I got the worst human deformity,
a kind heart and extremely sharp mind.
You see one or the other
would be so much better.
A soft soul with a sweet disposition
tempered by a lack of information
would make facing reality
a little less bitter and heartbreaking.
While a rational mind minus
the temperament of the compassionate kind
would make broken hearts
a thing of the past.
I want to look beyond the past,
and be a true gentleman,
but to be aggressive,
competitive, and
alpha minded is what
the cattle wants.
Unfortunately, due to a mix up
I got both qualities
which makes me
so ****** up
and disposable.

It is nighttime.
The stars glimmer
in **** near
infinite distances and
directions,
sending out
static signals
that we may never hear,
emitting light,
we get to see
long after
they are deceased.
I would give you these
burning things.
I would send you safe
sparkling dreams
of space travels
and grand adventures.
If my hand could stretch
beyond the horizon
of a black hole
I would reach out
into the gravity field
and gift you
the unknown.
For a small smile
or merely the hope
that one day
past your pain
you will laugh again
and find sweet dreams
I would give you eternity.
But for now
all I have is poetry.
So, I give you the heart
of my words,
they are yours
to do with as you please.

Let me write you
a smile that
shines through
the gloom and doom
to get you through
this dark time
that is hounding you.

How many years
have the shadows owned my heart?
How many times
have I seen
my hope for love
blown apart?

I don’t want to
be a burden to you.
I just want to do
what you need me to.

But it’s awkward
I feel as if
I am at the end
and this attempt
represents
a last-ditch effort
to believe
love is possible
for me.

The pillars of learning are acquiring information, retaining it, being able to retrieve it, then being able to adapt and use it in various situations

We wear our weariness on the sleeves of our souls. Even now I to miss the younger me, wondering is he a shadow of what I will be or am I a shadow of what he was.

It is blindness by consent
Not knowing where we were going
Not caring where we went
Just tearing up the world
As we play follow the leaders

Sometimes sanity is so insincere, like a sarcastic comment to a crying child or a cold shoulder. Madness is the only logical response to the horrors of humanity.

No lie can live forever
Cause liars always die
Leaving the next generation
To waddle slowly to the truth
Letting honest heart free to fly high

The heart is a lonely hunter
But the souls is a silent savage
Designed to steal and plunder
While our spirits and minds are ravaged

The smoke fills my lungs and I am so close to escape. One freaking puff away from sleep, one puff away from peace and rest which has eluded me most of the day; so I inhale slowly filling my lungs with the specter of white smoke. A round of coughs escapes my mouth, but I struggle to hold that sweet cloud of mercy in.
I even make a game of it as I watch the clock. How long can I keep the smoke down? How good will the numbness feel as it creep from the tips of my toes to the pit of my pain? I cough again, and the smoke is expelled from my body with a tid bit of spittle: ******, only forty five seconds.
I repeat the process until my joint is gone; then grab a bite of the tastiest three day old grilled chicken I have ever known. While softly sipping a cup of water, I turn on my nature sounds slash instrumental CD, then crash into my bed. The springs creek in resistance as I shift and struggle to fold myself into my quilt like a tightly wrapped burrito, which sounds so tasty.
Lying on my bed, I feel myself breathing; the rise and fall of my chest coinciding with the rise and fall of the ocean tides. I move my head to the left to check the clock, and my body seams to echo, each movement becoming a shadow of the previous one. Closing my eyes, I let my imagination take me to sleep.
After a hard day’s work, this is the closest thing to relief I have. I lose my name. My sense of self evaporates. Then sleep overtakes me. Dreams of highways in space fill my head. There are no cars, only stars scattering across the infinite sky, with endless roads. Off ramps to nowhere litter the highway. Spiraling crystalline stairways being ****** into black holes are lighted from the raging inferno of stars. Glorious shades of purple, yellow, orange, red, and blue gasses dance in the distance.
The scene feels like an M.C. Escher painting. My body begins moves of its own volition. I am forced to walk this road; even so the sights are glorious. The neighbor’s dog barks startling me. Awakening from the dream, I rush to fill my journal with the wonders I had seen, only to find myself too tired to rise. My eyes are swollen shut. My calves are cramping in pain; my throat is dry and I am plagued by a cough that will not leave me alone.
After a minute of painful paralysis, I stumble to the bathroom, stub my toe on my fifteen pound weight and curse out loud, “what the **** is this weight doing in my ******* bathroom?”  Warm ***** explodes from my ***** for more than mere minutes, and my eyes begin to open. I splash water across my face, dry myself, and walk groggily back to bed to collapse into slumber once more.
In dreams, I try to recapture that wonderful road, but it eludes me. Life pales in comparison to the rapture of my dreams. Maybe tomorrow, I will get to see where that highway goes.

My secret place began with a big bang, expanding as space divided and multiplied.
Intersections and dark lines forming strange corridors
Watching each mass in flux become its own synaptic map.
Gloomy ghosts of the past intersecting with visions of the present.
Energy always pushing forward constantly rerouting old wiring.
My secret place is a radiating pool reflecting infinity within a cave of glowing moss.
Shallow puddles paint theses surfaces but beneath their glimmering façade
There are endless depths funneling to dimensions beyond my own comprehension
Worlds of what if and why not places where loved ones are never lost just locked away
Saved in an astral plane to be remembered any day I choose.
Emotions are evident through the rocks as they cycle through cliché colors
Red for rage, blue for despair, green for calm, and purple for passion.
Siren songs of yester everything echo through the wet walls
Sounding lamentation and celebrations of every degree
From overjoyed and apathetic to all the shades of agony.
Angels and demons manifest in varying degrees of desire.
Ego and id sipping slime from the pulsing membrane of the cave walls.
Red rocks thumping like an African drums beating to the rhythm of my heart.
For some their sacred secret place is a safe zone but my home is fraught with danger.
There is always ying and yang *** for tat.
Abstract things born to balances great happiness with deep sadness,
So I can appreciate the beauty and irony because security is an illusion and stability is for fools.
My secret place is fluid always adapting to me, a changing sea unencumbered by destiny.
Better than Wonderland worse than Neverland, and almost as sweet as OZ.
I won’t lose my head but I may lose my heart while flying far to slow to start.
All dreams and fantasies rise and fall from within these corridors.
Prison cells of DNA forms certain passageways flaring with neurotransmitters.
My secret place will fall one day receding into the dark shadows of collapsing stars
Be ****** up into the grand void of space and spit out a wasted mass of molecules.
No matter how hard I try to describe this, you will never really know my world.
As I will never live in yours, so I wonder what is your secret space like?

It’s always the way
my beloveds seem to stray.
I am here today
and they are gone away tomorrow.

I am fiercer then
the finest fires
of dragon breath.
As I hold her head
to my sturdy chest
there is an instinct
that buzzes through
to protect and comfort
this ***** blonde beauty.
She knew me
before her deepest sorrow.
Now tears crack her face
splitting dry sides
with wet lines
of grief.
I feel guilt
and a little relief
that she needs me.
I don’t want to be
super creepy
but I love her.
I always have.
She doesn’t laugh
at that.
She just says it was always obvious.
I make her smile and chuckle.
I hold her closer.
I rub her feet and shoulders.
I know she doesn’t love me.
I just want to be
right here in her time of need.
I just want to act and prove
that I can love her unselfishly
even if she never sees
that sparkle of desire for me.
I’ll take days,
week, years, or decades
and be sorry when
she discards me
for some other man.

She has the face
of a blonde-haired angel
with spectacles.
Tears slide down her cheeks
as she sits and speaks
trying to work out
if this is her own fault.

He has the face
of a tired war hero,
wakes up at night
when no one is near
with too many tears.

One old man stands
on the corner
with a cardboard sign.
Another one
has a heart attack
before its closing time.

You may think
that you are fine
but you’re just standing in line
waiting for your turn
to wear the mortar
and the earth.

We all get a foundation of hurt
but can we build compassion
up from that dirt.

An average person can live within the constraints of their social programming. A smart individual can recognize how they are being socially programmed, but it takes a little bit of genius, arrogance, and madness to rewrite one's own intellectual and emotional programming.

People say honesty is the best policy. Yet, some in situations being completely honest can destroy the social glue that binds us. What a conundrum how much honesty is to much? Is it relative to the person and sitaution? and if it is relative how does one calculate the level of honesty?

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

Everyone has a light to share. It may burn dim or shine so bright it blinds the masses. There is a story in each of you, a lesson I can learn. In some cases I have been blessed to share some of your wonderful insights while someone of you remain a beautiful mystery. Just remember at the end of the day you are unique, your wonderful, and you are appreciated because you bring happiness to those who know and love you.

They built a brick wall
out of all their pain,
locked themselves up
in their own chains,
to never let go
of the grief they know.

It is the ocean that divides us
as celestial stream that hides
deep inside
a treasured light
that we only confide
in those nearby.

It is a temple of dragons,
fates burning fury
that scorches us
to the core
and even more
before
we rise
from the ashes
of old lies.

It is the night sky,
sparkling
but temperamental
reminding us
we are ephemeral
less than insects
in the scheme
of infinite things.

It is daydreams,
dark and bright fantasies
about spaceships
traversing
distances beyond
current capability,
with artificial intelligence
to guide and inform me.

It is a story
in the form of poetry,
a multi-faced
multifaceted
exploration
of my unknown identities
that I explore,
remaining untitled
because I do not know
for certain what it
is certainly for.

There was pain and self-destruction
a medicated nightmare of misunderstandings
doctors demanding that I be sedated
because they hated
my child hyperactivity
my playful disposition
and questioning nature
my poor nutrition
and the affects of a mother’s violent behavior
so at eighteen they put me on Paxil
drugged me up and I didn’t sleep
for almost a whole week
which made me suicidal
lessened the chance of
my overall survival
I spent a week in a hospital
a month or two in a group home.
Then less than ten year later
they gave my brother
the same medicine
and those drugs
nearly did him in
they sent him
to the same hospital
not ever asking if
the prescription
caused this ****

Through time and space there are a million minds that mirror my own. We share idea, though somewhat distorted between us and many times we have never met or heard the original idea. There is something in the convergence of our existence that causes great ideas to develope sperately but similiarly. This is to be expected we live on the same planet, share similiar forms, feel similiar emotions and have acces to similiar information and technology.

I am a humbled beggar
pleading with the cosmos
that cool beneath
chaos in my unconscious.

I plead for the need
of words to be
refilled
until hearts observations
are fulfilled.

Let word cut across
the blank pages
that I thought I lost.
Let pure white snow
become polluted
by the words I know.
Let me see ink streaks
stretch across
the blank canvass.

I entreat
the inner lining
of my softly churning
mind
to chime,
let the bells of inspiration
finally find
their home.

But if they do not come today
let me mull over
what I have been
working on
until I find
the buzz of words
slipping in a stream
freeing me
from the fear
that I will
never write again.

Becuase that is the way it is, becuase that is the way it has always been, or becuase it would be to hard to change is not a good reason to keep doing something.

The bonfire burns.
Flickering ashes
rise up in black smoke
flying like
little lightning bugs.
My face is flushed
with its radiance.
I am forced forward
like the fire
is a tiny planet
with its own gravity.
I get as close
as my flushed face
will allow.
My hands move around
the aura of heat;
Such a sweet
orange beauty,
it beckons me
while dancing against
the edge of night’s
dark infinity.
Such a sweet heat,
hides in the vaguest
corners of my memory.

The nighttime is perfect.
It is silent while I am working,
etching my thoughts
into strange poetic marks.

Past the heart of the evening
onto what I am seeing
the stars are obscured
by the curves of cool clouds.

A block away I can hear
strangers partying.
Heavy bass popping out
rhythm and rap.
I kind of like that,
so I bob my head
to the beat
as I walk around
the brick side of
this big building.

The AC stutters to life
making me jump.
For second I think
there are strangers
watching me,
but I am all alone.

A red shirt stranger
startles me,
but he’s no danger.
He’s just checking
the ashtrays
for stray
butts.

Three and a half
hours in
and it’s time for
my caffeine friend
to pep up
my lagging steps.

Healthy snack
every other hour
broccoli or cauliflower
and a rotisserie chicken
for dinner,

then when the nighttime
is over
I head home
on the highway
and come back
the next day
to do it all again.

With the power of shared meaning words can divide, destroy, disseminate falsehoods and conceal ill intent. However when used to their truest potential they can elevate with education and shared understanding, by clearing out the closet of confusion. They empower us to see where we have been, where we are going, and where we can go if we choose to alter our course. Those who control the language control the course of history. Those who censor language weaken the collective.

A blur sharpens.
Vision returns.
Retina burns
as pain
takes its turn
to remind you
that dry eyes
might
blind you.
Headaches
make me
super cranky,
so I need
caffeine
to stay sharp,
with a gallon
of water,
and eye drops.
Until,
my mind is
still,
and I can sleep.

The ego is obsessed with expansion,
moving far beyond equilibrium
absorbing all that is given him;
Like the people who are given in
to unreasonable expectation,
the ego is demanding recognition
not asking for any permission,
but stomping on the feet of strangers,
and climbing over stumbling mothers
just to get the **** that it wants.

A little smile and conversation,
it doesn’t last very long
cause the strangeness in my personality
makes this woman just move on.

Now the sun is slowly rising
as this night comes to an end
you know it wasn’t that surprising
to see her leaving with her friends

Another heartbreak in the notebook
another antacid accident
acid building up inside me
cause it’s a temperamental life
that breaks me like a bull
so it can grind and ride me

So I shake off the dusty road
with thirty seven years behind me
and wait for the sun to fall again
just to feel the cool night wind.
I didn’t really care for the bar scene
but it’s hard to pick up women
at your local library.

I just split a crown of broccoli with a St. Bernard named Winnie.

I carry a little notepad with me
to jot down my deepest thoughts
or take note of what I see.

Too tired to write
but I still
bring these words.

Too sad to think
but I still sing
until I am heard.

Tears soak through
my human costume.
Turning skin to redder shades,
making my shirt collar
a little wetter,
leaving me
a voice of congestion.
I am open to suggestions
on how to not forget her
but not let the memories
of loss be something
I regret later.

Caffeine to breaks the cycle,
nighttime quiet makes me
more susceptible,
more easily corruptible  
as I succumb
by not letting myself
be numbed
to all the pain and beauty
this life has to offer.

Let my sorrow drown me for now
I can always bring back
the sad clown
to make myself laugh
and smile again.

I do not enjoy the
busy highway.
So, I take a slow ride
on the frontage road
on my way to work
tonight.

Thin wisps of
dark blue clouds
curve over
a turquoise sky.
Then the day fades
and nightshades
are interrupted
by lightning
off to the left.

Past the gas station,
where buildings become
fewer and farther between,
glow worms work
the fields of grass
blinking like
stars on earth.

Tears work
there way
past my solitary guard
as I recall
an old yard
of childhood games
and familiar family faces.
Too many of those faces
are now specters
planted in a deadman’s field.

No time for nostalgia,
no signs of weakness,
I beat this melancholia
with exercise
and caffeine
before my coworkers
can ever see me.

Of course the pig squeals.
Yes, monsters make appeals,
pleading for humanity
whenever they feel
threaten by the lesser degrees
of the insanity
that they instigated
in our society.

However, my sympathy
is less engaged
for those who lie,
displaying false outrage
while the bombs that are made
our directed by them
to blow up innocent men
women, and children.

I long to be a good person,
but how much does my
saintly status cost?
Does it cross
some sick line
when I find
that I harbor patience
and mercy in my mind
for the vicious kind
who have slaughtered
thousands,
and impoverished
millions more?

“Tell me quick,”
the demon smiled
with teeth as long
as a crocodile’s,
threatening to
chomp down on my hand,
and turn it into a stump
of mangled flesh.
“Do you think
that you will survive
all the monsters crawling
deep inside
you fragile fractured mind?”
The slimy skin
was glistening,
with over accentuated
varicose veins pumping
poison and acid.
I turned away
from the shadowy form
to ignore the coming storm
of my madness.
But he smiled
deep and darkly
as if he could see
the very heart of me.
I shivered with despair
tinkling in all my fear
because the monster
made it very clear
that I would die
this very evening.
Though I cried
he ignored me,
while he walked away.
In all the terrors that I’ve seen
this is the one that made me scream,
begging for the angels to rescue me,
but the feathered hosts
of heaven never came.
No mattered how hard I prayed
I was on my own.
There before me
lay a silver blade.
So, I grabbed it while I waited.
The beast came back to fill his gut,
so I shoved the blade right up his but
and watch the filth and blood
drain from his bowls.
A smoking mass of ****** blood
made the strangest kind of sound
as it drained in clumps onto the mud.
He howled in rage and agony;
but I just smiled
with a sinister glee,
because I found the monster
was not as beastly as me.
Now the forest may be full
of demons, trolls, or goblins,
but I know that I can stop them,
so I feel no fear.

Three pages behind,
so I look to find
any observation
that will stir
a poetic line;

Like white flowers
on a metal wire
that look like
a metallic vine.

Three pages I seek,
so I listen to
whatever will speak
to my poetic sense,

I hear lots of clicks
as I drive by on
the highway,
then a musical beat
that I cannot place
because it is muffled
and lacks any base.
I pop the top
of my center console
to see a strange glow
as my cellphone
tries to wake me up.

Three pages that I yearn to complete
but I have no comprehension
of what strangers smell,
so I am only left to write about
what I feel.

I slide my hand up and down
searching soft sore spots,
looking to see if they
are too cold or hot
and flinching when
I come across a bruise.

Three pages to complete
it’s the deadline I set for me
every month I try to write
thirty pages of poetry.
Now I only need two
to get up to what is due
this far in the month.

My body stiffens
with the tension
of tight muscle pain
as the light brown halo
forms around
a purple colored bruise
slash sprain.

In sleeping
my dreams are strange
they range from space
to earth bound pursuits
but one wrong movement
finds me transitioning
from unconscious dreams
of painful things
to an awakened state
of annoying pain.

The day progresses
as I obsess
and become depressed
because I cannot
go to the gym
and exercise
all of my demons
without doing
more damage
to my current injury.

Slowly the bruising recedes
leaving only fuzzy memories
that sharpen with
a jolt of awkward movement.
My smile and jesting disposition
may hide the obvious truth,
cause I will laugh at my pain
to hide it from you
but my poems are where
confessions lay
and right now I must say,
I wish this injury
would just go away.

Give me a song to calm my nerves.
Give me a sweet swinging verse.
I love those words
the ones we both heard
that made life so nice.

When I am alone at night
with too many thoughts
running through my mind
a play soft song.
Then I sing along
and I am alright.

When I am daydreaming,
I fantasize about singing
soulful songs of yesterday
as we sit and talk throughout the day
while playing checkers, or dominoes.
Man, that would be great.

Perhaps, later on that night
you’ll let me hold you tight
as we sway to the soft beat
with synchronized feet.
That would be so sweet.

I did not really listen
cause everything written
that I read
was devoured too fast.
It was only when I slowed down
that I saw the words
for more then what they were.
They became images in my head
of the spiraling universe they represented.

What will people say
such a scandalous affair
a trickle claiming to be rain
when no water ever
comes near here.

Oh, dear what will
they think.
I shiver to inquire
what would ever inspire
such vague ideas.

If I truly cared
what strangers thought
I would not
be who I am
a poet pleading wares of words.

Truly I am a fool,
because I care
just enough to want
people to read my words
but not enough to change
the core of who I am.

It was an obsession,
illegal possession
of the love drug connection
driving her into
criminal intent.

She assumed by his promises
she owned him
all affection shown him
all ****** gratification
grinding deep into
her chemical brain.

But then came
that chemical pain
rejection
subtraction
from the satisfaction
of knowing with certainty.

Possessing little sanity
she drove metal nails
up and down
the red paint
of his ford truck.

Empowered by passion
she pushed past him
pounding until the
pulpy flesh
of his favorite pet
plastered her nail bat.

It went farther than that.
With a gun to his back
she pierced his heart.
The pumping stopped.
Then she put the barrel
up to her head,
pulled the triggered.
Until, she too was dead;
finally, free from
her obsession.

So here I am a freak. Undesirable to some confusing to others annoying to most. I think to much about why things are the way they are instead of accepting them as they are, I question to much, so I don't get to far, and in the chaos of the world where people try to pretend there is order I understand more then most, becuase I walk along the borders of life like a lonely ghost and see more then almost everyone I know.

Good morning Springfield
how are you?
don’t you know me
I’m your working son?
I’m the poet who
drives up from Litchfield
and I’ll be heading home
when my shift is done.

Well, here comes the sun.
My shift is almost done.
I’m tired as I can be
without falling asleep.
As I head home
I hear good songs
playing on my cellphone.
I wish that they were louder
because that music is usually better
then what is playing on my radio.

I stop once or twice
after a long work night
to drop a pound of ****
and keep driving home.
Orange hazes paint the sky
but my eyes are tired and dry
and I can barely keep them open.
So, I turn the AC up full blast
as the early truckers speed on past.
Drops of visine and shades to help me see
as I stretch my right arm
on the seat right next to me.

One last song before my exit,
I hear Willie Nelson sing,
“Good Morning America,
I’m the Train they call New Orleans.”
Then I hit repeat to hear the song again
before my car come rolling in.
Now, I am finally home my friend.

Writing becomes an exercise in humility.
I strengthen of my vocabulary
by using words I am currently
learning
and putting them in my poetry.

Such an ill-contrived endeavor,
I sit in a seat of sable steal
pondering the universe
and the quantum entangled states
of ideals that are not real.

Capriciously fools exhort
nodding their heads in retort
with dumbfounded stares.
Masses move to compare
old precepts to new ones
and discard the modern
for the medieval minds
that they prefer.

With consternation and sagacity
I dread the society placed before me
appalled by all I fear
certain a stint of dark ages will soon
reappear here
I importune,
I plead with the buffoon
but he finds me to be
so, jejune.

A sparse field of clouds
circled a splendid moon.
Thin vapors curved around
the moons glorious rainbow aura.

I tried to capture
this spectacular scene
with my phone.
Unfortunately,
that bit of technology
did not detect
and collect
the quality
I was enamored by.

Then I tried to use
a camera that had
been sitting in my car
for over a year.
The first attempt found
that the batteries were dead.
I replaced them
but the camera
still could not capture
the rapture
of this fabulous
lunar sight.

With only two minutes
until I had to clock on
I gave up on
this moon I had
set my sights upon
and disappointedly
clocked in at
ten fifty-three.

Oh, humanity
can we strive
to live a life
of compassion?

If we hear
the elderly
crying and lonely
can we spare
a moment,
can we care
enough to listen?

If we see a stranger
standing on a corner
with a lifetime
of white hair
and pain to share
even though
he may be scamming
can we still care
enough to spare
some food at least?

If we stand shoulder to shoulder
with the disenfranchised,
the disrespected
and the disappointed people
who have been
discriminated against
can we look them in the eyes
with love and respect
and not add to the grief
that they always seem to get?

If we get the chance
can we be better
then the others
who came before?
Can we do just a little more
and be decent for a change?

The wrinkled fingers, water pruned, wear wicked streaks of red, and no matter how hard he tried he could not wash away the sickening stain. Those wretched marks, flecks of flesh, would not come off. Worse than mud, cause they were blood that painted this strange space; These places were faces faced a horror many chose not to name.
            No water cause the wells were polluted; Instead, they raised their cups for the dead. A gulp of whiskey, one shot of bourbon, two bottles of beer, could not clear this crazy swell. The sea of madness marked with sadness another stain that would not wash away.
            Now, the old black and brown pipe smokes itself, while its owner huddles in horror. The last bits of **** wasting away. They do not make a herb strong enough to un-see what was seen that day.
            Blue eyes of innocence, a child’s stare, but this is me cheating cause I was not there. This is me stealing the stories of others. This is me crafting silk strings from the screams of people I will never meet. Yet their sorrow is a stain that will not wash away. Even with millions of miles, and decades between us I am still marred. No water or whiskey, nor drug of choice could dull this ache, and only death will wash this madness away.