With every good movie, sweet song,
Great book, remarkable poem,
Or awesome short story
I find a new part of me
A shared understanding
Half parts fiction and reality
Swirling in the mix
Full of tricks to fix
Breaking the ice with picks
Or challenging my perception
Like a psychedelic trip
Without the psychotropic
Chemicals
Till, I smile or the tears drop
Till, I can’t stop
From feeling something deeply
No matter how much it hurts me
Stories unnumb me

Despite my best protestations
And all those hours wrought
With layer upon layers
Of debilitating frustrations
I find that I am fallen
Reckless heart affected
By loves unrequited affections
Silver eyes aflame
That wears poetry’s
And nature’s true name
The author of my desires
Only a digital ghost
Reflected in photos
And words
Flowers and philosophies
I imagine how they sound and tasted
Flowing from the soft full lips
I wish that I could only love
The spirit of her art
But my heart rends it valves
Spends blood furiously
Wanting the seen and unseen
Desiring the poetry of
Her body and mind

Anxiety is the demon
that burns ulcers into
the inner lining of
my unhealthy stomach.

It is the thief
of calm moments
filling my mind
with uncertainty and fear.

It is a beast
named to be tamed,
though I have not
conquered it yet,
I will.

Was she painting the white roses red
Or the red roses white
Crimson speckled
Flowers
The red queen screams
Of with his head
And I finally realize
The parts that are red
Are the splatter art
Of the dead

I live in a daydream world
Where there are no more monster
Kids play and adults do to
Life is simple
People tell the truth
Guns lose their bullets
And bombs never get a fuse
Stranger’s hold hands in respect
And sing songs of love
We don’t need cops, preachers
Or crooked politicians
Cause in my daydream world
There are no more monsters

My heart hastens
These are the waves
That I have been wasting
The moments between
Beatings
Thump thump
The milliseconds
Between breathing
Msssss pheeew
The instance between
Seeing and perceiving
My unconscious mind
Makes no sound
Just stirs and works
In the background
Making meaning
From nothing and everything

I am the optimal level of sanity,
treading where dreading hearts
dare not travel,
walking in shadows
with blind madmen.

I am the
strangely broken
god of poetry
because I create
new worlds of
hope and despair
everyday
without even needing
six days and one to rest.

I unravel the fabric of thought
to light the worst
so, we can bring out the best
like they brought out the dead
during the plague
Bells ringing for the
unsanitary mistakes
of mass population
humans promulgating on
the promenade of life
propagating in dense spaces
and disseminating our chemical forms
across the globe
inseminating malleable minds
and soft mud bodies.

Who am I but the mad king poet
because in the land of the blind
the one-eyed writer
is better than all eastern
and western philosophy poetry.

A good man died today
One who added to the quality
And color of life
A rarity

My pen cannot do him justice
Tears only serve to soften my sorrow
The world is better for his life
But colder for his passing

My pen cannot do him justice
It can only offer a minor memorial
A piece of poetic gratitude
For the precious time he shared with me

So I thank you Ken
And I hope I grow to be a good man
Like you were

I stare into to the barren
Blank verses match
Blank skies
Match empty eyes
Match dull minds
Ships that list
Leaning left
Sinking starboard
Taking on water
Drowning in debt
Till they die
And pass their distress
Down to the next generation

Soft swirling
streams
of liquid violet,
moved around her body
like silk scarves.

Green gloves
touched
with the love
of living fruit,

rays of radiances
gave way
to smiles
birthed
from
****** canals.

Opposite
this virginal dancer
another lover sat,
female form
of cold blankness,
deathly pallor
of numb affection.

For one I wake
in grand *******,
but for the other
I stay alert,
putting her off
for as long
as opportunity
and will allow.

Where do all the super heroes go?
Big bulging biceps,
pecs ready to
rip right through
in t-shirts
or super suits.

Moral quandaries,
social philosophies,
counter to expectation
these are not merely
masked muscle men
and women
we are facing,
but symbols.

Righteous warriors
going round for round
putting clowns into the ground,
or refusing to yield to
the urge to **** the few
big bad dudes
who wear ridiculous costumes to.

Guns and knives
squads of suicide
life on the edge of tomorrow,
but those forces are fragile
frightening forms as agile
as circus acrobats,
almost immortal
because they
always seem to come back.

These are merely
specters of mythic glory,
manifestations of our magnificent
imaginations,
panels of artistic exaggerations.
Truly, the inspiration
of my own self-creation
because in a world
without superheroes
I long to be one.

In poetry
the past becomes
present tense to me
as I try to present it
truthfully.

Sixteen years of pain
burst like a blood bubble,
as I shatter into rubble,
delving deep into
the despair of
parental persecution.

Plaster white particles
dust the tips of my knuckles
as a thin trickle
of dark red rolls down
the back of my hand.

Friends stand around
comforting me.
They do not respond
angrily
to my outburst.

Tears of frustration
stretch down my cheeks
as I struggle to speak,
cause I am unable
to tell them everything.

Even now as I write
in the middle of my
mostly happy life,
I struggle to express
this unhappiness
without allowing it
to consume me again.

The dissonance should
splinter your sparkling
billboard reality
as tv images
hyper energize
our innate *** drive
and media moralist
shame said desires.

While your leaders
proclaim a specific faith
but then in turn
spite and debase,
with malice and false claims
anyone who doesn’t
pray each day
the way that they
don’t even pray.

When the main protagonist
in your religious texts
was pretty obviously
anti-capitalist
but your current church leaders
make a killing
selling their parishioners
false promises
of making them
multi-millionaires.

When you
were set up to be
the steward of your society
yet squander
each opportunity
to be more Christ like
cause you have developed
a strong immunity
to reason and logic
which costs us
our humanity.

Children playing
Little echoes of long ago
Brothers and sisters
Chasing each other
Running around the small town
Coming home to the farm
The building breaks
The wood rots
The porch cracks
Under a creaking
Rusted door frame
Sunburnt skin flaking
In the harsh summer wind
Oily flesh now dried
Swept up
Soon turns ashen
Praying for tomorrow
Dreaming of the old days
Her child says
Hope doesn’t die
She replies
With tired eyes
But we do

I am stalled.
Fatigue
enfeebles me,
and I believe
I will lose
the ability
to perceive
and achieve
the full potential
of my inspiration.
  
There is a slight pain
from eyestrain.
Thus, I complain
in such a mundane way
about how my eyeballs
sound like sponges
when I rub them.

The winter is not normal.
A spectral fog fills the horizon
making all dreams of
what lies beyond
seem exotic.
Meanwhile
skeletal trees,
whose leaves
have been reaped
with time’s sharp sickle,
sleep silently
unyielding
to any breezes
just a part of
the season’s
sick cycle
of birth and decay,

My eyes still strain
in a light pain,
but at least the fatigue
did not prevent me
from writing again.

The folds of
burnt black metal
pinch his skin,
breaking the flesh
that slips within
tiny gaps.

The knight gasps
as pain explodes
and trickles of blood
start to flow.

To this
his page says,
your forgot your
aketon.

The newly knighted fool
stares and drools,
stuttering “what?”
and the page replies
your underpadding.

Violet shades
Fading into lunar light
I miss you dear
When I work at night
In the quiet midnight
I recall you fantastic flights
Of fairy fantasies
Of spectral and goblin dreams
Of such amazing supernatural beings
Distant shores shared memories
Of childhood stories you gave to me
But you grew up
And the fictions gave way
To poetic realities
And the spring days became
Winter’s finality
Not banality
Just missing a little spark
Of your younger heart
But I guess someone has to grow up
Cause I refuse to

I reject the hunger for affection
I reject the isolation and depression
Even though my dreams weep
For some what if past
Cause me to wake and cry
Even though pictures of loved ones
Tare at my heart
Ripping the strings of kinship
And long lost loves
I reject all that pain
And I will pay the fairer price
For that decision
As my heart is shredded with precision
Or sometimes with a surgical incision
I will break brick by ****** brick
But it will make a grand poetical spectacle

I know we yearn to be known.
Jumping at the bit to say our bits
we barely listen, stand still missing
all the important parts
of strangers hearts
just so we can say our peace.

I'd like to tell the police
to stop helping these
people into an early grave,
considering they were the ones
cops are supposedly paid to save.

My knees are sore,
but the week before
brought the horrors
of a civil war
down upon
their poor
village.

Had to take
my car to the shop,
she had to find
a clean cloth
to stop
the blood
that will not clot.

I got a broken tooth,
but the little child
wears bullet holes
past the thin layers
of his ragged cloths

Over ate
when I am trying
to lose weight.
It would be nice
if the last time
they ate
was yesterday.

I’m getting old
her family is
getting cold
sitting in a hole
where death reigns
and pain stains
the hearts of
those they loved
who managed to escape.

You will not watch the videos
Of the police brutality
See the finality
Of their violence
Blood spilled
Another man killed
Spine severed or choked out
Swearing and pleading
Crying I can keep breathing
And you can’t stand seeing
The darker truths
So you turn it off and walk away

You will not look at the pictures
See the children gutted
Cities busted by bombs
Clusterfucks of killing
Legs split open
Jaw ripped wide
Eyes glazed
You are not phased
Because you turn and walk away

You do not hear the hungry child crying
Or see the woman bleeding from the beating
Of one who claims he loves her
You are not disturbed
Because their sobs remain unheard
And the bruises and broken bones
And the cold broken furnace
In that ******* broken home
Doesn’t mean thing to you
Because you can’t see it

Well, I hold those horrors in my head
Plant painful points of ink
So you will be forced to think
Instead
Of ignoring
Cause it is to agonizing or boring
I write it down so it can be found
But the truth is that you will
Mostly likely ignore all the horrors until
They become the reality of someone
You love

I attach myself to achievements of another
Me in the string of consciousness
But I am a shadow of him
As he was an echo of older versions
Reborn in the morn of refreshed brain chemical
A regeneration and transformation
Working with the passions of past moments
Playing with old phrasing, claiming ownership
But for each verse edited, each syllable reworked
The me of now revisits and demolishes
The me of old, as I have done so many times
Today I am myself, yesterday I was someone else
And tomorrow I will be changed again

I let my dreams hurt me,
helped hope hang me out to dry.
I watch the world go crazy
and sometimes I wanted to die.
Still, in the morning
just before I remember my life
I get a glimpse of hope
and the irony of it all
makes me laugh.

I am a river of longing
Swerving and changing
Draining myself
Into your desirous ocean
While you evaporate
Swelling the bodies
Of other oceans, seas,
Lakes, rivers, and tributaries
Leaving little love left for me

Breath in
All that you were
All past selves
That link themselves
Through each moment
To now

Breath out
Now
As it is

Breath in
All hopes
And plans
For tomorrow
with all
Future selves

Breath out
Now
As it is

Breath in
The endless
Universe
Of why not
How come
And what if

Breath out
Now
As it is
And let
All that
Other stuff go
If only for
These few
Short sweet
Breathes

There is a poetic beauty to sadness. Eventhough it nips at your heels, and stains your heart. Each painful experiance you survive has the potential to make the happy ones that much more precious.

Someone whispers to him “calm your heart,” but the crimson streaked flesh that beats soft wet palpitations hastens his impatience to face what’s coming. He has no armor or weapon only the determination to do what is right.
Four chambers are thudding like the boots a coming. Men in black garbs marching with fully loaded chambers, clear plastic shields up, and black sticks ready to bludgeon. Their anger is oppositional to their opponent’s fog of fear, fatigue, and determination.
“Breath my child,” a gentle voice says. A sharp pain pierces on the back of his head. A thin line begins to ride down his neck. Someone yells “get down!”
One row of men raise their hands, eyes turned upward. The soft voice in his head says” be strong.”
Billows of grey smoke spew from a black canister. Strangers and familiars choke and gasp, eyes watering. Dreams of a bygone era play out in his mind. A tall thin brown sweaty woman smiles, moving down the road while singing we shall overcome. Dogs snap viscously at her compatriots. A fire pushes her siblings back with skin scraping pressure. A few of them fall, and couple falter in the struggle but most keep marching. Her brother, who is tall slightly bulky but wears the well-earned muscles of a man who labored hard all his life, clenches his fists, preparing to strike. She pulls him back. “Be strong, and gentle baby brother.”

They continue to sing “We shall overcome.”

In his mind the young man sees his mother smiling, saying “"Be calm, saith my heart. I am a warrior. I have seen far worse than this." He smiles through the pain stands up and chants “Hands up don’t shoot. Hands up don’t shoot.” Another brother rises behind him yelling “Black lives matter. Black lives matter.” A thin nerdy pale white guy cries we shall overcome, not in a singing tone, but it still rings beautifully. The struggle continues.

It is fine to hate, hate bad ideas, damaging ideologies, suffering, violence, and greed. However, hating people, diminishes the hater. Any system or person that props itself/themselves up on the basis of hating people damages humanity, and decreases our ability to build a better brighter future.

We walk alone
unweaving the believing
wavering fools
who play tools
to master makers
those money takers
pious fakers.

We walk the road
of learned truths,
pursuing those who
inspire us to do
better.

We walk alone
but sometimes
paths converge.
Parallel voices are heard.
The pain recedes.
Hope no longer retreats
and we are free
to be temporarily
together.

We walk alone
and that is how we die.
No matter how hard we try,
even when we fly
we fall down
to the ground
flaming comet crashing
crushing the crust
and cutting deeper.

Thus departs
the hearts of seekers
walking all alone
especially into their own
dark death.

This merry man
carries cans
of kerosene,
cause he's getting ready
to burn down everything.

A soft song
distracts.

The window fogs,
as white lights
fall away
running fast
as can be
on into
a sea
of infinity.

She yawns,
then fingers
a circle
into the glass
trying to
make time pass,
make her hours
move faster
then those
minute *******
that just drag on.

Dullness settles in.
Her mind wanders
slipping beyond
normal constraints.

A pew, pew, pew
of imaginary lasers
escape her
small lips
as she races
to escape this
boring moment.

Little blue eyes close,
and all those stars above
move light years closer,
as she sits
in the cockpit
of a little weaponless
space junker.

Two bogeys,
circle her ship,
but she ducks
and twirls
through the gap,
allowing the blasts
to blow up
passing meteorites
which shred the
metal plating
and pulsating
engines of her
impatient pursuers.

Now she is free
to explore infinity
with her
Soft body settled
deeply into
the comfort
of the old couch.

Eyes still closed.
Her mom
comes home,
kisses her
brave space traveler
on the forehead,
then carries
the tired wayfarer
off to bed.
A space where
dreams take
the young explorer
farther into
the star sparkling unknown.

Who could love a poet when a soldier would suffice
To warm the weary winter frostbitten bitter nights
To protect them from the wolf howling at the front door
And dare in dark and dangerous nights to explore
The ****** savagery of lust unencumbered on the floor
Who could love a poet for he is living in his words
Mind made up about the stuff no one has ever heard
Is he wicked, morbid, or only mildly disturbed
Yes, the lonely lovely poet no one has ever heard
Who could love a poet when a savage gets them hot
And though poets be full of passion savages they are not
Bumbling buffoons barreling through bottles of bourbon
Sharing sips of sanity to get through all the worthless working
You like him don’t you that mindless barbarian
That ****** with a rifle and the sickness he’s been carrying
Who could love a poet when desire makes them blind
Now years have passed mistakes become cemented in time
Bruises and broken bones, barely scratch the surface
In your heart you lost the spark and nothing can return this
Then you will love the poet, with words to sooth your soul
To satisfy that empty crater that you refuse to show
That hole dug deeper than anyone could truly know
You will love the poet then, but only the poetry will be left

The old ways do not work
Do more than hurt
They ******* innovation
Captivate emerging nations
Enslave developing countries
Ensnare those who care
In webs of complication
Regulations once meant to help
Now help the rich
Systems of protection
Maintain the wealth
They may have been good once
But we need a new way
Not free market American schemes
But new universal dreams

Once proud this waterless rock
Now sings with all her being
Humming winds
Swirling in space
Touching the face
Of eternity
While lusting after infinity

Split infatuations
Sick with desire
She spews fire-like mud
Splitting herself
In anticipation

Her core churns
Her soul burns
Coldness creeps
Into corners where
Her strange affliction
Bares itself.

In love she is cracked
Shaking off the last bits of history
Till space and time
Consume what is left to find
And only radiated crumbs remain behind

Our nation
is facing
automation
as politicians
push the same
stupid
bootstrap
Ayn Rand
statements.

Current wages
haven’t been
adjusted for
inflation
and corporations
are taking
more welfare
then the poor
are given

A quarter
of the budget
from the military
industrial complex
could wipe out
student debt
and protect
healthcare
so people
don’t have to
move away
or die here

But, I’m just
a nine to five
working wage guy,
how could I
possibly know
about helping our
economy grow
and leveling
the playing field
for each
successive generation
that makes it here.

Enlightenment requires quiet moments of reflection so that one can listen to their subconscious. This is almost impossible to acheive in the hustle and bustle of modern america. Do me and the whole world a favor stop breath relax and listen to your subconscious, do not be afraid of the quiet. That is not the sound of death nipping at your heels it is the sound of tranquility trying to find you.

You tore our planet to pieces
Ripped up the land with your strife
Civil wars, and genocides
Snuffed out all that potential life
Creating a void that no light can pierce

With your war and consumerism
You closed but increased the distance
Between rational human beings
Stirring the masses on to
Mass extinction
Despite my pleading, crying, and screaming
Leaving me voiceless in obscurity
In the name of fake security
And false promises of prosperity

Oh, my dear humanity
If I could have died for this lost cause
I would have
But you have
Even managed to deny me that sweet mercy

It has been years
Since I have seen the water
Felt the cool freshness
The cold shivers
Stroked
Backwards
I do not know
Why I do not go
Back there

Our Pleasure is born love in the shared activity
Your wet slit devouring my hard ****
Connected in flesh but feels pleasure separate
The sword is sheathed and unsheathed
With a blade that never dulls but is never sharp
You ****** then I ***

I want a new life
in the sun
no more strife
to run from
but years of
love and fun
that will
hopefully come.

I should have volunteered
Been martyred there
Not fat and lazy
Laying here

I should have done more
Served people
Serviced the needy
Instead of being greedy

I should have
But I never did
I was to comfortable
Living in safety
In my home

As usual I lay the groundwork
Fix the broken stitches
Wipe away the sick skin
That burns and twitches
Clearing saltine tears

Being there for all my friends
From the beginning
To bend then send in
All that hard loving

Finding that I am forgotten
Diaphanous specter
And in gratitude
My better angels

Forget me to
It’s nothing new

I do not wish to succumb to the social defeat of drugging myself just so I can handle the horrors of mundanne repetitveness. I fear that in deadening myself with mood altering drugs I run the risk of loosing my awareness and accepting the ******* people try to insist is simpley how it has to be, or loosing my empathy and just accepting lifes atrocities. It is not wrong to feel the highs of love and the lows of sorrow they are ying and yang. Without these feeling one becomes a zombie, a parrot, or a parody of real life.

There can be dignity in suffering
Not the Christian kind
That sacrifices this life
For some sort of mythological reward
But the kind that takes their lessons in pain
And learns to be stronger, and gentler
The kind that teaches kindness
To those with so little to share
When the so called wretched poor
Places their faith in the goodness
Of a stranger a danger perhaps
But not a lapse in judgment
More like a hopeful promise
That swears we can all be
Better human beings

It is a lonely voice that cries out into the night, seeking its own echoes, longing for a shadow that reflects its mournful lamentation. Are you there? Am I truly here? What is the point of this fruitless struggle if I am bound by flesh and destined to die? I cannot crack the code of destiny; though sometimes I can divine just a spark of hope from inspiration. I pay the steepest penance for my arrogance. While others can cloud their minds with the daily confusion, I am humbled by how little I truly know.

However, I remain if just for this fleeting moment a mortal attached to the plane of matter and energy. Life holds boundless possibilities beyond my ability to imagine. So with my limited faculty I imagine something better. I picture love transcendent, love that feels without desire, love that lives without want of ownership. I give you, the world I adore, the greatest gift that I have to offer. I cannot send you cash nor will I conceive to write my feelings with the way of war and bloodshed. What I have is in essence what I am, so I give you love, and hope that you cherish it. For this love is fragile and precious. This love is the best of me and now it belongs to you.

America the gutted stretch
Run by those rutting leches
A rotting wreck of corporate decay

Those shattered remains
Of splattered and strange
Human beings and broken houses

Scarred landscape
Murderously mutilated with skyscrapers
Those dammed land rapers

A hundred wooden shacks that
Housed such a wonderfully strange history
Traded in the economic bin
For one big blocked box
Where only wealthy men
And trophy women
Can ride to the very top

Soon I will be nothing.
My lifeless body will float in the void,
Listless and unresponsive,
Cracked and decayed,
With no remnants of a soul,
A shell that once bore my name.
Soon I will be nothing,
But and echo in your memory,
Implanted in your mind,
Integrated in your being,
Still slowly receding,
To the shadows till you forget,
And only the impression of my presence remains,
Soon I will be nothing,
Neither fleshy corpse or memory.
The only bit that will remain
Will be these words, these structured syllables
Etched in print and other technology;
For a stranger to vaguely recall me,
But not the real person just an impression of me.
Soon I will be nothing.
The body will pass and fade.
The memory gone; the words soon to follow.
When history is lost, when humanity has fallen.
Soon I will be completely forgotten.
So why do I struggle, toil on this plane?
Why do I bother with this limited existence?
Because, I am driven, compelled beyond my control.
The compulsion to create is my soul.

This is a dark palace
Of deliberately dangerous
desires that
abruptly disrupts
and veraciously corrupts
all newcomers.

Plebian minds
mass in manic displays
of their sheepish ways
submitting to
the least alpha
of the American
upper class
crusty *** crew.

The enemy
claims he is
iconoclast
and mysterious,
but he is not
what he purports to be.

On these dismal days
I observe
the hurtful hand
of our material obsession.
I see us become the property
of our possessions.

Yet, with an elegy
of creative energy
I seek to set
all children of
our society free,
writing and  posting
with the same passion
as the romantics
that came before me.

There is so much pain
But maybe we can learn to be kind
Didn’t get it right
The first time
But we can still learn to be fair
And just
Show that we care
For more than just us
Not seeking revenge
Camouflaged as justice
But just looking for love
For all of us