of heartbreak and frustration
then going through you
to get the guy
that they choose
because he is better than you.

There is violence on the street
but it’s all foreign **** to me.
Pavements cracked until it bleeds
but that stuff never touches me.
Bombs dropped till no one moves.
Government pay out corporate dues
fat cats swell as they sale
the stuff we use to **** ourselves,
but since it never reaches me
I am free to ignore it,
justifying the lie of America the great and free
while I never ever explore
the life of the children who are poor
and what they are driven to do
cause we ignore them until
they inconvenience us
or there is a profit to be made.

I live in darkness and vacation in the light
watch madness swell and grow like fast track tumors
watch the bloated masses explode as they consume the earth
and it hurts, knowing they will not hear me
certain no one is listening
truth is an unwanted commodity
when religious and political philosophies
are so much easier to devour,
but they taste stale to me
I am so **** hungry,
so I lay stretched out in agony
mourning the loss of humanity
and human decency.
Darkness is the truth I see,
it is the clay I work with,
but I am so tired
because I haven’t had a vacation
since nineteen eighty
and I am thirty-seven years overdue

My art is equal to
cracks in reality
that I can
almost peer through.

Space and time
crack and shatter
with sparkling splinters
trying to force themselves
through.
Till they
pierce me
and puncture you.

I’m not as gifted
as I would like to be,
cause my language
does not fit perfectly.
It is mostly limited
by the limitation of me.

As the cracks widen
I can almost look in
and make out
a mirror dimension.

It is just an inkling,
art flowering
not yet infirmed
is interred
in my minds
frozen
mid explosion

It’s a mental picture
that I snap to capture
artistic rapture
and save it for later.
Until age and infirmity
finally finishes me