By the morning
as light pierces
my perfectly placed curtains
forcing my eyes
to flutter open
I wake with dry crust
flaking off.
Still stiff with
my unconscious lust
I shift to search
for an after image
looking for the presence
of a person who
filled my dreams
a stranger whom
I have never touched
or even seen.
But she is a ghost
slipping from my mind
like sand in my hands,
faster than I grasp her.

I was angry at god.
Even though,
he does not exist
because I knew
if I had the power
I would never
let anyone
abuse a kid,
but I saw
that ****
and I let it
happen again and again.
I am such a big
******* hypocrite.

Tis a strange outlet for my unrelenting desire to write and be read, but here on hello poetry I know there a few people who will read my writing and that gives me the grandest pleasure I have ever known in my life. Maybe one day millions will read my words and find inspiration but right now I am grateful for what I get.

No life has a happy ending because every life ends, so why not fill what precious few moments we have with all the love we can give and take.

I was angry at god.
Even though,
he does not exist
because I knew
if I had the power
I would never
let anyone
abuse a kid,
but I saw
that ****
and I let it
happen again and again.
I am such a big
******* hypocrite.

Her Aura was an empty illusion,
a cloud of lies
to fool herself.
Like her astrology sign
and her numerology
she needed said mythology
to find a narrative in her life
and follow it through
like a puppet on a string
who does what the
puppeteer wants her to do.

There ain’t no such thing
as love.
So, I sing
in poetry
about the cynic
I don’t want to be,
while looking longingly
with loving eyes
at a human being
who will probably
never realize
how entranced
I am by her presence.

Oh, how I long to be
the silent lips
of your poetry.
Eyes wavering
to and fro
like a pendulum
falling down the page
as you find my poems
and devour them.
Then,
I long to be
the one you wish to see,
so you can speak about
what you read.

The mystery and magic of our life is a product of our subconscious. Fluid movements based off of muscle memory, the things we feel and see while meditating, the initial creation of art before you edit it, the recognition of patterns before you even think this is all part of our subconscious processes.

Please do not let your objective mind, identity, or will be subverted by political or religous ideas. These distinctions that seperate us are merely illusions perpetuated by those in power.

It is not red hot,
but a beautiful
ink blot
on the white spot
where I let my words
write themselves
and reveal how much
of a fool I really am.

I wasn’t there
but I can recall
all of those
wonderful tunes,
sharp melodies of pain,
songs that ranged
from fruits that would hang
beautiful and strange
to “A Change is Gonna Come.”

Now we back that *** up
and we gotta go get some,
No more “Seasons in the Sun,”
no more “Peace Train.”
For the people who get ready
we got cheap celebrities
like the Kardashians.

I can’t find the bards
Or lyrical philosophers.
Where are the strangers
holding each other’s hands
and singing we shall overcome?
No more street pounding struggling
to make people see the inhumanity
because the music paints
separate realities for everyone
who want to get theirs,
like life is a zero-sum gain
were for someone to win
someone else has to lose the game.

How I enjoy these lost late nights playing poet under moonlight.
Each word a celebration of my wit and confusion. I am blessed by the fathers and mothers of my youth whom all knew as poets to, from Dickenson on to Poe that shaped my love and helped me grow. This is as it always was a written remembrance in love. To every poem and every story thank you for your radiant glory.

-2011

I am probably the most prolific poet that paces the pavement at the prestigious place of academic play. Though I do not pander to the people that pay a hefty price I still politely have parley. Even though their precarious positions cause me pain, I still try to speak plain while avoiding the profane.

2011

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

It takes great courage to risk being hated to be loved for who we truly are.

As a member of this limited species I am a bigger idiot than most. My heart yearns for a better world even though I know it is on a sad slow but rapidly hastening decline. So I spit weird verses out into the void hoping humanity will hear it and listen. Yep I am a huge *******. Most people are to egotistical to admit their idiocy. however, I believe that accepting our stupidity opens us up to learn more and not be trapped in the old style of thinking. Peace, love, and props to you all

He was flawed.
Tooth chipped.
Back ends
rotting.
Dark brown
moving in
from the rear
where it was
rotten and thick
then thinning a bit
as that ****
slowly worked its way
stench and all
to the front of
his infected jaw.

Step right up
to test your luck
pull a lever,
or pick a card.
If you’re clever
you’ll get a red lettered
queen of hearts,
but if you are
down on your luck
you’ll get a generic joker
who doesn’t give a single
****.

Step right up
to test your luck
pull a lever,
or pick a card.
If you’re clever
you’ll get a red lettered
queen of hearts,
but if you are
down on your luck
you’ll get a generic joker
who doesn’t give a single
****.

That little boy blue
who wore his bruises
under his aching skin
will not come back here again.

Put the tears away.
Don’t let the memories
stain your face.
They are only echoes
of actions in the past
sounding in a canyon
but those vibrations never last.

You remember
cold weeks in December
were bare feet sprung
up and over your plastic window
out into the thick bed of snow
where no one else would go,
so you could know
a few minutes of frozen freedom.

I promise,
you do not have to go back
to that dark black shadow
that once shredded your heart.
You do not have to look
into the mirror that has been
shattered apart.

You remember,
nervous breaths.
How Tensions forced you
to flinch
at the slightest touch.
Short hairs pulled.
Favorite shirts torn
by rages you did not deserve.

I swear that now
if you do not miss it.
You will not have to revisit
that painful *******.
Close your eyes
rest tonight.

This is the present
of your so called peaceful life.
That little boy blue
who wore his bruises
under his aching skin
will not come back here again.

You are all idol worshippers
claiming to be children of
a specific god you love,

but now you bow to
your wage driven existences.

Your gods are corporations.

So, you sacrifice your rationality
to your favorite sports team,

and you sacrifice your health
to your favorite brand of
chemically saturated food,

and you sacrifice your poor
to the pocket books of the
politician’s donor,

and you sacrifice foreigners
to the military industrial complex,

and you sacrifice me,
your child of daydreams
and hopefuls scheme of a better humanity,
to the ease of self-pleasure
and precariously pursued ignorance.

It’s not a ferris wheel
with fancy lights
that draws you to
the other side at night.
I know because once
I tried to take that ride
and end my life.

It’s not a pool of cool
reflecting water
that lets you see
the ones you long to,
sparkling images
that smile sweetly
back from deaths arms
to finally greet you.

It’s not a church choir
there to inspire
with regimented lyrics
that repeat mundanely
boring the **** out of me
for their lack of
originality.

It’s not perfectly sanitized,
or measured in black and white.
Truth is not always just
wrong and right
sometimes there are nuances
but there are definitely not
alternative facts.

This poem is not an exploration
of the nature of death
or the reality of truth.
it is just a pretty painting
in poetry and prosaic presentation
of my inexhaustible ego, whimsy,
and creativity.

Certainty and ignorance are terrible bedfellows.

Dusty Deadbolt eyes never open again

It is Ragnarok in the heavens
as the long snouted giant wolf Fenrir
faces off against rust colored clouds.

The Midgard serpent
stretches its purple, orange, and grey
body across the sky,

while embers of Surtur’s raging flames
cascade like spiraling waves
during the last seconds of
this dying day.

My muse burns with a cold fury,
a frosted fire that flames in the night
fast as death and slow as time.
I sit and wait, hoping I’ll find
the right words to fill this rhyme.

So, I seek soft speakers who feel as I,
the ones who use poetry
to tell beautiful truth filled lies.

Then once I have devoured their vowels,
once I have sipped and savored
their constant consonants
briskly reading through
the stuff they share with me and you,
I let my mind do what it must do.
I rest, absorb, learn, and get ready to use,
the sweet words of my wonderful muses.

My blood is ink.
At least I think.
The last time I saw it
was when I tried
to cut myself and die,
but ended up
only staining the kitchen sink
with bits of runny poetry.

My blood is ink.
At least I think.
The last time I saw it
was when I tried
to cut myself and die,
but ended up
only staining the kitchen sink
with bits of runny poetry.

This is how the spoon stirs,
how the soup swirls
in several spinning
concentric circles.

This is the plump
juicy red tomato body
struggling against
the gravity
of this liquid reality,

plopping when it drops
jalapeno sauce
dripping little hots spots.

This is one spicy dinner.

I saw her body
before she was buried.
All goblinesque,
all skin bunching,
so, she doesn’t make
cameo appearance.
However, I didn’t get to see
the little boy blond
who has been long gone
for over twenty years
or my grandpa
who died alone in the hospital.
So, once in a while
they stop by in my dreams.

Cold black and slim
sinking in the ground
like the earth is all
mud and quicksand.

Flags stain the varnish.
Bodies just vanish
under the guise
of the lies
by those guys
disguised as patriots.

Some coffins shrink
to fit little bodies.
Some coffins stink
just like the **** that caused them.

Short and small,
to fat and large
I see them lifted
just so they can fall.
Nightmare boxes
one and all.

Stuck in Springfield alone,
all my friends are back home,
nothing to do but sleep,
but that's not me,
so off the gym I go
to workout all the pain and anger
in my soul.

I seldom solicit
your consent
when I try to
penetrate
the mind you
hide behind.

I have weathered so many storms that tempestuous tempests seem to be my home.

The grey road is a field
of young and old
metal plants
that are grown
in big buildings
where business men
take the workman’s
daily sacraments
and exhausting sacrifices
and turn them into
automated schemes.
Till this artificial industry
falls crumbling
to the rise of the profit machines.

Of angry fools
I am indulgent
allowing them
the air to unwind
and breathe again.

I hope and wait
to be their friend
to open up
the locked doors
that hearts guard,
those dark territories
that are concealed within.

I let them whisper.
Soft droplets
drop this
water kiss
of pain
that strangers
dismiss.

I am indulgent
because I love them
greasy, angry
mob mentality
the bane of me,
but in their artistry
I weep gently
hoping
that they will join me.

I sip another orange juice
instead of an alcoholic beverage
because I don’t want to be
less than the current me,
intoxicated and reacting sloppily.

Still, I engage the girl at the bar clumsily
half-jokingly insulting myself
because I am to nervous.
She gives me a few moments
then turns to the drunk guy
on her other side.

The clash of music versus music
sounds a discordant wave of chaos
punishing my eardrums
but giving me a good excuse
to creep away with all the grace
of the Star Trek, X-men, and
Buffy the Vampire Slayer nerd I am.

The off-duty bouncer
soberly killing time
working on a tattoo design
with his son’s initials
takes a break to educate me
on what I need to do
to approach other women.
Three things he confides in me
confidence, and smelling good
but I lost the third.

Off to my right in the dim bar lights
disembodied voices from the other side
of the small grey door
beckons me forth to explore
a universe of unknown melodies.
I do not venture there.
Instead, I listen to
the high heels that clank
in competition with the loud mouth drunks
losing out to
the dull conversation of drab businessmen.

She is the edge of the unknown,
unfamiliar female form
fitting in a small wooden chair
one table over and four down there.

Soft shadows slightly obscure
her beautiful features.
So, I am unable to ascertain
the precise color of her hair
or her age.

Small glass chalice of liquid
in her hand as she sits
silently sipping, and listening
with just the hint of a smile
curving her pink lips.

She holds her head at a safe angle,
pale white arms steadying her
small round features.
Then her hand shifts
to cover her small mouth,
a mystery in contemplation.

We all fetishize a mystery,
fantasizing about what we
are unable to see,
but once known it is discarded so easily.
Still, I desire to meet her
before the glow of fascination fades.

The loneliest path is that of an artist who seeks to ferret out unpopular truth. He or she who tries to shake the masses from their comfortable stupor, and help them find a way to rise above the illusion of limitation and restraints placed upon them by their society.

I return to some young summer.
It’s just a memory on a breeze
a warm day I had forgotten,
but it makes me smile.

My brain is a wooden ship
rotting from the outside in.
Till termites chew and tare
leaving more holes then I know
that grow and leak more than words.

I lose nouns and verbs,
more than adjective and adverbs.
Conversations are lost.
All experiences
pleasant and painful
average or terrible
are obscured.

Faces and names slip away
Sinking to the bottom
Of this opaque ocean brain
Then life lets the rushing waves
of time take everything
farther and faster away.

Is it just me.
when I see
strangers crying
frequently
I tear up to?

Black circles darken my eye.
There are notes to play,
but my vocal cords are cut,
and I am drowning in
a steaming pile of
my own guts.

It is too late in life
for me to join the night
and be a beautifully brooding poet.

It is too far down the line
and I am too rigid in my mind
to be open to that world.

So, I come to the open mich to speak,
breath and read my carefully crafted masterpiece
just so I can have the pleasure
of finishing up and leaving when I please.

This could be a great place to rent
but I don’t want to live here.

So, I let the train roll heavy
breaking every bond
in my once well rooted
but now withering body.

These words don’t mean ****
when there is no one listening
cause I am just an over entitled
society fighter who think he is enlightened,
but in reality, I am just a coward
running as fast as I can.

It has been an hour in-between spent
just waiting for my metal chariot.
My cup jingles with ice water
because I can’t afford
the hard liquor
that other strangers adore.

Earbuds distract.
Loud music
plays strange extended chords.
The electric vibrations
swirl around
then wave in and out
as the tempo of the drum
beats in the background.
So loud and strange,
it flows faster
then the rain
that hits the rusted track.

I change trains
cause I would rather
hit the rails
then stay tamed
like a well trained
house cat.
Who never leaves his home.

The crooked trees
are bare of leaves
because Hermes
the crafty wind thief
has taken them,
Small brown and cartwheeling,
they cut across the empty street
as I watch enamored
but discreetly,
till, they finish crumbling.

Nature is weighed down by winter’s solid white water.
Cold winds break across the burial ground,
soft mounds where their family history is found.
Mother, father, brother, and daughter stand
struggling to hold onto each other’s hands
while the black clad tools of this corporate land
prepare to eviscerate the safe drinking water
with metal pipes of pure crude destruction.

Our lives
become fictions
that we have rewritten
in fragmented memories.