Like Plath said
“dying is an art”
and though someday
we will all be
masters of such
a sad and sweet artistry
It is an art form
for which I would
happily delay
my graduation day.

Death is not fair.
It does not care
or breath.
It does not take
what bleeds
leaving seeds
to spring into
a lighter view
of the heavenly
some days.
It discriminates
against the poor
taking them more
other day it plays
with the wealthy.
It does not balance
or think
grow or shrink.
It is not a tangible being
or a solid thing.
It will not make a deal
no matter how deep you feel.
It is not your enemy or friend.
It is simply the end.

We lay down so low
let go so slow.

Till, the tremors in
their voices
mirror our own.

Congested in fear
as we hear clear
the final call,

Green swamps
see sinking dreams
of stinking sewage
and hear our horrors
as we scream.

The earth is softened.
Till, brown mounds are moved
to cover your corpse
from their sorrow filled view.

It is what we fear most.
So, we claim heavenly hosts
will come for us.
We trust the lust
of a white collared thief
who sales us relief
from our fear and grief,

but we all go down
into the ground in the end.

I miss the small town girls,
whose names I have
mostly forgotten,
the games of tag,
the make believe scenarios,
the fun we had.

I miss the star lit chats
that the adults had,
while I ran
with flint rock sparks,
and chased fireflies.

I miss the old campground,
where we would swim
in a small sandy pond,
splashing.
When the older folks
dipped in
they got bitten,
but I never felt
any fish nibbling.

These memories
have been dimming
over time,
plus distance
as I swim in
a different
world,

but I was younger then
playing with other children,
innocent.

I miss those moments.

I am not a werewolf but there is a beast buried deep beneath my chest
Howling raging and trying to escape this thin veneer of human flesh
Everyday day I find myself shifting and changing as I grow
But what will become of it I never really know
My bones may crack, shift front to back but the monster never shows
It lurks inside my bitter mind waiting to rip off all of my clothes
The rage of disappointment the heartbreak of regret
Are the only feelings that I long to forget
They feed the freak until I’m too weak to resist the beast
And one day it will make its great escape the monster will be unleashed
I shudder to think that even on the brink I can vaguely recall
That the vulgarity of all the violence and desire is such a human flaw
Maybe the thing that lives inside me is not what I should fear
But the thing that I should worry about is if it disappears

I spent years
with poor circulation
nerve ends strangled
in abject agony,
following your insanity
while blaming myself
for the way
you obeyed your rage,
but I might be getting
a little bit better.
I might be
a little less bitter.

I spent years on fire
like a burning house
seeing every optimistic
inch of me
defeated and incinerated
by your incessant nagging,
and jack slapping.
Till, I nearly choked
trying to breathe easy.
When it took
two swallows
to catch my
anxious breath,
one gulp
then halfway down
another gulp
so, I didn't drown
in my own saliva.

Now my freedom
is a bitter sweet
symphony
and though others insist,
I do not need
you to be
in my life,
do not need
the present
or even the slightest hint
of past strife
to be happy
and complete.

He is alone
licking the salt filling
from his cheesy crackers
before crunching them.

Then it is time for him
to do his last patrol.
A set of standard keys
jingles against
the walkie talkie.

It is quiet except
for the extra foot steps
that sound on the ground
behind him.
He turns and
tracks them
to an empty elevator,
that seems to be
changing
floors
of its own volition.

He follows grey stairs
that step up to nowhere,
then walks along
the long quiet corridors
pursued by the sound of
the stuttering
heating and cooling system.

Small papers
covered in
water colors
spin in
the shape of
folded white flowers,
sadly lacking
any rosy scent.

Photos from years ago
adorn the thin walls
of the day worker’s
cubicles,
in the darkness
they seem to blink
quizzically.

The sweet perfume
of holiday treats
lingers and draws him
several feet off course,
towards tiny red lights
that flicker
shifting
in the strange spectrum
of dimly lit rooms,
as the coffee pots
burn off
the last bits
of brown liquid.

A stray stag statue
stares creepily
at the fire alarm.
In the darkness
it seems to shift its
antler covered head
in the direction
of the security guard.

He brushes it off
and finishes the
last part of
his hour long walk,
to find a door unlocked.

He hears a cough,
then jumps in start
turning to see
his evening relief
fifteen minutes early.

Do not write to me
of the white blossom tree
when you never look up to see
the bright daylight
that reflects off
the bleached white petals.

Do not write to me
of the horrors of war.
Do not explore
the picture you
place before
the face you hate
much more,
when you have
never ever even
gone to war.

Do not write to me
of love and love lost
when you refuse
to yield to the blues
of loving someone
who will never love you
or that you will eventually lose.

Do not write to me
of humanity
when you seclude yourself
in a shaded corner,
sitting in cemeteries,
dreaming of heroes,
trolls, and beautiful fairies
while life goes on
without your participation.

Do not write to me.
Go out and live
to be free,
expressing only the things
that you live through and see
because every other poem
is just a fiction,
a projection
of the emotions
as you think they are
or believe they should be
not necessarily partially punctuated
stanzas of reality.

She sits in a field,
blowing off
flowing petals
from old dying flowers
as the fall sun
sets a light aura outline
around her entire body.

Long ***** blond hair
hugs her slender neck
then scatters
across her back
and the shoulders of
her lovely sunflower dress.

She spies me
with eyes of innocent
curiosity,
beckoning me
to come forth.
So, I move as she
commands.

Little pointed ears
protrude
from her messy hair.
Deep blue glowing eyes
study me quizzically.

I return the glance
eye line following her
small hands
to her slender
but dangerously
muscular arms,
then down to the side
where a short blade resides
resting menacingly.

With the voice of the wind
she asks me.
“Who are you?”cont.

I stutter in response
choking on my confusion,
thinking “this must be
some sort of Lord of The Rings
illusion.”

Hot sparks dart dangerously
from her flexing fingers
which are pointed at me.
I feel the burn
of sharp strands of
white lighting.

Daylight dulls
into an unconscious void,
and as I slip into nothingness,
I hear her whisper.
“Do not follow me.”

The light of a white
pale moon in the sky
meets my eyes
as I wake.

She is gone,
and my body aches,
but a small part of me
longs to chase after
and capture her
for the sake of my curiosity.

For the sake of my sanity
and safety
I decline that dumb urge
and decide to keep
the secret of this strange being
for my dreams
only.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

The leaves have fallen.
Once brave soldiers
vital and firm
now old paratroopers
wrinkled with
the expectation of
winters rough war.
One by one
these daughters
And sons
fall to the Earth
to die.
The tree stands naked,
until winter’s war is over
and green life is restored

I was made for rivers of pain
Not plain crab but red grass
Smoked inside an appled colored flame
Dazzling while I dapple in the rain
Stained like church windows
Ready to crack before I crumble
Ready to rock before I rumble
Ready to bleed before I am humbled
Loneliness and uncertainty
Are spooks that keep ******* me
Ghosts that keep haunting me
Camouflaged and hunting me
Longing for the curves of her spine
To touch that thin line
That creases her smile
But I watch from a distance
Keep the memory of a dream
Keep the lie of what might have been
Add it to my repertoire
Stirring it in sweet saccharin
But bitter as black coffee
The same color of her luscious flesh
Another heaven that I haven’t touch yet
Another sorrow for the lack of
That makes pain in to artistic stuff

Let the seas claim me
With their salty foam
Rushing and frothing
Rabid with life
Grabbing my night
With their rushing tides
Pulling me into
Their dangerous depths

Dragging me to the same spot
Where you claimed your lot
Loving ghost gasping
For any breath

Let the seas that crushed my dreams
Crash and smash
And for the love of you
Drown me to

I do not rush
I let the day find me
Still
Breathing slowly
Waking from the illusion
Not sleepy eyes
But wearing eyes of wonder
The water drips and drops
Pooling into a puddle
The wind wooshing
Through my coat
Through my hair
The air is cool
A dog barks in the distance
The ground is soft
Giving slightly beneath my feet
I indulge the forgotten feat
Of stopping
Seeing, feeling, hearing
Still as a stone
Well almost still as a stone

It was a short
but fast shot
that spit from
the tip of
my throttled ****
as I daydreamed about
a pretty black haired woman.

She is sweet and kind
but I know in reality
she would decline
an invitation to tour
my ***** and overactive mind.

So, I take matters into my own hands
purging the pervy desires that persistently
push and perplex me.

Eyes closed
I imagined her with no clothes,
only a soft smile
in the form of a celestially ****
cosmic fury.

I pictured her lips pursed
as she sighs
a pleasurable curse
chiding and calling me
her favorite ******* perv.

Her big bouncing *******
fill my whole mind
just like her
round and firm behind.

Soft lips kissing mine;
This fantasy ravages
my rational mind
while my tongue touches
the skin on the side of her neck
and slowly slides down
to her soft deliciously bushy mound.

I visualize
licking her moist ****.
My tongue tickling the edges of it
as it folds and curls its way
deep into the dark depths of
her desire.
Till, she is ready for
the head of my ****.
I let her quivering ****
swallow the whole shaft of it
moving perfectly
as her naked body grinds
and shifts pleasurably
on top of mine.
Skin to skin,
back and forth
her ******* tickle my chest
as I grasp her tighter
and tighter.
She comes
and comes
as our tongues
swirl around each other
like dolphins dancing
in an ocean of lust.

I dropped my drawers
shake and stroke
as I choked this dope
finishing firmly
in less then
fifteen minutes
and returning my mind to
its regular curiosities.

She will never be a reality.
Instead, it is only me
working out
my ***** graphic fantasies
about someone I love
who will never love me.

The light changes
Shifting shades
Slip across
His weary face
Shadows sweep
The sun away
Leaving the cool day
Under the tree
He rests peaceful
With one eye open
Just barely
The breeze hits
Just a bit
Leaves flutter
In unison
The sun returns
To my skin
Now he is wide awake
Again

When I was young
I loved a little red haired girl
Who never touched me
Physically
But left deep impressions
Upon my mind
Softening the harshness of time

I loved the blond girl to
For her brightness
And individuality
With different vibrant
Hats

When I was twenty
I loved a seventeen year old
Who turned eighteen and left
Who promised nothing
And broke my heart

I thought I loved a girl I knew
Three times and more
I went back to
But it was a wretched attempt
To fight off loneliness and lust

I loved another of no real note
Except for the knot in my throat
She played me better then
A country fiddle
At twenty three

I am thirty four
And in eleven years
I have not loved another
And I think I never will
Except in distance and admiration
In respect and goodwill
The general poetic platitude
Of loving everyone
Even Though I do not know everyone

I sat sorrow strickened
Flabby body sweat slickened
Glistening in the summer’s heated heart
Languishing in the morning’s orange haze
Wasting her final days
Unphased by the reality before me
As her glazed eyes no longer dilated
As her emaciated frame failed
Spirit sullenly waiting
While loved ones stood debating
How much longer she should be
Forced to live with age’s disease
I was wasting her last precious seconds
Just to avoid lying to or arguing with her

It was long ago
when I wept
with the wind swept
children of
human wreckage,

When bare feet
felt soft soil
and muddy pools
squished themselves
between my toes,

When dark dreams
danced dangerously
inside of me
pushing
death tolls
and grim reaper schemes,

When family
was something imagined
and love was a desert,
or a half empty silver flagon
with dragon’s flames,
fiery liquid burning my
already parched lips,

When the church
claimed my soul
until I finally said
hell no,

When in vain
I tried to explain
a stranger’s pain
to another stranger,

When I slept
and woke in tears
or sat in the dark hallways
because I had no home,

Though many years
have proceeded old pains
the child of humanity
still remains
with red veins
ready to be ripped
to bleed out our shared pain,
stored in the library of my brain
and written
upon these crimson
stained poetry pages.

Warring walls let men condemn
Other nations we might call friend
Thin boundaries made of leaves and death
Imagined markers that separate state and self
The illusion stands stronger than any borderline
Humanity so easily defined as the other
Cause the enemy outside the gates
Is supposed to be worse than the beast inside that waits
Withering intellects that debate merits and levels of hate
While class warfare does exist
The upper puppeteering the middle class
While the bottom is dismissed

I never watched them all the way through
Wanting to quickly
To get to the ending
Folding pages
Skipping scenes
Just to find out
What it all means
Patience was for the living
And I was always dying

We let their lies influence our lives
Subtle reflections in the tv screen
Glowing static telling us stupid things
Defining what is beautiful
The magazines tell us how to think
Defining what is normal and exceptional
Movies defining how we should dream
Neighbors defining how we should compete
Little whispers in the dark saying
That what we should be praying for
Is the beginning of wealth
And not the end of all wars
Is the brand new digital device
Not intelligence, compassion, and wisdom
Our vices have us locked up
In separate cells we call homes
Programmed little sacs of flesh
Sick circuit boards in a city of consumption
Spasms of flickering images
Broken billboards beating down our brain
Till the young ones learn the same lessons
And they perpetuate it with their own ****
Their subtle social cues
Their cruel attitudes
Their blatant statement
The art of exclusion
Weeding out what makes us wonderfully different
To create more carbon copies
That fade and fade
Till the carbon copies turn into blank pages

Prayer is an act of complacency. While you are waiting for god to answer your prayers you could be taking measures to make what your praying for come to be. So by all means feel free to pray but do not feel empowered. Your goals and dreams are achieved by action.

Her beauty broke my brain.
Short hair, ***** blond
soft to the touch
which is what I longed
to do.

It is a thing of confusing dimensions
but she made my heart
stranger then abstract art.
The pink and purple petals
melted like liquid metal
then dripped like pastel paints,
diluting the cool blue pool
with strange smoky colors
that mirrored my pleasurable pain.

She crushed my skull
on glittering stones
before the steps that descend
deigning by design to end
in my workplace parking lot.

Slender figure form
with slightly sagging sections,
but she was strange and enticing
delicious as cake icing
and I was oh so hungry.

Yellow stained
and chipped teeth
she was so sickly sweet
and addicting
like candy ****.
With her strange personality
loving Star Wars fantasies
and all those horror movies
she stole
my dignity and self-control
swallowing the remnants
of a painfully broken soul.

I close my eyes
massage my eyelids
see impossible impressions
of the pressure
become spherical
abstractions
distorted shapes
rippling in the void
of sightlessness.

It took me a while to figure out why I am attracted to the darkness, human suffering speaks so deeply to me. It is because I am the light and light longs to evaporate the veils of sorrow that cloud human senses. It is because I am so deeply in love with humanity that I cannot abide it's pain. It took me thirty four years to realize and believe it. Now I know it is because I am a good person.

I want you on the a side and the b side
The freaky night delights
Vinyl records skipping
To our beats
Our feet set up in the airplane position
Was it something I was missing?
No seatbelts even after we take off
Naked fury thumping
Baby makers bumping
Right over that midday slump
Oh I needed this ****** boost
To get over the mid-week ****

Under rain the green leaves weep
Rich with life
Still the sobbing will not keep
Her sadness softens brown earth
Feeding the soil soothing the dirt
Under weird blues and grays
Strange hues still fill these days
Soft drum beats upon my skin
Ba dump ba dump ba dump
Like my heart always beating
In a strange rhythm
Always falling from outside
But I feel it deep within

The redness is not toxic.
It is the people who are caustic
making her nauseas and cautious.
Pink skin pressed in
with razor thin
piercing pressure
to ease the pain
to silence her brain;

Cause no one is listening
to her sobbing,
cause no one is looking
for her scars,
more inside then out.

People care about her,
but they are distracted,
so soft motions become
harder,
and she becomes some
sort of sick lumberjack
trying to saw off that
pain called life.

How unfair
to see her go there
cause she is only
twelve.

Tic, the clock kicks
just a bit
counting seconds
but nothing moves.
The pen is still.
Time feels unreal.
The digital display
blinks at a slowed pace
and I match it
a slow breath
a slow heartbeat,
a scattered mess,
and an empty desk.

Tic, my sanity escapes me
driving me to boredom
ticking through
another minute or two
and all I want to do
is go home.

Tic, aaaarrrrrggggh

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

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

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

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

To understand alone
is to be a reckless observer,
a sea faring adventurer
on a leaky boat
that floats
across the cosmos.

It is to be a materialist
who claims to be spiritual,
seeing specters
in his reflection
not in the natural world.

It is to be well trained
in the art of
escaping the trappings
of temporary love,
wrapping oneself up in
sweet affections
which you know
can be so easily discarded.

It is driving undirected,
Impulsive,
Obsessive,
the searching
for something
you have never seen
and in the finding
knowing there is
so much more to learn.

It is nihilistic, fatalistic,
franticly selfish
even in the most
unselfish acts.

In the end
it is the loneliest
journey into oblivion.

Grief is the sound of
A beautiful voice
That has long since passed
Withered beauty from our past
Because it does not last
The limber light that bends our mind
Cutting strange shadow puppets in time
Moving the marionettes of our memory
The negative space we exist in
Losing friends and kin
Wilted roses rotting
Even when I forgot everything
And everything has forgotten me
There will still be grief

I think his name was Sam.
There was poetry behind his face,
Wrinkled and world weary
brown and drawn
deep and porous
battle damaged
from fights and loves
from losses,

now blind.
Half a homeless heart
still hoping to be reunited
with the other part.

With his last bucks,
He buys his lover
A shiny trinket.
Taps the sidewalk
with a thin white stick,
hungry
but holding on to
the precious gift.
which he will give
his Italian lover
when they meet again.

In dreams he sees,
not blind but two young studs
still so much in love
with a full future ahead.

Cold concrete and pillow
for his head
one blanket
and hope, a fruit dangling,
just barely on this side of death.
He is alive
and still in love

The ride is
a sickly set of statues
circling,
an ornate beauty
of predictable movements.

A carousal of fools,
stallions set stern in silence,
a caravan
of unwilling men
and women
that never stride
outside
the pre-ordained.

I watch them
still as mannequins,
eye set in the same positions,
seeing and thinking
the same thing.
They do not listen to
or hear the words I sing
when I try to bring
them their freedom.

The circle stops,
plastic bodies drop.
Paint chipped
they all dip
and rise no more
as I go on to explore
everything, alone.

Don't you know it.
I can be super stoic,
the sentinel of security
sitting safely secluded
to prevent people who
want to breakthrough
and intrude on those
who are trying to do
what they’re supposed to,
so they can get paid
and take care of those
who they are close to.

He never was completely a rogue
Daring thief
On grave sleep
On water dreams
Of secret things
And over used
Things
indistinct
In his dreams
Of poetry
Yet he stole
Old thoughts
Mingled in mangled new ones
To make something
Beautiful
To share his wonder
Stealing moments
And sharing the wealth
The world will watch him
Fade
A shade of his endeavors
A slave to his thoughts
Dead and long buried
With only fragments
Left
Only his words remain
Whilst the rest of him rots

She took from me
Not one cent
That she could not
Give back again
Though I declined
Cause the debt was benign

She ate my food
She drove my car
A dented Ford POS
Did not always
Get her far
But I never ask
For the gas back

Still beating heart
Beneath my chest
She tore and scrapped
At my tender flesh
A monstrous action
For her own satisfaction
An undead fiend
Feeding on my broken valves
The heart attack
The love she lacked
So stole from me
What I sorely needed
And though I pleaded
Please give it back
She left the shovel in my breast bone
And would not return
My heart to its’ rightful home
So every night I cry in vain
Give it back
Give it back
Give it back

America has no sense
Of reason or moral ground
Burnt uprooted tree bloodied earth
Marred ground of hijacked youths
Mental midgets run this ****
Making more of the same caliber
Greedy seedy sadistic *******
And I wonder where are the mental switches
That turn on humanity’s humanity

When there are profits to be made
the corporation's will sway
politicians to the warring ways.

When people believe
there is more to be gained
from war then from peace
more to be gained from bullets, bombs,
body armor, commodities, and unmanned planes
then it will always be easier
for the sick, slick, and sleazier
war profiteering *******
to trick this submissive
population into being dismissive
of the artists and other peace makers.

When there are many takers
big spending capitalistic money makers
instead of scientists, poets, singers, and songwriters
it is almost impossible or at least improbable
that we will live to see a free and non-warring society.

But if we can change a few minds at a time
if we can see change expand from me
to you and beyond
Finding such influence expanding exponentially
that is when we will see
a better world waits for us
if we can change enough.

I walk quietly into my own damnation
Not fire and brimstone with demons afoot
But the dankest pit fit for a suit of despair

Brisling with a whistling rage
Boiling discontent
With our slow movement
Our lack of improvement

Your grand amusement
Drunken stupidity

What a pity to see
That humanity
Brings out the sorrow in me

Perhaps tomorrow will be
Better

With a wrinkled face
scorned by age,
you work and scrimmage
to try and save
your wage
for the better days to come.

Tired and betrayed
you see change
rushing from
the power of some
who want and take
the things you make.

By force of will
and money
they legislate
for the sake
of profits,

and we feel powerless,
like our voices have been stripped.
We feel as if
we are crippled
by the likes of that which
gives them power;

But there is power in a voice.
There is strength in a choice.
There is a gift in
giving compassion,
actions
that takes the harshness
of life and lessens
with lessons
and examples
of kindness.

You find this
in the giving of time,
the sharing of food,
while listening to
a lonely dude,
or stopping to help
strangers in need.

You may not see
the positivity
generated.

You may feel as if
it doesn’t mean ****,
as you watch all those crooks
shift and twist
the masses into
a hateful mob.

But that’s not
all you got,
there is more power
to be found
if you look around
and help those
who are down.

It is a perfect
fall day
for following
whatever whim
directs me
to ride
against or with
the wind.

I daydream
that I am being
chased by
villainous
creeps.

My bike crosses
the worn wooden bridge
with the thud of
loose boards
persistently
following me.
I imagine
they are my enemies.

Brown leaves
clutter
the dirt path
crunching
and crumbling
under
the black tires.

On the sidewalk
I speed up
preparing for
the air
I will walk
as I leap off
the top
of the three steps
to finally escape
my enemies.

I love
this ten speed
purple huffy
that carries me
wherever
I choose to be.

I am a receiver
A born unbeliever
Truth seeker
Story speaker
Pain reliever
The giver
The writer
The new right
To lifer
Poet of the people
And dreamer

The terrors come
Beastly
Feasting
On flesh
Carrion
Consumers
Nightmares

So I beg you
Play a song
To help me sleep
A piano
A violin
A beautiful voice
And even if I weep
Please keep
Playing me
To sleep

Death makes
imperfect things
into haloed beings
with white wings
fluttering in
ascension.

It turns attentions
away from the
anger and towards
more perfect abstractions
of past painful actions.

Uncomfortable truths
becomes distorted memories,
that we extract from all of these
filtered false realities.

Grieving becomes
the reweaving
of what was undone
into a long-viewed narrative,
as our current imperative
is to turn chaos
into purpose.

Give me a piece
of the beast
on which you feast.

Listen closely
and mostly
you will hear
at least one of these
children cry
from hunger,

stomach growling,
while predators are prowling,
and the wolves are howling.

Back home the at risk
sit and wish to be rich,
instead see their
family fall sick,
while praying
god will fix
all of this ****.

We could have been
partners and friends
to all of the children
who have fallen in
the hole we were digging,
struggling
with filth on their chins
as strangers pass by
smug in their disgust.

You know,
the world is broken,
and we allowed it to happen
cause the shiny little tokens
made our monkey minds smile
while rich wolves stole the whole
world.

To the dark red rose
Whom which I am betrothed
Lost in your lust
Describing you in prose
We have known each other
Since I was but a babe
From the days of my youth
When I acted like a knave
My dear sweet rose
Who stands subtle in the morn
Firm yet soft in her quiet repose
In nature she is gloriously adorned
I could scribe your description
For ages yet to come
How the light caresses you petal
As you bask in the morning sun
How you bend and weave
In a warm summer breeze
And how the smell of your perfume
Is always bound to please
However as I lay here and I ponder
Though I feel my heart ache
And soul begin to wander
I think that it would be
For the best you see
If I kept these silly words
Between you and me
Let the children of the future
Come to know you in their time
To make their own judgments
Unclouded by mine
And learn to appreciate
The beauty that they find
Without the interference
Of an old romantic mind

Oh, how it makes me smile.
How my mouth widens
like little tropical islands
spread on for miles
in continental drift.
How with one quip
I find my wit
the perfect fit
for the intelligent
philosophers and artists.
It is the heart of solace
so, please know this
your unique presence
makes me very happy.

Was I
Mister melt my face
Crayola man
Dripping wax
Wherever I can
Head caved in
Rivers of colors
That skimmed
The inside hem
Of my skull
Mind hijacked
By the abstract
Not facts but that
Which painted the world
All shades from black
To light and prism split
Rainbow dreams
That turned to ****
Tears that cooled
This freaking mess
While I dyed my flesh
Pink, red, and bluish bruised
In such deep distress