I am disconnected.
Though I long
to be a part
of the collective heart
that binds all,
I do not feel
its tangible will.
I do not see
the helping hand.
Apathy stands.
Dullness fills
this ill fed
fawning,
yawning body.
The heat saps,
makes me
want naps
more then
human
connections.
Today dies
the dullest death of all.
nothing ventured,
nothing gained,
and only a
small poem
to mark this
mundane Monday.

I am twisted.
As self-inflicted
fissures
crack
from all the pressure
that fizzles within,

not from soda or gin
but from my growing discontent
as I contend
with this trend
Of infantilizing
women and men,

this categorizing
everything improperly
for the sake of comfort,
consistency, and certainty
labeling things
that need no label
instead of just letting beautiful things
be complicated and interesting.

She is gone
And eternity will not soften these sorrows
Will not change the rivers
Will not alter their course
Only set in stone stupidity
Those fallacies
That justify wasting this life
In favor of the next

He is gone
Though the nightmares continue
Wars are still raging
The heavenly host are not saving
The women from ******
And the children from dying

I am dead
King of corpses
Equal, more, and less to all
The master of dirt
I did not turn away
I listened even when it caused me pain
Even when it caused me shame
Even when the bad news came

God is dead
That never was walking *******
Excuses
We used
To justify the abuse
They do not work
The only demon that exists
Persists in ill intent

Used to punch
metal freezers,
shred my bare knuckles
on a black bag
when I didn’t feel like
wrapping my hands with
***** dishrags.

But I put those fists down,
lost the pit fire,
let those flames expire
cause I was so tired
of how that rage burned.

Simmering passed
a soft-boiled brain,
used to workout
just to dull the pain,
now I workout at night
just to feel a little more alive.

Dreams won’t let me
go to sleep gently,
or rest peacefully
but it is the waking hours
that are more disturbing.

Always been a fighter
even when
I wasn’t even
scrapping with
other slack jawed idiots.

Sometimes it is just
my own mind
that I am battling,
as my demons come
ready to swallow me.

I only write when the light has faded
When the day has been downgraded
To the cool evening I am celebrating
When different dark shadings paint the landscape

I only write when the sun is shining
When daylight is divining
All the secret we are finding
Shadows no longer conceal how we feel

I only write on days that end in y
If even you have to ask me why
Then why even try
I just write

It is a sickness
That I never understood
Years of study buried under bundles of books
Availed me naught

How someone can claim
Pain equals love
That violence is righteous
Motherly dissonance

Sins I cannot forgive
Angers issues just
Barely boiling above
The surface of her stove top love

Untamed rage
Things she never mastered
I spent years in fear
Of becoming her mirror image *******

Feeling thinking dreaming
Sinking in my own stinking
Pit of mixed emotions
Such a painful conflict

Still I exist
Normally kind hearted
With a slick wit
Made to make people laugh

My rage long since subsided
Except in her presence
Her ignorance
Burns

My diligence earns
Me some leeway
And though I love much
I allow myself this hate

I am lessened by this
Not my best self
Hunted by the hungry animal
The wounded one waiting to strike

A lifetime of self-abuse
Of depression mixed in with my lessons
And now I know
That it is my birth-right

To my loves each and every one
You sweet ghosts of potential
Diaphanous specters haunting me
With what could and will never be
I do not lust for thee

Shame on me how I lie so easily
But I am learning to lose that part
To scrape that side of my heart clean
Till desire is just a passing thing
Just a mid-summer night’s dream
That only belongs to my memory

To you all who inspired said passion
I am grateful not hateful nor jealous
Of what I will never have or touch
For now the idea of love is enough
To secure my solitude with poetic platitudes
The attitudes I give latitude to reign
And not be ashamed is a full blooming pain
Parceled out with partial bouts of pleasure

You frequent my fantastic dreams ***
Coming and going as you please
Please do not ignore or forget me
I promise that I understand
We are just woman and man
As friends

Is a flower
folding in
on itself,
petals
swollen
with
the last mist
of morning
dew.

It is a lost doe
walking through
the back yard
nibbling
on tree bark
and disappearing
before I can find
the camera of my mind.

It is the one song
played on
repeat
so, you can feel
the beat
and barely hear
the heart
the music declares
as the lyrics
sing
my soft hearted
soul
to a state of peace.

Our passion should bleed the heavens dry
Inspire strangers to smile and cry                                  
Whispering our poetry in their dreams
Imagine what we stand imagining
Hoping, loving, lusting, scheming
Our passion should fly like stars
Searing the soft night of strangers
Gazing on our constellation
Looking upon our lives as destination
Historical spot where we burned with the deepest fury
Our passion should never be a bubble
Unless of course its a bubble of ever expanding trouble
Growing and consuming all who cross its path
Making them better for it presence then for its lack

There is no dignity in the bootstrap
The sad lack of facts that fat cats spread
The lies that said to be strong
You must pull yourself up
But the rope that they would have you use
Is the one they use to hang you with
Boot laces and straps don’t hold up to that
They will snapped withered from the labor
Tare and be shredded before the vetted
Ever get high enough to overcome
Where they come from
While the rich man’s son
Doesn’t even have to bother with one

Humanity
is a wisp of tail
that fools follow
tripping on the trail
of stupidity.

We are all sycophantic suitors of death
Chasing that wasting rot and decay
In a roundabout sick sort of way
Suckling the toxic *** of excitement
Rushes and blushes demure and debasement
Faster and faster till haste becomes more than mere waste
Diligent drug users ******* up smoke laced with nicotine
Embracing and tasting various brands of caffeine
Red meat and carbs pretty woman and fast cars
Working to **** much and playing twice as hard
Climbing mountains, hunting new types of prey
Starting fights riding wild and rough waves
Too much sun or not enough UV rays
Waking up early and going to bed late
Silence and stillness is not the enemy of the state
But we are all just chasing the only thing that could be called fate
We all die to **** young but I’d like to check out late

I cannot call back the broken bough
The rusted metal twisted wreckage
The torn sails flapping awkwardly
In the summer sea breeze

No body but nobody is left

Splintered wood
Water rising
Sea splashing
With such an ancient mariner’s passion

The boat will not unbreak
I cannot unmake time
See her maiden glory
See her masts a rising
Vanishing on the horizon
Cannons firing

The vessel is broken
The soul of the ship is devastated
Materials wasted

All hands lost to the brine
And no one but me
Who dreams such dark dreams
Will ever know the truth
About that broken boat

As a child I was devout
Faithfully glued to
An idea with no truth

But I spoke clearly
Understood the fictions
Better than most adults did

Like little girls understand
Barbies, My little ponies
And monster high dolls

Like grown women
Who still want to be
The princess they saw
On Disney

Like little boys understand
GIJOE, Spiderman,
And Superman

Like grown men
Who still want to be
The Batman they saw
In movies on tv

I clung to this fair unreality
Hoping it would be redemption for me
Because the bruises and red marks
Demanded I believe
Insist I must need
A superhero Jesus to save me

While I was drowning in a sea of sin
I had to beg the divine to let me in
Noah’s Ark,

Hoping that god knows my heart
Was full of good intentions

But the bathroom florescent lights
Made me feel ugly
Like everyone was judging me
With all my pores and acne
With all the scar my mom gave me
Though she hid them perfectly
Just beneath my skin

I thought god would save me from her whims
Or at least take me away to be with him

Instead of leaving me in pain’s den
To lose those faithful delusions
One heartbreak at a time
One history and science lesson at a time
One standup routine and comic book at a time

Till I lost my taste for the divine
While at the same time
I was just plain losing my **** mind

The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights

Could it be
sweet dreams of thee
that break me
from the shell
and take me
from the hell
of ignorance.

As merry sprites
split in two
and come together
again in view
like night lights
or those flickering few
glow bug butts that
fly crookedly in the air.

Could it be soft stirrings
that bequeath
a wreath of
rapturous love.

As Puck surveys
a sunny to
rainy blue
beautiful day,
preparing
for the sharing
of tricks
he plans to play.

As cold skin
starts heating
with lust’s
full intent
and the furies
are tame
compared to
the passion
I bring you.

Oh Ariel
what a tempest,
in a midsummer’s dream.

As golden strands
of fantastic plans
unfurl,
I see the girl
who could be
my whole world
but she is
as imaginary
as all of Shakespeare’s’
strange characters.

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?

Time is mercury,
silver liquid poison
to the living
taking more then
it is giving.

It is Hermes,
a deft thief,
burgling
what the Greeks
sought to keep,
putting fools
asleep eternally,
so that even Aphrodite
cannot recall
those loved ones lost
to its terrible march.

Loyalty makes a loser out of me
Deciding that the overriding emotion
Should rule my reason
Allowing the cowing to familial bonds
I am stuck in a sour situation
Facing no hope for improvement
Leaving this life with no secret delusion
The confusion of right and wrong
Stains my last shirt
It hurts because I am stuck in a blender
A ****** of identity
Between my father figure and me
Wanting and doing something better for myself
Would make a traitorous liar out of me
The guilt would devour me hour by hour
The freedom would empower me
Give me time to build a better me
So how do I decide

Depression is a hydra
Of loneliness
Head lobbed off
Replaced by a friends suicide
Memories of child abuse
Children Soldiers in Africa
I lob off the head of child abuse
A relative dies
A cop kills a kid
Military state
On and on it goes
For everyone cut off
Another one grows
Another one grows
Another one grows
Leaving me heartbroken
Sobbing alone
Facing a beast
I will never defeat

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?

The red apple
reflects
the randomness
of this
wild world.

In hunger
the white
and seeded core
becomes
a fruity corpses
where when
disposed
will posses
the rot of worms
and wriggling maggots.

Then to the grave
this delicious treat goes
to seed the earth
with nutrients
that other things
need to grow.

Shakespeare’s Caesar
Was never noble
Dripping blade dropping blood
Brutus nailed it
To cease the invasions
To end the destabilization
To save his nation
From a warmonger
Crimson smothered blade
Slick with sic gore
The ideas of march
Antony claimed
Noble Caesar
And the masses followed suit
The mob never knew the truth
Caesar was a monster
Gutted and blooded
Life flooded from his vein
But never came close to the stains
That painted his hands

I chased her my lovely dream
Infernal queen of the unseen
Abstract empty black
Crimson and withering
Winter blooming
Years on end

Till I forgot my dear friend
And she found other lovers
A little blond boy,
A couple lost pets
An old man
An old woman
An old friend

She came circling again
Leaving me behind
To make time
While she robbed me blind

Rose petals and ashes
All in the past is
Under the ground

Red robe stained
I chased her less
As I got older
Knowing she
Will come around again
And again till
It is my turn to end

He’s been on the road
coming home
from
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
Chicago.
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.

Vice and debauchery are highly underrated
Underestimated by outdated modes of morality
But pleasure is the friend that chases away banality
Fights off the finality
We face existing in this space
Walking pounds of space dust
Apes we sprang from
Came upon some fun
Knew what is now forgotten
By some
You can’t buy one
Moment back
Before vision is blotted black
The spotted fact
That all we lack
Is fun
Forgotten in the rush to work
The race to hurt spirits
By contorting our flesh and mind
To the clock that kills our time
I am still feeling fine
But tell me how are you

The couch creaked in rhythmic fashion. Darkness permeated everything. There was music, as my mother bounced back and forth in an autistic fashion. The stress of the day working itself out in her movements.

I played with my tiny figurines. GI Joes battled at my feet. I could not see them but I felt them. How could I understand the level of her sickness. Her pain would evolve adapting and developing into darker reactions. The playful tickling mother would become a spirit of vengeance.

During the daytime we shared the music, dancing and playing. My thoughts were not straying. It would take many years for me to evolve as well. It would take many more than that to find a semblance of peace.

I cannot fault her heart. She did not have the tools to understand. She only had god and work. I had books and tv shows to show me love and truth. I had dreams of something greater. I saved them all for later while she lost bits of her soul. I am certain she swallowed her own sorrows to save me from starvation.

I am sure she struggled to protect me from life’s cold hard reality, until she became the darkness herself. I am sure that a better me could forgive her, and maybe given enough time I will feel strong enough and deep enough to do it.

But for now I am seeking the truth and strength I do not have. Plucking painful and pleasant chords; There is still music here and I will play it again.

Life is no place for fools like me
Because there are no other fools like me
Cloudy nights wearing purple and grey cumulous
Softly comforting in their silent beauty
Puffy explosions of midnight joy
Quiet ponds reflecting the quiet night
There is safety in the solitude
Wonder in the shifting clouds
I choose this over the hustling daytime
I love this over the breakneck bar scene
Dimly lit lamplights breaking through the dark sky
Giving me just enough glow to read by
And when the evening gives up its sounds
The singing crickets and other chirping things
It’s like a beautiful painting, breathtaking
I choose this over the mangled masses
The mauling throng of throbbing crowds
Rushing and rushing pushing and shoving
Just to get to the next spot
A competition for the best jobs
Keep what you can and leave me the night
I am not a competitor in your gladiatorial bouts
Leave me the silence and I will take it as a gift
Leave me the night and see how my spirit is uplifted

The tic click tic click
is a slick sick trick
of time playing with
my mind,

some twitch
a phantom itch
with no obvious
cause for it,

a voice dragging me
from the comfort of sleep,
yelling out my name,
so I get up to see,
but there is no one
out there calling me.

I am scared
because my family
has a history
of mental illness
in varying degrees
of severity,
and I am afraid
that one day
it won’t be me
questioning my sanity,
but a clinical certainty.

They beat the candy blues
into her thoughts,
as she sought
and bought
the sugary sweet,
multicolored gum drops
which were used
to subdue
her hunger pains,
but did nothing to
nourish healthy views
of living.

They trained her
to comply
to an almighty on high
father figure,
white bearded guy.

Whilst televangelist
propagated
hateful ****
pompously
requesting those
who were suffering
in poverty
to send them
the money they needed
to maintain their greed.

They were teaching her
that the measure
you need to reach
to say you succeeded,
is a measuring stick
that tends to extend
beyond previous
measurement.

But she bought
the glittering jewels,
sought to capture
her fantasy alpha male fool,
and achieve
the American dream
in which she believed.

I’d like to drink from the collective cup
Sip and slurp up their artful insights
Then gulp and burp ****
Brilliant but
Sometimes stinky art

Your ten thousand prayers
Don’t add up to
to doing what
you prayed for
god to do.

Ask the starving man
if he would like
us to sit by
and pray all night
for someone to give him
a piece of food,
or if he would prefer
direct action like
someone passing
him a dollar or a donut.

Ask the man who waits for
rope while he dangles
off the side of the cliff
if he would prefer
ten prayers to be heard
or one of the people
praying to bring him a rope.

Ask yourself if you had to choose
between group praying for a cure
or a doctor who has six plus years
to help you with whatever disease
that is afflicting you.
What would you do?
What would you prefer?

A man can die
waiting for help
while fools decide
out of pride
that their prayers
are better then
taking direct action.

Cold metal presses against the thin mattress.
There is no pea but he can still feel the springs
It is hard, sharp, jarring, and deeply cutting
He is no princesses and this is no fairytale.

The beast is indifferent, made of concrete.
Barbwire fences mark the difference from
Freedom’s street and the state penitentiary
and he cannot leave this abusive relationship.

They let him go and life was like a candy-coated cabin.
He got himself a job, but kept a lot of bad habits
hopping fences, then breaking into cars,
dating a troubled teenager, and an angry older women.

Head down body laid to rest he did his best
to fall into the deepest sleep in the porcelain tub,
drunkenly stupid, but somebody pulled him out.
He tried to burn himself the same **** night.

An angry apple red thread with a poisonous pointed head
awaits his next big break in mistake
but the price he paid, the things that changed
all came because he smoked some little thing.

It doesn’t take much, in fact any little thing
could take a halfway decent human being
and turn him into to a ward of the State
can take a loving human being and make him hate.

Not all stories end happily ever after.
Not all prisons are left even after
the prisoner is freed, his body may be released.
but the man still flinches,
hardened and tenderized by what he has seen
and what he had to do to make it through
that dark fairytale hell.

Those in power
Play power games
But the people
Remain the same
Working hard to stay afloat

A president here
A king there
Prime minister
And other offices of power
Where power plays are made
But the people remain the same

Wealth is lost and gained
Then lost again
Passed on
To the wealthy sons
While strangers starve
While laborers struggle on
The whims of the wealthy
Impoverish us all
While people remain the same

Seasons change
As does the land
But the basic principals
Stand the test of time
Battles fought
Battles lost
Hungering poor
Lumbering fools
Politicians play Loki
As they are want to do
Tricky Tricksters
With labors few
But the people remain the same

Err I ever asked
Such kindness
Of such a few
Remember as remembrance are due
The heroic
Is but a dream
That ignores
The stable things
Fathers and mothers
Working to take care
Whilst those in power
Are nary aware
Play us as chess pieces
Hold different agendas
Move as the wind will carry them
But the people remain the same

Broad generalizations frequently decrease the fluidity of human understanding and growth.

The gallows are full
Of shallow fools
Who fill their time
With harder wines

Drunkards, and party boys
Weekend idiots
Looking for a release
Just short this side of peace

Hang’em tall
Line them up
And watch’em fall

Cardiac arrest
Or police arrest
It doesn’t matter at all
That is how the sheep move
That is how the crows squaw

One more Saturday night
To beat the week
Noose and all

Nine to eleven years
dedicated,
frustrated,
overworked,
but loyal,
put time in
at the expense
of family and friends.

Events missed,
but work required
you push yourself.
Till, your stressed,
and oh so tired.
That is the job,
and for every year in
you might get a raise
and some time for vacation.

Forty to eighty plus hours a week;
Eyes blur as you swerve
driving home.

Thud, thud, thud, thud,

The safety treads save the day.
You make it home ok,
kiss your kids goodnight,
and your gone before
they head off to school.

Nine to eleven years
but after the buyout,
I mean after the merger
the main office is moved
and you are let go.

In the holy pursuit
of capitalistic growth
business is righteous.
The free market is god.
Now you have no job
And you find loyalty means squat.

I cannot trust a stranger’s touch.
Holding back giving to much,
Reserving enough of my love
To protect myself
From becoming shattered
Blood stained glass

The madman works
Toils towards
An unknown purpose
Be it brushes or pens
Canvasses of color
Or lines in loose leaf
Emotions are erratic
Nothing is static
Everything is always
Moving towards something else
Nothing ever stays the same
The truth is change
With only little windows
The truth is
Tiny pockets of time
Emotions translate to
Déjà vu
The universe of experiences
Encapsulated in one mind
So the madman makes what he can
With what he was
Or at least how he remembers what he was

It is the soul of the night that devours me. Hours spent in silence frightens, enlightens, and bores me. Nature spins in all her soft cool glory. Little pools of water lit by lamplights. Cold fences swing in and out in time to the shifting masses of shift workers. Trucks come and go at random intervals. I am tired, so deep in the fatigue that I require crippling amounts of caffeine. I am a stimulant fiend. Barely functioning as me, more like a specter of me. I watch the world from my comfy shack, letting it spin me back. Dipping in the solace of solitude, I search the universe for truth. Eyes cast everywhere, mind running wild, I ask the night for answers. Its silence says, find it yourself.

There were times
I believed the lines
Of songs that said
There was love for me

Hoped that there was
Some happy family
That wouldn’t dare
Strike me
But would care
And accept me

There were times
When I wrapped myself up in
The illusions
Of religion
Thinking
Perhaps hoping
That god would stop the pain
Coping with the strain
Of trying to sustain
A positive personality

There were times
When dreams
Could carry me on
When anger made me strong
And I still had some hope

There were times
I knew my mind
Knew who I was
But the world spins
Times keep changing

And the old me
I don’t know him
I’m just a strange river
That keeps flowing
Sometimes shrinking
Other times growing
But never stopping
Just going and going
Wherever the times take me

Metal spirits,
sparkling sprites,
the glowing fae
light up the night.

Dancing twinkles
of fireflies
and pixie dust,
collect in the throat
of those who
get to close to
these magical beings.

An elder treeant
with sturdy wood,
watches elves dance
cause those ears
wiggle real good.

Heavy dragons’ scales
unbalance all
as werewolves
jump from a cliff
to free fall,
and vampires
turn to smoke
and float
off.

Skin-walkers,
and zombie dudes
keep on migrating
out of our view
cause though they
like brains
they know humans
are far more dangerous
then their dwindling crews.

It isn't a monster mash
more like
a mythic
mix up,
that gets up
to whatever it wants
in the magical forest
that it haunts.

I can’t say what day the knots gave way
To full blown anxiety
When the hopeful parts
Gave way to the broken heart

Was it when my withering heart
Took one to many blows
One rejection stacked upon
Another broken promise
So on and so on and so on

Was it when I lost a job
That I really loved
To an *******’s misconception
He can stick that thick
Jagged and dangerous attitude
Up his high blood pressure
Sphincter

Was it when I gave up
Retreated to the dark corridors
Of a dead and dystopic
Fantasy world
Where even my daydreams
Became dark things

Was it just now
Cause I don’t know how
To reverse my pain
To get back the good things
Find the old me
And be better

I just can’t say

I am building a river of grief
Raging waters red run through me
Sorrow fills my beings
Sending me into an ocean of despair
But I am served well by the darkness there

Currents of electric and liquid pain
Drive my poet brain
Allowing me to walk in and out
To feel what most would not dare
To dream about

I am drowning
Wet with life
But to write what I write
I must feel it all
And it feels soooooo deep

From where I sit
It sounds like
Basketballs
Dribbled unevenly

Across the field
The big brick building
Rises ominously
With tall fences and towers

I hope that I am mistaken
And those distant thuds
Are something other than
Bullets blazing

I do not step outside
I do not pull the binoculars
To my tired eyes
Because I am too afraid to know

Blue shirts brown shirts
Orange jumpsuits
What I imagine
Is not a pretty

People packed in
Like lengthy Legos
Getting stack on
Top of one another

Aggression breeds aggression
My objections are silent
Because I am afraid
That they might come for me

It sounds like thunder
Repeating
Am I better off not seeing
What horrors lay beyond the field

She buried me
Never said she would marry me
But carried me across pleasures threshold
And back again
Until he came home again

Said that I was her love
Hinting with every twist and curve
Every pursed lip, dip, and swerve
That she would not leave
Then left

Turned me from the height of life
To a midnight suicide
Attempt
Thirty six ephedrine
And another thirty six for good luck
A poem and two drawings later
I was sweating sweet shivers
But still alive

We soft fingers
linger
on the locked
door
laid before
the world
we abhor,

wooden rot
ready to be open
so, we can explore
the radiant wonders
that lay
in the day
on the other side
of this dark night
life.

The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.

Hear the secrets of the runaway train
Whistle smoking see me choking
On black clouds of misery
The nineties gave me
Nothing but pain
Tried to laugh
But the tears kept falling
And there was no love angel calling

Smokestacks blast billows of hurt
Watch wet stains on the pillow
Thought someday I would grow out of it
But fifteen year later I am still feeling it

Adolescence was a hell of a journey
Wounded spirit resting on
The illusion of a spiritual gurney
Tourniquet lies to stop the bleeding
As the train keeps running over me

Steel track with steel stakes in the ground
Blood soak broken howling in the rain
Train never stops keeps rolling over me
Smashed corpses with a mangled face
Metal monster makes a monstrosity of me

Runaway train of emotions are dulled
No heart beating now it’s bleeding on the floor
One more strange suicide trip
Just took me a lot longer than I thought
To finally get to it

Female, male, Homosexual,
Genderqueer, Pansexual,
Transgender, Bisexual,
there is wonder in
the fluctuations
of identity’s observations.
Hunger swelling
desire blooming
then in a sated state
receding
no longer needing
****** fulfilling.
A curiosity
how such complexities
reveal humanity’s variety.
Not to be feared or hated
but celebrated and elevated
for the chance to see
something different from you and me
cause life is boring
without the beauty of novelty.