They are living, thriving
beautiful social beings,
out dining, and partying

while I am surviving
in solitary,
pondering,
reality,
observing
the wonderfully perturbing
to the dark and disturbing.

They are full throttle,
heavy metal,
foot to the pedal,

while I am indulging
my quiet disposition
a perfect position
to sit and question
what most take for granted.

They are spectacular,
each one raging with
a deep intensity
that I really dig,

and I just want to be
left alone to ponder
all of it.

This is not a prophecy.
This is just me
proffering what I see,
offering thee poetry,
cuz words are free.

I am being super selective,
plucking past perspectives,
and putting them in poetry,
then projecting forward
from them,

and in some of those moments
I've made predictions,
but those were from
human’s obvious predilections,
those sick predispositions
which led to the onslaught of war
and so many more
human atrocities.

To write starlight sparkles
of glimmering wonder
that shine in your eyes,
and reflect
the natural wonders
you love and respect,

or a smile that is as warm as
a bright summers day
with full flowing lips that open to say
kind, wise, and inspiring words
bringing blooms of joy
to all the lives you grace
with your energetic pace;

I know every human body makes poetry,
but somebodies speak clearer,
break through the deep blue hued
crystals made to confuse
all that humans once knew
straight to the inner light of you.

If ever you forget,
I will be incline to
remind you,
you are a poem of flesh
carved and molded
by space and time.

In a world void of
myths and legends
you are a nature goddess.

Please, don’t be modest
cause you are a bad ***
beyond measure.

He is tired
of being
unseen
as he sings
sweet dream
into everyone else’s days.

Tentative steps,
softened breathes
slowed as
others gasp
and ask
what was that.

Blurry visions,
of what was missing,
pillow imprints
slowly losing
any hint
of human warmth,
as humans swarm
buzzing about,
crying out loud.

“Where did you go?”

Tiny tracks
are filled in
with time’s
ever moving
persistence,
and all of the
grown ups missed it.


“Joshua!
Where are you?”

No clues to use,
no missing shoes,
just a wide open window.

Parents ponder,
wondering were could he go
without sturdy winter clothes.

They forget
all the things they said,
memories mingle
with regret,
and a fear of what is yet
to come.

How young was the sun,
how warm could he be
as his body grew numb?
Why would such a little one
let himself succumb
to the cold creeping
forever sleeping
winter ending.

Freezing
was so much more pleasing,
a releasing
of all that he was seeing,
and feeling,

better than the bitter drilling
of brutal home beatings,
and grade school cruelty.

He preferred being frosty.

Not too far from his house,
safely sitting in
a metal spiral
ditch drainage
culvert,

stifling
any shuddering,
letting each thin limb
give in
to winter’s mercy
as his revenge
against all of them.

I am useless.
A pathetic ******,
that talks a lot
of poetic *******,
but seldom ever
lives up to it.

I’ve been crawling
scrawling
weird drawings
on my dark cave mind,
keeping primitive
images
poorly defined
so, I can change
their meaning
anytime
I like.

I am tired,
too weary
for this dreary
twilight,
counting down
with the
Clockwork Sphynx
who thinks
we all stink,
so he stopped asking riddles,
and started riffing
while sniffing
sandy breezes
till he sneezes
and breathes out
more doubt.

This is pointless,
I am just dust,
not even worth enough
to get me up
when I’d rather just
lay down and sleep. cont.

What is even the point
of me?

What is holy to you
is something I view
as almost see through,
full of obvious holes
that you should be able to
navigate through
and find the other side
of what is right.

Sometimes
the people that
slip through the cracks
keep on falling
and never get back.

Some people keep it simple,
claim their body is a temple,
a holy relic of the divine
and use religions to sedate their mind.

But my body is a prison,
made up of all my bad decisions,
though I keep on living
through the struggles I was given.

Shadows burn like acid,
with secrets held so tight
that I cramp inside.

Others like to smile,
party, and go wild
being free in the moment
letting nothing slow them,
till they grow old an
their temple falls down.

But my body is a library,
full of words and thoughts
that are super scary,
a universe inside a small box.
Boundaries once made
turn to jagged edges, then blur,
as all I see and learn
makes me disturbed.

I can almost always be
dangerously carefree,
oblivious to the mess
of human debris
that floats like flotsam
around me,
till I hear them scream
as they start drowning.

Then I sense
their scarlet secrets,
linked letters
that write themselves.

I can feel the weight
that presses on their chests,
as they struggle for
a restorative breath.

Their skin bleeds raw
ravaged by savage
brushstrokes,
ancient furies channeled
as my fellow humans scramble,
yet still fail to survive.

The feeling passes
almost as fast as
I can type it.
My humanity collapses,
as pain is exchanged for less
and more pleasurable pursuits,
and the anguish fades
retreating in my own
distracting ways.

My empathy shrivels up
as I go on enjoying all my stuff.

The screen reflects
an artistic perfectness
she tries to imbue
life with.

Words
whipped
from her wit
through
her swift
fingertips.

Dangerous
and lovely ideas
sparkle like
her best friend’s
very nice
glittered up nails,
and are
twice as sharp.

Each line laced
with youthful vigor,
such an energetic
expenditure,
and are flavored by
an ancient poet’s
wise old eyes.

All written
for herself
not made to share
with anyone else,

but I got a look
into the treasure chest
of her artistic mind,
and the jewels
you will find
if she is ever inclined
will blind you
with their glorious shine.

I have written repeatedly
about how nature
embraces me.

But I have never seen
verses so serene,
written with
the love of this
blooming green.

Her poetry sings
sweet soliloquies
of rapturous beauty
and poetic clarity;

Inspires new dreams
of a lunar lady,
with pure white hair,
turquoise eyes,
and cold blue lips
encrusted with
winter frost,
a woman
of the winter lake
that breaks
the night
with random ripples
of delight.

Countering
the cold queen
are the children
of the emerald green,
oz inspired
spring petals spiral
swirling in
a tornadoes wind,
flowers whipped
back and forth
but never breaking
whilst oaks crack
and crumble
under the gale forcecont.
fury.

With powerful impressions
this poet possesses
my mad mind
making me
succumb to
strange fantasies,

pushing me
to write better poetry
in hopes I might
impress her
as she has me.

What are we
but the dirt
that was once
stars we
no longer
get to see,

the water
that once
was sea
plus or minus
parts ***
passing through
everything
in human history.

What are we
but the convergence
of what ifs,
what was,
what wasn’t,
what is,
and what will
never get to be.

What are we
but strange dreams
made in
waking moments,
passing pleasantries
fading in
eternity
and infinity.

In the end
the line bends,
curving to collect
all we wish to inspect.

The way is not straight,
and waves of joy
may be too late
to save a perfect state
of peace.

Life may convict,
turn us to convicts
but if we live
than hopefully
we will have
the chance
to change things.

The grifts are plenty,
and grifters more,
but they came before
and though I abhor
their vile ways
they will probably
still be here after me.

You are a curiosity,
a very strange
flower to me,
blooming beautifully
with grand ideas
I hope to read.

Though some days
I may complain
and some pains
may strain my brain,

I hope I will
always try to be
a kinder,
wiser,
better,
version of me.

Can you listen,
pay attention
to the distance
between
the desire of things
and the need
to be freed,

when you hear it,
and can bare it,
be enveloped,
but not drowned
by the lack of sound,

tell the story
in all of its
gory glory,
feeling a fraction
of your former reaction,
but not letting
past pains
rule your brain?

Your story will
end the same
way it began,
and you can sing,

“Once upon a time,
I gave up what was
once on my mind.”

I got no patience
for these agents
of deliberate corporate contagions,
or the minefield that yields
the bootstrap philosophy
that never actually worked
in this society.

Instead of being activated
by what you hated
you got isolated,
so you wouldn't be triggered.

There were photos of
human agony on foreign streets,
bombed out buildings,
bleeding children,
and parents weeping.

Instead of getting outraged
by what you saw,
you went to your safe space,
so you wouldn't have to face
any troubling thoughts at all.

People softened the discourse,
slightly dulling the edge of the sword
they use to cut the safety cord
we call human rights.

The bad things kept happening
while you were napping comfortably.

You should have been
an exposed wire
sparking an arc of heart fires.
Instead of highlighting
that which was frightening
you went into hiding.

While those who were fighting
didn't get the option
to ignore the horror.

Busted up and ******,
tear gassed buddies bruised
while you used that excuse
of not wanting to deal with bad news
cause you might get triggered.

The world is on fire so,
melt that snowflake heart sister
and brother
we've got no time to waste
in helping each other;

Look and see these tragedies
and get motivated;
Rise up in outrage,
get ******* triggered,
and get to work son.

Cause anger gets **** done!!

It is too late
and far too dark,
but there they are.

They are
a sad pair,
two young boys
who stroll the streets
like silent silhouettes
stalking death together.

Their mad mother
kicked them out.
Now, they are afraid
to go back
the way they came
cause violence
waits for them.

Thinking no one cares,
that there is no one there
to lift them from
the cradle of their despair.

Eyes burning
with fatigue
stare at empty air,
as they wear
bodies heavy with
the stress
they share.

They do not
know where
they will sleep.

Still, they keep
comfort in each other,
older to younger
little baby brother.

Cold and uncertain
both of them hurting
they keep moving,
but never get anywhere.

There is no poetry
in the maskless man’s eyes.

I see only star spangle
stripes mangled
in the pursuit of
more stuff.

****** and mayhem,
bald strongman
wannabe dictator,
stealing from
Orwell’s playbook,
even though
he never read it.

There is no art
only orange skin sinking
as compassion keeps
on shrinking
while loved one
go on shrieking
sobbing and speaking
seeking some sort of
justices for those
they love.

There is no hope
except a broken heart
torn apart
till his kindness
turns to rage,
till the pain of others
turns him to
the hate of those
who hurt and cover
what they do
with the camouflage
of a flag and god.

Today, I am gleeful
smirking with evil
thoughts toward
a human I abhor,
because kindness
seams to be
a weakness
I don’t need.

Dreams are just
particles of dust,
passing in
the torrential winds.

I do not know
if I will ever be
the man of hopeful mercy
that used to write
starlight
and spaceship poetry.

Especially, when
I want to see
the president die horribly.

The *** was not romantic.
It was the rapid succession
of flesh pulling and pressing,
pushing, and pounding,
sounding of deep heated passion,

no intellect involved
just pure raw uncoordinated
pleasure pursuing
by two who were viewing
a moment of unfiltered
animalistic movements.

I cannot seem to write
without rhyming.

It is not a simple matter
of timing
but has become
my mental wiring.

I find other
non-rhyming
poets so inspiring
so deeply
neurally
firing,
sparking
inspiration.

But my brain
has lost the ability
to make any poetry
without playing with
rhymes.

That light enters
through my window
and lets me see
little floating particles
that seem to flicker
in and out of existence
like tiny twinkling stars.

The president
got the virus
that he tried to
deny was
a serious issue.

But I shouldn’t
take pleasure
when
someone
like him
suffers.

He’s made a profit
being super caustic
to the democratic
process.

Funneled tons
of money
from the
government
into his
own wallet.

Ordered Ice
to detain
children in cages,
while he
spits and rages
acted outrageous
and claimed
he was doing great.

Said Nazis
where very fine people,
and wished a
*** trafficker
well.

Gassed protesters
and preachers,
so he could take pictures
of himself holding
a book he has
never ever read.

Armed up and egged on
the police who piled on
trauma after trauma
on children and their mommas.

He elevated and celebrated
hatred,
while spreading ignorance
about a virus
that has killed a million
so far.

I don’t want to be
the arbitrator
of righteous justice
cause I don’t always
trust my own judgement.

But **** it.
I got so much joy
from seeing this ****
get covid sick.

I’m a kindhearted person
but my empathy doesn’t
extend to unrepentantly
cruel individuals
who profit from
pain and destruction.

I am stunned by
the dark swirling dragon clouds
that dance dangerously across
the quiet night.

Amused by the bemused
cloud dude
who stares back at me,
eyes wide
mouth contorted clouds
close to
the masks I knew
as comedy
and tragedy.

Such a kindness
for the night
to spare me
a second of delight,
a well needed reprieve
from all the troubling things
that I have seen.

Calmed, I go to sleep
and keep
this wonder with me.

I am depressed.
because unless
humanity passes
this last test
we will be
putting our
species
to rest
post haste.

There is outrage.
Pain on open display,
as blood paints
the driveway.

There is economic
uncertainty,
so many people
struggling
financially.

There is fear
that the enemy is here
and it is not
a person or a group
but a virus.

There is tension,
built into the system
causing chaos
and destruction;

A boiling ***
that will not stop
till the top
pops off,
as loud as
the bullets shot
by cops.

Pressure building,
from painful feelings,
sorrow spilling
into to verses
as the poet
converses
with himself.

Writing all about
the madness that is
all around,
as the pipes
prepare to burst. cont.

Lines of words
release the valve
to let all of
that steam out,
and he is free
to go about
his daily duties.

Until, the gravity
of everything
start pressing down,

and he repeats the process
to stop this
from completely
crushing his
entire being.

The hate that divides us,
deprives us
of the light inside of us.

But embracing
a world of diversity,
entering the university
of uniting all people
no matter the ethnicity,
or gender identity
offers us the potential
to face adversity
with new perspectives;

Instead of crumbling
under the ravages
of unknown challenges
uniting and fighting
what threatens us all
will truly makes us strong.

Most times,
kindness is my instinct,
a reflex that I direct
when it is not
to inconvenient,

cause it feels good
to be nice
and cost little effort
in my little life.

Oh, witchy woman,
does old love
still
speak spells
of sorrow
into your being?

Does that
little rat familiar
still twitch
and occasionally
pull tiny droplets
of blood from
your veins?

Has time dulled
your self-hurting
ways,
or do you still
enjoy the thrill
of a little
***** pain?

It has been years,
and I know I am
much different
so, I wonder
have you also changed?

Perhaps, I am getting wiser
in my slightly graying days;

Learning that it is not the pain
itself that causes the most grief.
It is the anticipations, and attempts
to avoid future events
that may bring it.

Sorrow is of the past,
future suffering
may never actually come into being,

and reflecting on all of that
detracts from the pleasure that
I could be taking in the present moment.

Secret starlight
blazes across
the night sky
that I spy.

It promises
a reality
of wonder,
and endless possibilities.

Starship dreams
that inspire me
to sit and believe
we can be
something
wonderfully
unpredictable.

Back on the grass
I watched
those hopes pass
like gas
from my ***.

I seek and ask
why is this,
how is that,
but even when
I find my own answers
I still fall behind.

Books, and movies,
strange new stories,
inspire my poetry,
informing the artistry
I try to weave,

but reality
brings me back down
to this brown
earthly ground.

Hope dies
as I realize
that I am not
the norm.

Most people
dream of
money and
fancy things.

So, in sadness
I keep escaping
in fantasy.

Light speed,
sorcery,
sci-fi,
horror.

While my brethren
descend into the cavern
that devours
millennia of progress.

Life is layers of songs,
written deeply on,
thin skin and deeper
strands that are the keepers
of essential secrets
that I don’t know
how to read.

It is unexpected
not predirected
but moving in
its own directions
at its own pace.

It is as sweet as
sugar cane,
and as bitter as
the tea leaves,

seeing us coming in,
swimming then
drowning
as we leave.

Life is more
than my poetry
can portray,
this game I play
trying to make
gold from clay
as chaos reigns.

No matter how
I try to explain,
it is such a shame,
life is only
temporary.

I am tired of these
meandering
neanderthal
who do not know
how to self-evolve.

Certain that
they know it all,
so there is no
place for growth.

Partially,
passive pleasure
hunters,
mild mouth breathers,
techno needers,
people pleasers,
freaking breeders,
but seldom ever
very clever
truth seekers.

I am tired of
patterns and science
not being enough
to push them above
previous religious
and political perspectives.

So, in my fatigue,
I settle for being
just me,
seeking the relief
of solitude
and comfort in
the only dude
who thinks
like I do,

me.

It’s been years
since I lived on the road,
a gas station *****
searching for something
delicious and caffeinated,
to get me to the next place
I was scheduled to work in,
or be a last-minute replacement.

Spending a lot of time
with vending machines,
and gas station attendants,
making jokes and wishing
to do a little more sleeping,
and a lot less driving.

I was just surviving,
check to check,
barely one step
from being so broke
that I couldn’t even make it
to the hotel where I was staying.

Complimentary breakfasts,
per diem late evening
hamburger breaks,
adding to the weight
of my already exploding gut.

It wasn’t much,
but enough
to get me here,
to a steady job
and regular sleep schedule.

The night is a portrait,
of quietness,

such sad silence
punctuated by
loud lamp lights
that brighten
empty sidewalks.

This used to be
the bustling streets
of a busy city,

but now I only see
spectral memories,
people passing
like smokey figures
that dissipate
on a windy day.

Everyone has gone,
upped and moved on
from this listless existence,
while I have become
the dumb one,
stuck in the mud
like a big red truck
unable to roll away
or back towards yesterday.

So, I look longingly
at everything
that can no longer be,
and mourn the loss
of all of those
possibilities.

The radio doesn’t work.
It no longer distracts me
when I am driving
or obscures the thoughts
that used to hurt a lot.

I got new devices to
help me get through
dealing with what
American dummies
love to do.

Cellphone, laptop,
PlayStation four,
fun apps that
let me read
comic books,
watch TV,
and really good
movies.

In the race to resist
having to deal with
all the pain
we are all feeling,
I am killing it.

Don’t need chemicals
to fog or blackout,
don’t need to party
to ignore that nagging doubt,

I just fill every second with
modern tech ****,

so I can take my feelings
and turn the volume
down on all of them.

I used to know
more than one
super beautiful
poet goddess.

But in my old age,
and these late days
I can barely recall
a trace of their face.

There was the
beautiful blond
from some
far away
Estonia like place,
or was it actually
Estonia?

There was the wild
brown haired
young poet
whose Tumblr
is no longer there.

Then a friend
I’d chat with
almost every day,
she stopped talking to me
and that is ok.
I hope her life is great;
Just like the other two,
I cannot remember her name.

I only recall
the passion of their poetry,
not even the words themselves
just an inkling
of the embers
they stoked in me,
inspiring neurons firing
to make poems.

I am certain I would know them,
if I saw them.

But for now
they are lost echoes
of nostalgia.

Doesn’t matter what I say,
facts and science won’t
win this day,

because intelligence
took a long holiday
while stupid
went on a covid
spreading parade.

I can present
all the information,
cite the sources
in my presentation,
turn on the tv stations
with direct quotes
from the president of
our failing nation
and they will say
the news fake.

It’s no surprise
that those guys
who lie
preying on the same fanaticism
that priest use to sucker people
into religions
gets more followers then
modern renaissance men,
my fellow poets, artists,
photographers, journalists,
scientists, and scientists
with real science!!!!

I’m tired of trying to be
a helpful participant
in this sick and dying
society,
cause the only people
whoever even hear me
are those who already
agree.
So, I don’t want to speak
until my vocal cords bleed,
knowing it won’t change
a ****** thing.

I am a boring human being.
As bored as I can be,
barely writing anything.

Not tired just tweaking
on tons of caffeine
but still my muse
eludes me.

I haven’t got something
deep to say today.
So, I’ll write this
throw away
poem.

Cause I am just so dull today.

A patriot, a service man
stood proud and let his
American flag fly.

Served his nations
when they called,
distinguished service
and honorably discharged.

A purple heart
with some PTSD,
told his family
the V.A. would
take good care of me.

The president and congressmen
upped the military budget by billions,
and as soon as that passed
went ahead and tried to get
servicemen’s health care cut.

Man, America doesn’t give a ****
about any of us.

Well, he pinched and saved
for most of his days,
struggling to get by.

Worked very hard
to finally start
a business that was
close to his heart.

Every year he barely managed
to make ends meet,
but was grateful to be
in this land of opportunity
where he could support his family
doing what he loved.

A virus closed almost
all of the businesses
in his neighborhood,cont.
so the government
said they would
bailout small businesses like his,
passed a billed
swore the promise
was fulfilled,
but he never saw a cent,
from the federal government,
cause almost all that aid
went to help out
major party donors.

Man, America doesn’t give a ****
about the man who runs
a small business.

One kid grew up
trying to live up
to his parent’s expectations;
Got a fast-food job
while he was in high school,
then worked his way through
to go to a good college.
Four years and student loans
got him out in the world
and on his own.

Got a decent job,
to pay down the debt,
but along the way he
became really sick,
and the health insurance
barely covered a fraction of it.
Now he is drowning
in an ocean of bills,
from disease that may still
**** him,
and his prescriptions
are practically poison.

It’s a cold hard fact
that this country lacks
real human decency.
Should have learned by now,
we are just the fatted cows
that are culled to feed corporate greed.

Man, America doesn’t give a ****
about you or me.

I am a dying mirror,
glass skin
melting
and caving in
following the flow
the goes too slow,
distorting
reflections
that I used to know,
extracting
exacting
moments
that stress,
impress
or depress me
greatly.

I see and write
the night’s lite
beauty,
let it all
fall out of me
in literary wonder,

and hope before
I fall to pieces,
shattering permanently,
you get to see
what I believe
is the wonder
of all reality.

It’s a wonderful dream,
two hearts following
similar paths
to our last gasp.

Sharing stories
caring for these
final moments.

Holding hands
on unplanned
walks across
untainted lands;

Conversations,
that create
new nations
and other
undiscovered
countries
of our minds,

silent smiles
that speak
more poetically
than any verse
created by me.

Till, my tired body
goes to sleep
eternally,
and soon after
my sweet lover
follows.

It’s shift change,
and pit stains
paint my blue shirt.

My feet hurt,
and I’m ready to leave work,
but the teenage party ****
doesn’t come in,
so of course I
am not leaving,
just grieving
my lost evening
freedom.

Sixteen-hour anxiety,
cause I almost O.D.
on carbonated caffeine,
as the sugar and acid
eat away
causing
painful tooth decay.

Make it home and hope to
get enough sleep to
make it through
my next shift.

Unload those greasy clothes
onto my bathroom floor
before I change into
my holy t-shirt and
ripped up shorts.
Don’t even make it to the shower
cause I am out in less than
a quarter of an hour
after I enter the front door.

In again, wash, and repeat,
I know this isn’t me.
I could do so much more.

Boss yells get your times down!
Fix this order!
Stop lounging,
if you got time to lean,
ya got time to clean.”

My co-workers only see
another cog
in the fast-food machine.
Even when I’m not clowning,
I am still a joke to them.

So, tired but it’s not just
sleep that I need.
So, burnt out that
I just want to up and leave,
but I’m twenty-three
and it won’t be
till I am twenty-eight
that I get free,
running off to another city
to get a higher degree
and escape this restaurant
barely get paid
minimum wage
nightmare.

On a good or bad day
there is almost nothing
I have to do or say.

I get to wake up
and shake up
my world view
as I observe
all the strange
things you do.

I get to go to work
but if I choose
not to do
that
then I can loose
my decent paycheck.

I could hurt myself
or try to be better.
I could communicate
or be incommunicado
and stay embittered.

I don’t have to be nice,
but if I want to brighten
my own and someone
else life
then I can try.

In fact the only thing
that is not up to me
is that I
do not have immortality.
Eventually, I will die
not matter how hard I try.

Behold the marvelous mystic mind
that divines the truth behind
those enemy lines.

Look closer to the bolder beholder,
at the one poet who told her mother
not to trust her father,
that serpentine swine who dined
on mankind’s wasted time.

Here is another poet with his artistic wit
intertwined with the fine wine
of philosophical and scientific
observations he made fit with
a halfway decent rhyme scheme.

Now, I present with perfect present tense
the ultimate meaning of all of it,
no more flowery prose
ready or not here goes
my genius,

Behold……
oh crap. I forgot it.

Compassion informs my outrage,

Skinny black kid,
super sensitive
playing the violin
for kittens,
pacifist vegetarian
tried to tell policemen
“I am not violent.
I’m an introvert.
I am different,”
as they choked him
then had paramedics
dose him
with ketamine.

Buds of pain
do not bloom
but burst, spray,
and sprain
my brain
that was self-trained
in the art of
kindness and reason.

It takes
less than five minutes
to break a mother’s heart,
to tare her world apart,
to shatter and claim
that they are not to blame
after unloading a full clip
on an autistic thirteen-year-old
who wasn’t mentally equipped
to do exactly what he was told.

Love and mercy
should rule the day
but cops make
violence great again.
Human suffering
is not magic
just unnecessarily tragic. cont.

Micheal Brown,
Eric Garner,
Tamir Rice,
George Floyd,
Freddy Gray,
Breonna Taylor,
Elijah Mcclain,
Linden Cameron,
Jacob Blake,
and so many other names.
There has to be a better way.

I cannot be certain
or see beyond
this sea of grief
as I mourn the
slow erosion of
empathy and love.

I know that
kindness
and decency
still exists,
but violence
and corruption
is far more evident.

The earth is suffering
as are her children,
and no matter how much I wish
I cannot will them
back from the precipice
many seem to want to
stand on.

This could be
humanity’s
last revelation,
with no more good to come
just the mess of mad men
who run us all in
to the burial grounds.

I have not seen
cities set in stone.
Lately they have become
such fragile things
that I wonder if alone
is the way I am
supposed to be.

I have not seen
faces set like masks,
but stretched to laugh,
to sigh or gasp,
in stark contrast.
I have watched them collapse
as the axe
cuts them
from a light grin
to light receding
as pain’s wet reckoning
of regret falls on flesh.

These bodies are not
made of broken rocks,
but of wrinkled skin
made for changing,
exchanging time for
less and more.

The road is infinite,
rolling while I walk on it,
surrounded by
sparkling skies
and lightning flares
flowing in jagged lines
from one star to the next
as their gaseous fury dies.

Small ponds reflect
family happiness
with sweet interludes
of quiet evenings
and adult conversations.

The gravel breaks
disintegrating behind me
in my movement’s wake.

My eyes glaze
as school days
are razed
by all that adolescent angst.

It’s not a cage,
but a strange stage
the pushes me forward
and away as I escape the past.
It moves so fast
that I never get the chance
to relax and look back.

My brother is born.
My brother grows up.
Our highways diverge
but frequently
his road re-intertwines
with mine.

Time cracks eternity
splitting all reality
as red water drops from
another dying sun.

My nephew is born,
and ages swiftly
growing up before I can
appreciate the man
he becomes.

Still, I move on
unable to go back
on that broken cement track.

Tired, I long to rest,
hoping I did my best,
but knowing
I could have been
so much better than
the man who stares towards
time’s inevitable end.

Till, the road ahead
is like the road behind,
and my body breaks,
as does my mind.
Death’s lips parts this
dark slippery chasm.

I long to laugh,
ache for the chance
to go back,
but the highway is a
hungry beast,
and there will be
none of that for me.

People are dying,
screaming and crying,
searching for justice
while others are lying.
People are striving
struggling, and trying
to make others see
the value of their being.

But if we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

We can’t seem to agree
on the distance between
what we think
and what is reality;

Cause this isn’t united
these states come
prepackaged and divided,
as corporate playthings
that thrive on people hating.

So, if we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

It doesn’t matter the color.
I see sisters and brothers
on every street corner.

That gun that you pull
doesn’t make you cool.
That red liquid isn’t a pool
we can swim in when,
we are already choking
and drowning.

That was somebody’s son.
He was somebody’s father.
She was somebody’s daughter.
Now they are grief embodied.
There will be tears in the wind
from another slaughter.
So, when they bleed on the ground
with sick sobbing sounds,
that’s not just another stranger,
that’s a family member in danger.

If we can’t learn to
live with love,
then we will all
die apart in pain.

Better angels than me,
left their marks
on the hearts
of our society,

but the demons and beasts
left their broken teeth
embedded in my dense skin.

Fairies and ghost
played fairytale hosts
to hopeful fantasies,

but werewolves and vampires
left pierced flesh
slashed and bleeding,
feeding what they were needing
to keep existing
in a world without
magic or doubt.

There is no Superman waiting
to swoop in a save me,
but real villains are out there
stealing my feelings of hope,
killing the ways that I cope,
cause I can’t go deep
enough in sleep
to keep real monsters from
haunting me in my final
reckoning.