Trauma
Buried under trauma
Every war
Every impoverished neighborhood
Every ****
Every child abused
Every act of police brutality
Every act of aggressive greed
plants the seed
For trauma that feeds upon itself
And ***** out more trauma

Crush my last
Burnt cigarette out
Now the only the cold
cloud that comes out
Is my soft curling breath
But the trick is
I need that nic stick
To stay awake even though
I don’t even smoke
One month gone
And I come home
But before too long
I’m back on the road
I miss my friends
I miss my love
But staying put
Is never good enough

I may not be a wildcat
But I won’t break
Like that domesticated
Persian you had
I need to be free
To see the world
Even if I barely leave
Illinois’ highways and city streets

I miss my love
I miss my heart
You were the best
Or at least better part
Bleeding veins
Beating ventricle
Pumping pulse
That is musical
A pen, a pad
And a laptop to
To write this song
I sing for you
And even if
No one hears it
I’d still have to
Write this ****

I may not be a wildcat
But I won’t break
Like that domesticated
Persian you had
I need to be free
To see the world
Even if I barely leave
Illinois’ highways and city streets

A couple hundred mile
And I am wearing down
As I work security
In another town
My car is smoking
My car sounds funny
Chugs along with
A thud thud dud
Hope I make enough money
To fix my freedom ride up
I’ll see you all when I get home

I may not be a wildcat
But I won’t break
Like that domesticated
Persian you had
I need to be free
To see the world
Even if I barely leave
Illinois’ highways and city streets

Don’t you know
Even roaming hearts
Have to come home
To get some good sleep

I thought that she was not a child
With brazen blonde hair
Blowing every where
The fully firm and formed body
Of a woman
Stirring my desire
Silver eyes mysterious
Talented and desirous
Causing such a rising
Until I realized
Behind those eyes
May lay decades of wisdom
But only an adolescence
Of experience

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

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

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

I do not trust a happy day
My mind recalls past patterns
And each time hope has come my way
Peeking past life’s parted veil
Singing songs of sweet tomorrows
The weeks that come are always hell
As are the all the years that follow

I do not trust a lover’s promise
For they can be given so easily
I have seen certain hearts shattered
When loving to carefree and happily
I know one cannot pledge eternity
Anything can be broken even the best family

I do not trust a possessor’s passion
Cause in pursuing owner’s pleasures
I have found all things are only passing
For the taking, to give, in the asking
We all tire of the new toy
Sweet things can rot away
Adding one more item to your pile
Won’t save you from your final fate

There is a far darker day ******* me
The shadows tight on my trail
Night will fall sooner than expected
So even when I smile, I do not trust myself
Moods will change, ebbing and flowing
With the winds that keep my armor
Flapping up and down so my scars are showing

The good is just a phase
Then again I could say the same thing
About the bad days coming
Neither are permanent
Only one thing is inevitable

This is the place where I put my truths
A small lock box that **** blocks ignorance
Strands of genetic structured poetry imbedded in
My every blood cell and ligament

This is where all figments go to die
Where all delusions and illusions find their end
Where I bend myself to impossible positions
Like some contortionist magician
To tell you how much I love how much the truth hurts

My history is T.V.
The closest thing
I had to a family
Was sadness
Loneliness
Tangled in strings
Of madness
And dreams

One life missed
Rescheduled to fit
My favorite shows
And the tumor
Of regret grows
As I wrinkle my nose

Skin twitching
Body aching
With isolation
And regret
For lovers never met
Chances never taken
Paths I never walked
Water never treaded

I dreaded real life
Because it hurt so much
All the violence
All the abuse
Took so much
Didn’t leave enough
Wisdom and courage
To hope for happiness

And all the resolve I had left
Was to watch my life
In a funhouse mirror
Playing out weekly
With the tv families

Twinkle, twinkle blinking desire.
Bad habits drink me under the night
slipping and slurring
dripping and turning.
Stomach burning
With acid reflex.

Twinkle, twinkle the stars fade to black
no longer blips in the night
just echoes of static
one less light,
one less firefly flitting in the dark sky,
one more time my mind becomes,
a dark husk.

Till I twinkle, twinkle no more.

They are like magnets
Two broken butterflies
Trying to fly together
In this horrible weather

Weathering the windy storm
Circling each other
Dearly damaged
And so ornately beautiful

White spots speckle their wings
Small orange Rorschach marks
Paralleled in sweet symmetry
Fairy like wings fluttering
One kiss away from their
Last wonderful day

They settle on the same bent flower
Exhausted they end their
Sad love affair
On petals just as damaged as they are

1.

Tears of laughter
Veil tears of frustration
Improper reflection
On taboos and tragedies
Burning cities
And dying loved ones
This is not where the
Laughter comes from
But it is where the laughter
Is needed most


2.
Is it irony
The unexpected juxtaposition
The transition
Of awkward positions
Self-pimping
Prostitution
Of my spirit
Disintegration of my dignity
Jowls dropping
Howling non-stopping
Coping with the insanity of
This world

It was not his fault
That she could not see
The spiraling gas clouds
Swirling in infinity
Strange shades
Of space dust
Sparkling in the
Solar inferno
Pink, orange,
Purple, and green
While comets
Swam in-between

He played in dreams
While she lived
In black and white worlds
Dull and colorless
Rank and hateful realities
Pain for pleasure
Uneven payments
Unfair debt piling up
Heartache so deep
That it blotted out the stars

Bare skinned
Cold and biting
To incinerating
It was exhilarating
Earth came and went
The moon passed him
The sun shriveled in
Creating a hole
To another universe
His mind expanded
Like the last one

She was the last one
He tried to take with him
The last love
He was light enough
To guide her through
Her own abyss
On into
Her own accelerated evolution
Past the white clouds
Of choking pollution
And deep confusion
Tied to lack of introspection

As he journeyed on into
A new universe with a new sun
She stayed behind
And died young
Suffocating in the darkness

We are all space men
traveling
on a spinning rock.


She sits softly
spinning in
the infinite.
Blue ball
clouded and romantic
and I love her.

There were two steel skinned brothers.
One was a passivist
the other a warrior
and wherever they went
they gained followers.

Two righteous brothers
split in their own conflict,
wanting justice,
but unable to work together.

One would sit and meditate
while enemies struck fiercely.
He convinced whole families
to join him
and when he was attacked
they were attacked as well,
but not being steel skinned
they fell
to the brutal onslaught
and the passivist brother
would move on
trying to do what’s right
while watching others die.

The other brother
would rage against
the abusive power
battling Knights
and Samurais.
He went wherever
there was oppression,
fighting was his obsession,
and being steel
he did not even feel
the cold hard strikes
of arrows, swords,
and knives.
People would follow him
and when he fought
they fought as well,
but not being steel skinned
they fell
to the brutal onslaught
and the warrior brother
would move on
trying to do what’s right
while watching others die.

One street prophet
Screams for god
Hates the ****
One street prophet
Is pushing poetry
The art of love
But you listen
To the hateful one

I never had to hide the fact that I liked that
Never had to cower and feel ashamed
Feel like I had a desire that needed to be tamed
So why the **** do you think
That just because of who someone loves
They should have to suffer that way
----------------------------------------------
Sometimes I don’t know whether to cry
Or to get ******* ******
Is it something that I missed
Is it too hard to be humane
Will being fair and kind
Cause a blood vessel to burst in your brain
And now I find myself at a loss for words
All I can think is **** **** **** **** ****

The roads diverge
merge then re-emerge
somewhere I have never been,
so I follow them,
from the same point of origin
to the same destination
but following impulsive tangents.
The country road novelty
builds new neural pathways.

I know these are not the roads
that my grandpa drove
but I think he did
the same thing.
From the past
I can almost feel
his parallel curiosity.

We are two travelers
in different times
on different roads
with the same heart
to drive away
but always find
our roads homes.

Do not seek to balance me completely
Or sedate me so I submit meekly
I will speak softly ease you gently in
To the new truth we keep forgetting
I am not afraid of uncertainty or ambiguity
Life is not black and white and shades between
It is lush with green foliage
***** brown with earth
Hot and red bleeding lava veins
A sparkling spectrum of all life
Comes from the prism
From great sorrow can come great beauty
If you do not believe me read Poe or Keats
From great pain can come new and returning wisdom
If you do not understand read a book my friend
From all things can come new perspectives
Can come the resurgence the convergence
Of knowledge ever evolving all involving
Loving and preserving
Loving and destroying
To build something new
Or rebuild what we forgot we knew
In my imbalance I am alive
And if you do not have the courage to live so freely
If you are not that greedy
Then I will live it for you
And share things you do and do not want me to
I will be your poetic scapegoat
I will be your teacher
And in my words then in my death
I will be your loving martyr

A good movie, book, or painting will help us step outside ourselves.
It will loosen the emotional constipation this digital age has contributed to, breaking down the wall we built up so well by poking holes in our flesh till our hearts bleed sympathy, sorrow, anger, or whatever flood waters we were holding back.

All that said here are some good ones.
"Fences" Just watched it. I read the play along time ago but their is nothing like seeing something writing to make it more potent.

"What Dreams May Come"
"Patch Adams"
"Dead Poets Society"
"Bicentennial Man"

I spend a lot of time trying to understand perspective different than mine whether they are religious or political. Being open an unashamed of being wrong, so I can grow.

Occasionally, I am besieged by the cruelty of humanity.
Burning blankets of pain and anger inflame and engulf me.

But with a crack of kindness my hope is restored.
I meet a decent person who helps me out
when I am in need.
I meet a friendly person
who calms me down when I am panicking.
I see my better self reflected in strangers.

Then a ****** mows down
a crowd of innocent bystanders
with a van and a bunch of guns
and I am right ******* back
to where I started from.

Anger is not a
sustainable source of fuel.
It is far too combustible,
and dangerously volatile.
It will either burnout
or blowup in your face.

Life is the art of disarray
Knowing that systems decay
And entropy reigns
That much can be gained
But more will be lost
Even as we live
Death chips away
Taking some now
While savoring others
For another day

My memory is a sea
of dark debris
swishing dangerously
all around me,
sinking ships
with vomited bits
of metal, and wood
leaving plastic that strangles
strangers whom I’ve met.

My identity
is redefined
with fractured parts
that my past selves
multiplied and supplied;
Tiny truths of perception
that fade then solidify,
liquid lightning broth
that breaks like glass
to fill a cracked jar.

I am shattered
and reconstructed
every single day
when I go from
a conscious state to
sleeping then
back to awake.

Out in time
to see the last bits of sunshine
as I walk to work.

The moon is just this side
of stained teeth yellow
but after the night clouds clear
the white light face reappears.

A dark blue or black car
slowly drives through
like it is stalking me.
So, I move on as quickly
and quietly
as my anxiety
and feet allow me.

Thin dry brown vines
wrap around the black fence,
while the lite green
slowly dehydrating
leaves
line up on a broken tree limb
ready to fall
for the seasonal crumbling.

A ***** brown bearded stranger
lays in the doorway
perhaps he is
too tired to worry about the danger
or he is too drunk to stay awake.
His head rests on a white garbage bag
with indiscernible contents.

In an open-air café
two people talk
the night away
while a stranger sits
nondescript
on a black bench.
The patrons leave a tip
but the stranger grabs it
and swiftly walks away.

Strangers hold hands
and walk.
Stranger stare in the distance
and talk
on their cellphones.
Strangers do not make eye contact
but it is their silent plea
for some humanity
that makes me smile
and greet them politely.

Until, the night leads me
to where I work security,
an overnight shift
perfectly fitting to
my desire to be alone.

You do not appreciate me till I am gone
Then you can do what you want
With my words
With my life
Play my corpse
Like a marionette
Interpret as you see fit
Because I am not a genius
Till I am dead
And I can mean what you said

Too tired to write
but I still
bring these words.

Too sad to think
but I still sing
until I am heard.

Tears soak through
my human costume.
Turning skin to redder shades,
making my shirt collar
a little wetter,
leaving me
a voice of congestion.
I am open to suggestions
on how to not forget her
but not let the memories
of loss be something
I regret later.

Caffeine to breaks the cycle,
nighttime quiet makes me
more susceptible,
more easily corruptible  
as I succumb
by not letting myself
be numbed
to all the pain and beauty
this life has to offer.

Let my sorrow drown me for now
I can always bring back
the sad clown
to make myself laugh
and smile again.

She is an addicting drug
and the DTs
would be devastating to me.

She is a dark cavern.
No other human beings
are following me
into her grand beauty
with glowing green moss,
and slippery stones.
Harboring potentially puncturing
projectiles like stalagmites,
and stalactites
which with one misstep
or violent quake
might leave me with
the worst case of heartbreak.

She is a dangerous labyrinth
with so many twists and turns
that I am very concerned,
certain I will not return
from my addiction.

She is a cool pure blue pool
of glimmering water
that is deeper in the center
so, when I enter
I run the risk
of falling prey to
her dangerous
undertow.

Knowing all this
I still choose to be
whatever she says she needs
for just the inkling
of a chance
that she might choose me.

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.

They laughed at the madman
Who talked fast and inconsistently
And I snickered to
Partook in the cruelty
Of judging indecently
Till I remembered myself
Till I saw the human being
Sitting patiently on a parking stump
Waiting for a connection
Needing a friend
Looking away not in
Perhaps hoping
For kindness
Even though
He wore a skin color
Labeled other
My stomached ached
With a desire to reprimand
Those who had been cruel
To take this strangers hands
As some saints would do
Instead, I stifled such sentiments
Now, I find my inhumanity
Bothers me more then
Other’s cruel behavior

Sleep deprivation,
extreme caffeination,
and frequent urination
to the point of dehydration,
what a dangerous
work combination.

I watch the videos
Could have been
Dark tv shows
Or horror movies
So graphic
So ******
So real
Makes me feel
An inkling of their pain
Others remain
Untouched
Do not watch
That stuff
But I struggle
I want to know the truth
Want to see what
Nightmares do
When they become real
So I descend down
That dark damning
Corridor
I may not come back
Before
My heart is broken more
But someone has to look

I am the god of love,
not the ****** conceit.
but the one you defeat
when you bomb to beat
the enemies you create.

I am the god of love,
diametrically opposed
to the god of war
who composed
decrees of hate
to destroy me.

I am the god of love,
the god who heals,
who wants to touch
to make you feel
everything.

I am the god of love,
a creature of ****** passions,
a being of peace and compassion,
but my ambrosia is wearing off,
and my godhood costs.
Soon, I will be unable to afford
or ever earn back
the godhood that humanity lacks.

When my divinity fades to black
that will be the end of that.

There’s a crack
in the back black
parking lot.

There’s a crack in my engine
so, my car
won’t start,

and there’s a crack
in my demeanor
so, any one
can look in
and see my
bleeding heart.

There is nothing like
the first time.

Mother to son,
when the violence is done
no blood on his cheeks.
No one hears him speak.
The fear makes him weak
afraid he may repeat
the same horrors
she did.

There is nothing like
the first time.

Rigid body,
cold flesh,
hand reaches
to its chest
to its mouth
to feel its breath
but nothing is there.

There is nothing like
the first time

Clumsy lovers
find each other
under the covers
laughing,
licking,
and in that moment
certain
that they are in love.

There is nothing like
the first time.

Which is always the last time,
you are past time,
past mind,
past breath,
last heartbeat,
first, and only death.

Its so hard to write
a one to two page
short story,
and almost impossible
to write
anything longer then
five to ten
pages
because the flow
will only go
on for an hour or so,
and when I lose that river
it’s hard to get back
and deliver
anything I think is good,
and because finishing a story
means I don’t get to
follow it through
any new twists, turns,
or diverging tangents.

These are strange messages,
in a sweet and deep
conversation;

Thoughts I speak
from fingertips
to myself,
and maybe
someone else,
as I dance
in and out of
other peoples
perspective,

aware that I
cannot connect
a hundred percent
to them
but I can get closer
then most others
ever get.

This comes from
a lifetime
of listening
and reading.

I find wonder in the warmth
of human connections.
They lessen
the coldness
of this
dark reality.

Which is why
it helps me
to see
strangers
happy in love
no matter what
their orientation
may be.

I try to expand
explode my mind
to canvass all that I can.

I try to explore
seeking deep and new truths
and bring them back
for all of you,

but ignorance is a balloon
crowding me out
of my own room
infringing upon
the brilliance I spawned.
Till, breaths become yawns,
and then I am gone.

The earth becomes flat.
Evolution ends now.
Truths become lies
and lies become alternative facts.

Till I take my last gasp
and my chest collapses
with the agony
of being me,
alone.

The balloon does not burst,
but hurts worse
as it spreads like a plague,
plans to invade,
conquers the day,
making love and peace
flee before thee,
and celebrating the bombing
of too many cities.

Death tolls do not close
like bad polls
they grow
till no one knows
what truth even sounds like
and I become
the last man alive
in a zombie flick.

She’s got that busted lip
But you figured it
Was not worth
Your attention

So, all that tension
Just tightens her throat
Makes here choke
On all of her hope

Cause every day
Is just another
Dark shadow
And bruise
Waiting to happen

And you don’t care
Cause you weren’t there
Kissing razor tip dreams
Cutting skins
Till the beating drum
Never beats again

Sheets wet
She wets her bed
But it’s not ****
Its salty tears
And snot
That stains this
Plain wish
She cries out at night
I wish I was never born

The teachers ignore
The children insult
More injury
Compounded upon
Her misery
And the pain never stops
Till her body drops
A limp marionette
Dancing shadow
That paints pain no more

Tonight, I gaze
through eyes
glazed
with a
dark red haze.
It is this poetry
of pain
that I play with.
Part genius,
part ******,
but I still
work with
all of it.
It is tears,
tragedies
forgotten
and remembered
tinged with
the insights of
love and
the losses to come.

Tonight,
I am tired
but I will not sleep
because dreams
keep waking me
with what if
and never was tears,
even bringing in
cameos appearances
of family and friends
who have long since
departed this realm.

Tonight,
my eyes ache
for the sweet respite
of a well earned
rest,
but it is those
unconscious journeys
that frighten me.
So, I use
work as an excuse
while I abuse
caffeine,
just to avoid
the truth.

In words
she works
her dangerous tongue
shaping the
desires that were,
are, and yet to ***.

Viper eyes
of Egyptian fire
surge towards me
purging any urge
I have to resist
the demon’s lips
that ache to kiss
my tired flesh
to death.

It has been far too long.
Rain never looming.
My eyes always averted,
hands working out
****** frustration,
but when I face her
I yearn to bend
to her whims.

She commands me
to crawl
and I do.
She demands
that I beg
and I do.
Then she tells me
to devour her flesh
as she devours me
and my tongue
whips viciously
savaging
her moist lips.

Legs parting,
heart thumping,
she demands
all that I am
as a man.
I become hers
and give in
pumping
with a passionate fury.

We howl,
growl,
and nip.

The wet sounds
of desire’s fulfillment
fills the room.
We are consumed
in such a sweet
****** tempest.

Till we part,
only temporarily satisfied
animals waiting to refresh
so, we can feed the lust
again, and again.

You know I tried
the old suicide ride,
but I never made it past
the last
loop,
and I am not making light
of this sorry life,
I’m just making it through,

But if I want to
joke about my pain
then that is what I will do

I’ll put a swiss cheese bandage
So I can see the goo flow through
share all these mad metaphors
that allow you
to obscure the truth
cause I don’t want to
make you feel bad to

I just want one person
that I love
love me enough
to say

“I am not okay.
But, how are you?”

I feel the energy
It’s poetry
In harmony
With me
Inner waves
Going separate ways
But coming together
In my typing
It’s new age old day
Mingles with today
Oh boy
What can I say
It’s the greatest high
And I love to fly
That way

You can have this body.
It is only a borrowed thing
made up of grass and mud
of burning stardust
and everything I ate
and everything that was
eaten by what I ate
every drop of water drank
every particle and wave
of those lovely raving solar rays.

I am only a place holder
for the next thing.
So, you can have this
soft body for the breaking
for the decomposing
and atomic, molecular reshaping,

But the dreams our mine
as are my thoughts.
For all that was gained
taken or lost
you cannot have my heart.
Unless, I decide to give it to you later.

My imagination puts me in the weirdest places.
******* in a gas station
I picture the wet graffitied wall thinning
as it turns into diaphanous skin.

The thin dermis
is warm to the touch.
As my **** is drained of this
bright yellow ****
I lean forward
pushing against
the wall.
The thin skin tiles give in.

I almost trip and fall into that wall.
Now it pulses
responding to the pressure of
my accidental touch.
Then it glows
and my hand gets stuck.
I sputter what the ****,
and try to pull out but
the wall is pulling me in.
Now it is burning my skin
as if I am being digested.
My flesh is sizzling,
while I am screaming
and that is where
this disturbing daydream ends.

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

I don’t want to forget
How to cry
Don’t want to let them
Rob me of the ability
To release this tension
That squirms inside of me
This anguish that tries to ride me
Lying to me with its knots
And churning stomach
Anxiety in reverse
As my lips purse
As I curse my broken heart
I start to kneel and heal
At the altar of soft, warm,
And oh so needed tears

We build a brick furnace
to harness
desire's fire,
raise up a spire
to inspire
other people's
urgent desires.
Then with the right wind
we walk in
and really start burning.

Shakespeare my dear friend
I can only devour you
In small servings
Till you become my pen
And make words sing
Like long lost children
Birthing new mirths
And rehashing old pains
Till I regain my balance
Releasing all that is pent up
And then storing it up again

The words are my gift.
Like water skins
of wine
I drink them in,
drunken
with their delight.
Intoxicated,
I stumble.
Inebriated
until I am woozy
with their wonder.

They lift me up
on wax wings
whipping me wildly
around the world
in a whirlwind.
A tornado
of fury
felt,
a furnace
unleashed
in literature
and speech.

Oh, how I love them.
Though they
dally
with other lovers,
who are more gifted
then me,
I do not cheat.

I sing
in poetry,
and like a drunkard
fall with broken wings
swept away
in the melancholia
of knowing
no one will ever love me
like I love this language
you read.

Specifically,
this spectacular
visage you see
speaks melodiously
with an expansive vernacular.