I’m glad that someone finally got through to you,
that you are listening to someone who
says the same exact thing that I always do,
and now you’ve got this can-do attitude,
so everything is going to be better.

However, I am a little annoyed
that you managed to avoid
hearing anything that I had to say,
when I was trying convinced you
of those truths that you now believe in.

I got a sick suspicion
sinking and settling in
my stomach like iron *****.

A fear that we have been
walking in a maze of sewers
with tons of manure,
that people won’t bother
trying to be any better because
they have gotten used to
the sick disgusting stuff,
and being corrupt
is just how it will be.

Specifically,
I drift off to sleep
as my consciousness
dismiss me.

Encounter
all sorts of strange things
as I float through
a wide range of dreams.

Each actor is
a fraction of me
a reaction
generated
sporadically
forming
radical displays
of mixed replays
of my yesterdays
intermixed with
old and new ****
that twists and
shifts it.

It seems only
small parts
remain behind
for my waking mind
to find,
but only because
I am able to divine
a spark of
abstraction
that I can redefine
to make sense
of the mess.

I’ve seen strange dreams
but they won’t take me
to where you are,
felt the empty spaces
in stranger’s faces
but looking doesn’t
get me very far.

I’m trying to bridge
the broken distance
from which this visage
lives,
while angry eyes melt to sorrow,
and cold hearts become less hollow
as we forget how
to lend a helping hand
to our fellow hurting man,
never learning or earning
the wisdom that our difference
is what keeps the world turning.

I know when they were younger,
starving souls felt a bitter hunger,
there was a clear and pulsing fear
of dangerous people coming here.

All our preachers and bad leaders
taught us how not to think for ourselves,
and turned the pleasure of being clever
into to the worst kind of sin.

I have a sick suspicion
that this world we live in
is not made for fitting
people like me,
but my better nature
sees those sweet green pastures,
ignores the greedy pastors,
looks beyond the hearts and minds
that the liars have captured
and hopes we can all be
better human beings.

Maybe, I’m a dumpster fire,
rash trash burner who
catches heat to fast
and hopes each burn
will be the last flash,
and that my heart
won’t turn to ash.

I’m chaos incarnate
because in the moment
my mind is gone to
another time to do
things I don’t always
want it to.

Afternoon snack cravings,
nightmare scenarios
where I am not saving,
or playing hero
but watching the ones
I love die slow.

I got to keep my distance
cause I want others
to mind their own
**** business,
while longing for them
to be my friend
and understand
that art I am trying to
pass on to every man,
and woman.

Go away, come back
why won’t you stay?
Get off my back.
Sincere empathy
paired with disdain,
sorrow for those
in pain
while I make it plain,
“Please just leave me alone.
Please come back again.”

There’s a multitude
of other dudes,
who look like me
but do not do
the exact same thing
or have a matching
attitude;

Parallels
played out in
lyrical fashion,
as I sit napping.
I hear them yapping
passing something
unseen
as strange beings
from different realities.

It’s not mimicry,
or fancy imagery
that I see
but endless possibilities
of what ifs
that will never be.

An athlete,
teacher, painter,
preacher, dancer,
fittest novelist,
world traveler
who volunteers
to help the suffering.

Such strange daydreams
that sometimes even leans
towards more fantastic things,
like a superhero or an
eager young
training cadet
trying to be
in Starfleet
on Star Trek,
trying to make
first contact,
and get to spaces
we haven’t even
imagined yet.

Of all the alternate
dimensions,
that float out and in
by miles, light years
or even mere inches,

the one that never fails
to stir my strange inner self,
is the one where I get my wish
meeting that finest fairytale figure,
that most beautiful myth.

Looking in the eyes of my
truest companion
after struggling for so long to find them,
and finally settling down with
my soulmate.

My identity
is a trick of the light,
shifting inside,
deflating my pride
as I try decide
who I get to be.

It’s a flickering screen
timing out before
it is fully seen,
fade to black
end this scene.

It’s shifting, permitting
me to be
an ever-transforming being.

Non-specific
till you take and pin it
and then my friend,
I up and spin
forwards and back again
discovering
new shocks from which
I need recovering.

Self-smothering
in a blanket of
familiar things that I love.
Until, I’ve had enough
and need a new perspective.

Super selective,
unless I let it
flow out
like a poem.

If anyone tries to define me
I will show those showmen.
Take all the loops and throw’em.
Until even I can’t tell
where I am going.

Who am I?

Brother, Poet, Friend,
Good Samaritan,
Introverted Comedian,
Selfish Altruist
cause kindness suits
my purpose.

I am not certain yet,
but as soon as I figure it out,
I’ll crawl back to my space of doubt,
cause I am bound to change again.

When dealing with
the ruthless stupid ******,
I am pretty much useless.

He takes my empathy
and spoofs it.

There is no theorem.
The proof is
obvious;
I got no way
to stop any of this
bombing madness.

An Ocean’s worth of sadness,
and I am sinking
to the bottom of
a stinking salt bed
where there will be
water in my head
as I bobble till I’m dead.

I tried rationality.
I tried a little comedy,
sprinkled in some poetry,
but never broke the stupidity
barrier.

I am the pointless
carrier pigeon,
on a dangerous mission
dealing with what is
much scarier,
that despite my wisdom
I am not reaching anyone.

Dripping ****,
then skipping it
till the wind takes my wings
spinning me a bit,
as I am flipped
several times and hit
a red wall of bricks.

Funny flat faced freak
with a broken bleeding beak,
tired, but wondering
what is even the point of me?

Look at me,
I am desperately
trying to get you
to see my humanity.

I deserve dignity.
My struggles
do not diminish me.

Traveling, running,
drowning, falling,
hope is still calling
so, I move on.

Being a refugee
does not make me wrong.

Have you ever been
as strong as the heat
and desert winds?

Do you know
the kind of fear
that turns the slightest rumble
into another bomb,
or the nightmare
of knowing
most strangers
won’t bother showing
a single particle of compassion?

I am just an atom
blowing in the air,
here and gone
before you ever
noticed I was there.

I know life is not fair,
but why don’t you care?
How about a little grace
and an ounce of decency,
to highlight your supposed
superior morality?

I don’t want to fight a war
for more kindness,
or spread it like a virus
hoping as an illness
it binds us.

I don’t want a metaphor,
that helps us explore
the depths of gentleness
I have been searching for.

I want direct action,
the satisfaction
of seeing once stalled hearts
moved to go through the few
who seek to divide us from
our deep beautiful truths.

Diversity is not to be feared.
It is the wind that clears
the clutter of the old dull ideologies
that subdue or slow
our progress towards
a better brighter society.

***** flowery language,
I’ve written to many
soft verses that didn’t have
any seeming impact.

Trash all that garbage cruelty,
sexism, violence, and racism,
throw out your doubt about
if xenophobia is bad,
spoiler ****’s and proud boys
are the villain here.

Lets spring clean the mean scene,
and bring back the best qualities
of being a decent human being,
starting with empathy.

From the time when she was
a little girl with an orange bow,
she liked to dance and
put on a great show.

Tapping all her toes,
laughing as her smile grows.

Blues eyes,
short hair,
long braids.

Till the day
time took her youth away,
and it was more hours at her job
and less time to play.

Dress up to go to work,
stress out until her
heart really hurts,
and date another ****.

But underneath the years,
a beautiful ballerina danced,
sweet swans sang songs
as pink fire swam along;
No matter how old she got
she never lost that part.

She inspires
such fervent desire
but wanting her is
like making a wish
to not exist.

It is like
longing for a scream
cause you think
that your ears won’t sting
when the banshee queen
and sister sirens
let loose to sing.

It is like trying
to kiss an angry lion,
or being in love
with the many faces of
eternity.

Eyes sparkling
in infinity,
depths beyond
any poem or song
that I could write.

If I could touch
such
glacial skin,
see her icy heart
melting
as she embraces
my warm graces.

Still, she makes me feel
as if I could commit
to the joy of temporary existence
as long as she deigned
to spend just a moment
hands held, talking
laughing to ourselves
as we keep walking
past sad gawking
strangers hawking
a life of loneliness.

Sitting long past eleven
as the clocks tic on,
knowing in passing
my love is gone
and there will be
no heaven waiting for me,
except in my memory
of loving her.

She was a young fierce
fake friend, modeling
something akin
to human nature.

Gorgeous,
but dangerous,
slightly off kilter
like a broken camera filter.

Indifferent to the different
and suffering people.
Callous in her fancy cloths,
turning up her plastic nose.

She liked to lick the fire
till it got too hot. Then
she became a wax skeleton
melting in horror,
losing her skin
as her flesh was dripping,
exposing.
such a soul ******* emptiness.

A black hole void;
A hollow husk whistling
where her humanity should be.

The beast revealed,
was ready to be reviled
for her sick self-serving style.
Until she made a deal
with the devils of spin
who put her image
back together again.

Cracks in the shell,
powdered up well
while strangers rushed
to fall upon themselves
and admire the monster’s
style and glamour.

If you say
you are suffering
I would not
say you are lying,
so why do you
decry the truth
when other
mothers are crying.

How does authority
automatically
equal honesty
when we see
historically,
they are the
perpetrators
of brutality?

The finality
of financial
inequality
is the devastation
of our entire nation,
so why do you
look at the others who
are struggling
like you do
and think
that they
are the enemy,
when it is
the big businesses
that corrupts
our democracy?

They’ve got the bombs,
tanks, and police.
They run the streets
from walls to all the cities.
They cut the checks,
and makes the rules,
so you let them
play you for fools,
as they demonize
other colored guys
with all their
greedy lies.

But a rainbow
of variation
is beautiful thing
to strive for.
It would help us
adapt, survive
and thrive more.

Isn’t that something
worth living
or dying for?

Ridiculous seditionist,
I wonder what his
cretinous position is
in this cuz,
he isn't a traditionalist
and censorship
is not a hardship
for this fake populist
wanna be ******* fascist.

I make deals with dictators,
then try to steal elections days later,
cause I'm a ***** with a micro ****.

I'm not big on cooperation
with democrats and foreign nations
unless they say, “that I am great.”

I can't denounce white supremacists
or understand why it gets so many ******
when I say “they are fine people.”
implying by denying that
Nazis and proud boys aren't evil.

Once, I broke through,
into a world view
of stranger colors
and proportions;

A place
where a cold
winterhold
held up
with bright
white
blinding lights
searing
and impeding
occasionally blocked
what I was seeing.

Where yellow banners,
and other
strange standards
stand *****
then collapse
losing their
regal effect.

Where parades of green
shades shimmering,
sway to
their own
rhythm,
the art of
growing
and living.

Where purple flecks,
blue floating
bits of paper
dance and waver
in the wind.

I embrace
this strange place,
but in the end
will go out the same
way I came in.

I wasn’t expecting the perfecting of empathy,
just hoping that we could learn how to be
generally, a little gentler with our humanity;

But what I am watching is beyond crossing
the borders of insanity, the lines in the sand we see
are so far behind us it isn’t even a memory,
more like some mystical fairytale,
a lie that we tell to ourselves
to believe we were once decent people.

None of this is appropriate or adequate,
but if you take a generation and add a bit
you might start a bad of habit of thinking up
a way to remix this acid trip in which we exist,
cause this hallucinogenic fix has had the opposite effect,
instead of expanding it has caused a loss of intellect.

So, the warrior goes on, while the poet is gone,
the killer is strong, but the dreamer is wrong.
Up is down, back is forward marching on toward
a black bitter beastly legend we named lord,
history imbued with the blood of love
on the tip of a poorly formed sword,
as the slant of the blade reflects and distorts
the value of life lived, given, and sacrificed
to all of those ridiculously profitable lies.

Picture me now
in a black limousine
driving along and dancing to
the American dream.

You can come to
if that’s what you
want to do.

Life is an animated affair,
with all those important
people who hang around here,
businessmen and politicians
lawyers and lobbyist,
accountants and tacticians
who all work to improve
your social position.

Isn’t it such a grand parade,
of people who help you create
the perfect perception
of who other people are expecting
in the worst games of charades.

Stiff as a board because you have to be perfect
endless hours of ambition and you have to work it,
but there is no delaying getting those dividends,
no time for playing. Bills all need paying.

What’s the point of living in capitalism
if you are working till the end to win?

I may never be
a mainstream
attraction,
marvelous
man of steel
and heroic action,
or a midnight
web swinging
theme song singing
warrior bringing
hope back in.

I know I am not
the villain laughing
at human suffering,
never bothering
to try and solve
anything.

I hope I’m not adding
anything bad
and perhaps
putting back
a little good in
this human equation.

Maybe, I am
over explaining
struggling without
really saying
anything.

I’m pretty much
a middling,
poet spewing
verses that
are not doing
much of anything
but falsely inflating
my tiny ego.

This poet is not divine,
but some may find
the lyrical mind
omnipresent.

All bodies in
conversation
are a manifestation
of his unconscious.

First person,
second person,
or third person
narrator,

in the world
of words
the poet is
the greatest creator.

Not magical,
though it feels
that way sometimes.

Not perfect
that is why
lines fly
but sometimes
even angels
stumble in the sky.

Working verses,
fixing impressions,
twisting perspectives
while being introspective.

It is all a part
of the art
and creative process.

Say goodnight
to that psychopathic
narcistic guy.

You all used to say
you were about to make
America great.

So, say goodbye
to that uncouth
wanna cause
a violent coup
dipstick dude
who many of you
were following
through to
treason.

Must be a
hard pill to swallow
cause you haven’t taken
the medicine
of getting rid of him
and accepting
the election.

Such a bad *******
for the fool who
won’t move on
fast enough.
Instead, he is
getting everyone
riled up
and stealing money.

It’s not even funny,
how he hurt so many.
It’s a cold chilly January
as he tries to dismember
that capitol with his fans.
Then throws them
under the bus.

This is how he uses
and abuses his stooges,
just ask Mike Pence.

So, forth hence
say farewell
to the ne’er-do-well.
He might not be
going to hell,
but if we are lucky,
he will be going to jail.

A sickly-sweet sea of brown tea,
and soft caramel treats
were placed before me
in my candied dreams.

A dark pool
of oil slick
black goo
inched ever closer
smelling ever grosser,

As ninja turtles
hopped over hurdles,
and captian Kirk
acted like a ****,
in the final frontier
a spot where I thought
it would be clear
that we could be better.

My body was bruised
as browns spots oozed
blood and ****,
but someone chased me,
so I pushed softly
and walls became doors
to a restaurant I used to
work at. I was
actually late for my shift,
and I had already missed
my favorite college classes.

My car was invisible
as I drove in it,
and when I woke from
my nap of merely one minute
it was gone.

Senseless, I watched this
all from different angles.
If this was supposed  
some sort of story
it was incoherent,
and I couldn’t rearrange it
into a workable plot.

Dreams are so weird.

I don’t want to write,
a flicker of candlelight
that dies before it ever
gets the chance to
burn bright.

Hands held high
I don’t want to see
Black Lives Matter protesters
stand up in time
to take tear gas
and nightsticks
to their soft backs.

I don’t want to hear
the heartbreaking sound
of a once proud man
brought down to his knees
as he sits in a hospital
and cries and pleas
for strangers to see
the cost of his
masklesss mistake.

I don’t want to realize
that a lot of friendly guys
that I have known
just go with the flow
and don’t care to know
about the horrors
that keep happening.

I don’t want bombs to fall,
grown adults to call
the cops when they know,
it could get a kid
shot, or
that rich people make a killing
padding the pockets
of the people making rockets.

Right now, I don’t want to
admit to all of you
my lists of things
I don’t want
keeps coming true.

Feel the frozen fog,
frosty limbs
collapsing in,
buckling under
winter’s weight.

See the icy road
that sealed
some stranger’s fate.

not slowing down,
but slipping through,
a two-car pile up
that bystanders view.

The cold conclusion,
to a long year of losing.
Another body down,
settled in the hard ground.

*******
Prageru
Robert E. Lee
does not
deserve to be
put up as a hero
in modernity.

Vicious,
treasonous
piece of trash,
slave owning
confederate,
a generally
disgusting general
of other
seditious
degenerates.

I don’t know
if you need to
see through
what corrupt
people do,
when I got
super hot
x-ray eyes
that bypass
the disguises
that hide
sinister lies.

I would like
you to think
and reflect,
but I suspect
that if I am
very direct
you might
get a clue.

So, I will
write this
all out for you,
plain and simple.

Be kind
and gentle,
considerate,
and caring,
remember
this is the
one and only
Earth we are sharing.

There is beauty and danger
in the body of a fighter,
not something of ****** desire,
but a physique and discipline to admire.

The martial artist moving fluidly
like a dancer of destruction,
finely tuned definition,
with deft and swift movements
made to disable opponents.

Self-defense,
aggressiveness,
barbaric chest beater
enemy defeater,
history maker.

The intellectual may scoff,
the poet and painter,
may laugh off,
but the dancer probably gets its,
cause she knows how to move
and not get hit.
She can see the spin in this
body that moves with
a similar flow.

I am in love
because
though I seek to exist
peacefully
there is a destructive artist
inside of me,
a caged beast
that I never let free.

A funhouse mirror man,
without a clear plan,
who adapts and improves,
takes hits and advances,
striking back in my own way

Where do lonely hearts live,
getting by in this pandemic.
Elderly man in an old folk’s home
cooped up in his room alone,
with a deep sense of social isolation
that kills him one second
at time?

A twisted type of torture,
saving someone’s life
by slowly killing what
light they have left inside.

Can’t get out and exercise,
can’t have visitors over at night,
blood flow restricted
a convict who was never convicted.

Safely sequestered,
so family won’t be pestered,
because they are afraid to face
what waits for the whole human race.

But in this time and place,
in the pursuit of trying to save
this old man’s life
that have just sentenced him to die
a little bit faster and a lot lonelier.

The revolution will not be televised,
unless it is being used to vilify,
or is being politicized
by those political guys
trying to score votes.
Any fair press will be silenced or brutalized
along with other protesters.
The leadership will be euthanized,
or demonized unless they can be
subdued quietly.

If you are under the illusion
that you can fight back physically
you must be mentally silly.
The cops got equipment
left over from the military
cause the war machine
wants to sell our government
the newest toys.

If our government has any say
they will find a way to lock away
anyone who might inspire change.
If you don’t believe me
just look and read
about Assata Shakur,
or Angela Y. Davis.

If you know or love anyone
who is out there trying to save us,
from the congressional and big business,
power hungry alliance
you better pray that they keep their defiance
just low key enough to slip the notice
of Law enforcement, or POTUS,
cause this country isn’t for us
and does not provide justice.
It is just a business that is made
to break and degrade
while the working class is enslaved.

You better believe
the bitterly deceived
will not be relieved
to receive
any poultry back payment,
cause all these political layman
have been laying the foundation
for exploitation and the disintegration
of our social safety net,
the one that does not forget
those who have been let down.


It is like watching a crowd
of cruel dancing clowns,
corporate killers who have found
the best way to break down
our defenses,
while taking our expenses
and spending them
on extravagant meals
and other ridiculous expenditures.

As the state takes dissidents
from so called radical movements
and imprisons them
in a sick system
that is designed to demonize leaders
who speak truth,
and urge the youth
to move towards a freer and fairer society.

I was uncertain seeing
other human beings
with their feelings
moving fluidly,
seeming constantly at ease
while I was always overthinking these
intangible things.

Now I am learning,
this deep yearning
to understand
what other humans
take for granted
is a fool’s errand.

Most people are
sick and disgusting
gut busting
heart farting,
mind belching,
and squelching
any common senses.

They seldom think about,
are able to comprehend,
the thoughts and desires,
the sadness or elevation
of being so grandly inspired
that my heart aspires
to write love and understanding
into this cold reality.
Sadly, they are just reactionary.

Time isn't on our side.
The end of life
won't make it right,
just bring with it eternal night.

We will have to stand up and fight
against the wealthy man's delight;
If we ever hope to make all this world's wrongs
turn out right. If we ever hope to unwrite
the darkness and write a bright light
of hope for a better world than the one we know.

We cannot settle for the pacification
of our corporate owned and ran population.
This needs to be a nation of growth and education.
We need the doctors to run the show
not these asylum patients
posing as politicians,
or the lobbyists and big businessmen.

We need to envision a better mission
than winning by buying and getting
the next big thing, till we are more
consumer machine than human being.

Love and compassion can bring a spring,
as long as we learn how to not be duped
by these unscrupulous profit driven men
and women.

I have frequently had a
cold functional detachment
from the mindless moronic masses,

Those self-damaging idiots
walking around with
no introspection,
hurting other people while
trying to acquire status,
love, and material success.

I have been fuming
with a legitimate sense of high self-regard
and disdain for the so-called plain folks
with no desire to expand their understanding
or just be decent in general;

But what if I become the *****
who has to be fake nice all the time
just to manage my minor interactions with people?
Will I witness a slow disintegration of my ideal self,
that kind and attentive helpful healing artist,
that deep empathic intellectual, master of compassion?

How superior could I be if I subtract empathy
from my tired and frustrated being,
if I became the cog replacer in this
multinational machine, while sacrificing
my own inner honest decency?

His power was rooted in darkness,
but he constantly fought his thoughtless urges.
Being kind with tiny purchases,
opening doors, asking others
what they are searching for
in his poetic type pleas
that he typed out for strangers to read.

Perhaps it was his need
to be here, to plant seeds,
to breathe deep of this sweet air,
and speak loudly to be heard clear,
because it was his own obscurity he feared.

Sometimes he felt like a parody
or a pale reflection
of human emotion.
He couldn’t tell if in his expressions
he was just a mimicker those around,
or if these deep feelings were truly his?

His smile and gentleness
hid the gravity of violence
that he had lived in,
and most of the time he thought
the goodness he was giving
was in direct opposition
to the pain he once existed in
and his desire to never see
another human being
suffering.

Are you going?
Where have you been?
Will you be lost forever
my treasured friend?

It is the strangest tragedy.
America you sicken me
with your lack of creativity,
your intolerance of diversity,
and your myopic mind of mediocrity.

You copy fools who use you up
admire the desire to get more stuff
and in your fevered pursuits find
each acquisition is not enough
for you to satisfy your collector’s state of mind.

While pursuing profits
you scoff at scientists and artists,
not realizing when you depart this
tiresome existence
you will not get a single second back
despite your religious insistence.

There will be no return visits
or heavenly escapades,
no afterlife charades
or heaven's gate parades.

All that stress you felt,
all that time you wasted
trying to get to the next phase,
well, it's a tragedy because
life is not a video game you get to replay,

Once she wore
soft velvet skin,
made for touching
and all-night loving.

Hard work to make a living.
Tender affections giving,
suckling children,
and taking care of them;
She did it with love,

but time took
her once
supple yet soft skin,
and in aging
weathered it
till it was leathered
though still tethered
to her gentle heart.

Youthful vigor,
changed to
aged wisdom,
and anyone around
was greatly gifted
with the words
she gave them.

Till, the wheel eternal
took her energy,
and every cell and molecule
was given back to
nature’s majesty.

I am a greedy goblin gobbling great perspectives,
a sneaky thief, sweeping in silent as the wind,
no creaky hinges will stop me as I move inches
pushing forward, moving towards worlds of words
as a dreamer, poet, lover, and thought explorer.

Like a ninja in the night, I wait and listen
for the whispered ideas most are missing,
to devour each tasty flower that nourishes and empowers
my artist heart for seconds, minutes, and hours.

I am selfish because I wish to taste the tastiest poetic dishes,
and let the flavor linger on my tongue,
taking the lines and savoring each one
cause they are so terribly delicious.
Till the meal is done and it is my turn to cook up
a thought, line, verse, or rhyme that another will love.

I did not agree with
or act in a way to be complicit
with the actions of indecency committed
by my society.
I just feel there should be some sort of apology,
some sort of acknowledgment of this insanity.

All I can say is, I'm sorry truly and deeply.
I am saddened and maddened by what has happened.
I am sorry not for my inactions or actions in this
but for the mere existence of it,
for that which others will not admit
of the crimes that our forefathers did commit.
Even if we did not witness the horribleness,
we can still feel ill and accept the fact that
there should be a certain level of grief and compassion,
passed among this supposed bastion
of evolved human beings.

Life is multicolored leaves,
growing and leaving
season after season,
colors changing
falling in a breeze
then disintegrating,
before their siblings
start growing in their place.

It is a single child’s
growing smile
as laughter forms,
happiness before
she has learned
of the horrors of war.

It is nature’s dance,
as time makes us move,
as the wind plays through
vibrating, and moving,
taking light leaves
and turning these
tree things into
tiny ballerinas.

Life is self-reflected
to be inspected
and see all things
changing.
It is the mirror of ages
blank white pages
slowly writing themselves,
to be eventually forgotten.

It is deliciously beautiful
and frankly quite rotten,
a matter of perspective
and all humans got one.

I think its great fun
to try and define
what life is,
but I know it is
beyond this poem.

I am not a boxer,
but a born fighter.
So, when they try
to stick and jab
like a lame copycat,
they get surprised
when my hard right
hits them back.

I’m the mental man
made of immortal stuff,
the kind of fluff
that lets me
retroactively
justify the things I see.

He saw the parade of pain,
rough edges worn down
as he moved across town.

The mirror of boy not yet a man,
transitioning between
not understanding anything
and finally learning
that there is a universe full of
thing that he might love,
but will never learn enough
to fully understand.

Neck perpetually bent,
eyes always lowering,
partly from walking
and reading
at the same time,
and being worn down
by the bullies all around,
especially the tyrant at home.

Self-esteem was a strange fantasy,
and anger became
his self-inflicted pain,
but books and tv shows
were a nice way to let go
if just for a short bit.

Racing thoughts that kept him awake,
unless he played a cd to keep those
thoughts quietly tucked away.

Twenty years later with knowledge well earned,
the world still turns, but now it burns.
The boy is a man, so to speak,
and with everything he has read, and listen to,
to help adjust his world view
with the constantly changing times,
he still hasn’t mastered enough to explain
what makes people hurt
and how to ease the world’s ever-expanding pain.

They are as precious as the lights,
burning brightly in the night,
and more valuable by far
because they shine
for a much shorter time.

See them laughing as they play,
see them swimming in a pond,
see them growing and changing
every single day,
till their flame just flickers out.

All ash blowing in the wind,
fantastic flesh beings
that will not return again,
but once they were children
growing up to be women
and silly old, befuddled men.

See them dancing, and spinning
clutching those they love,
see compassion’s beginning
and gentle heart’s farewell.

Just as soon as they arrive
it is time to say goodbye,
less than a second in
space and time.

See them celebrate and mourn,
see them elevate above the norm,
see them struggle to be better
and falling short more often
than they succeed.
  
I will write them a lullaby,
I will hum it as I cry.
See me weeping, eyes stinging,
until it is my corpse they are bringing.

I hope someone writes a poem for me.

Imagine if
you took
the breadth
and width
of all existence,
summing it up
in one sentence
and let it go.

Or wrote it down,
syllable by syllable
tasting ever sound,
then sat it on the ground
and burnt it.

What if
you watch it
play out like
movie in the night,
but then decided
you didn’t like it
cause it made you
uncomfortable,
so to spite
that bright display
of brilliance
you put it away
and then
never spoke of it
again.

How come
it is so easy
for me to see
that simple beauty,
but when I
share it in poetry,
you turn your back on me
ignoring my plea
for decency.

What a strange species,
that lets its artistry
disintegrate
into a fury of
mind numbing stupidity.

It’s hard to breath
but easy to bleed
with this hole
in her breast,
a gaping wound
in her chest.

She tries to keep
the weeping
suppressed,
to not let her
children
see her depressed,
but it is beyond
obvious.

One body missing
from the chair,
and child’s bed.
She still feels
a quiet dread.

No sleep,
but a little drink
to fill the void;
They say
time will take
the pain away,
but another loss
is what she is
trying to avoid.

She goes on,
while her family
tries to bear
the same agony
with stoic despair.
There is only
air and tension
to fill their
emptiness.

No shared connection
or conversation
to help them all
deal with this.

So, day by day
the nothingness
burrows deeper
and eats away.

The space between,
human beings
expands beyond
reckoning.

Strangers,
keep expecting them
to come back together again,
but the crack between
these human beings
becomes too far to leap.
Till, one day they are
too far gone from each other
to even speak.

The reaper’s victory
is totally complete,
because for one,
he got four souls to keep.

As I say goodnight
to my former life,
let go of those
previous blinking lights
that once defined
my divine
yester self.

I fall asleep
and all that was me
is washed about,
swirled around,
reorganized,
and restored.

I awake refreshed,
form regenerated,
mind invigorated,
and ready for me,
the essence of my being
to be reintegrated.

Almost new,
similar to
but not exactly
the same,
as my previous
version.

I write under heaven’s fire,
a bright orange flaming fury
that sets the skies ablaze,
as the sun rays
makes clouds
look like they are
burning, burning,
moving, while slowly turning,
a righteous delight,
that I enjoy.

Until I feel
the day’s descent
and night’s lovely ascent to
a starry painting
we all can view.

There is a
hell of a distance,
between acceptance
and resistance
against the persistence
of subliminal criminal messages
with ill intent
to dominate
our unsecured
political establishment.

What a crushing chasm
between thinking
and demanding
results without
any reflection or doubt.

In a world with
**** near unlimited
access to
information we can view
and self-educate,
like most modern
auto didactics do,
expanding our minds
beyond the
romantic renaissance
masters of past times,
it is hard for me
to comprehend
intentional stupidity,
despite the fact
I can plainly see
idiots ruling over
my society.