the greatest thing an artist can aspire to is masterpeice, the same can be said for a novelist. But the greatest thing a poet can aspire to is love and all of its wonders

The flame of madness
cracked and expanded,
holds hearts unplanted,
soil sick with slick
mind worms that take
turns gnawing through
the muck and the goop,
and the rotting wood to,
seeing moods shift from
angry, sad, then numb
to become all spent up
without any passions left.

The nighttime is perfect.
It is silent while I am working,
etching my thoughts
into strange poetic marks.

Past the heart of the evening
onto what I am seeing
the stars are obscured
by the curves of cool clouds.

A block away I can hear
strangers partying.
Heavy bass popping out
rhythm and rap.
I kind of like that,
so I bob my head
to the beat
as I walk around
the brick side of
this big building.

The AC stutters to life
making me jump.
For second I think
there are strangers
watching me,
but I am all alone.

A red shirt stranger
startles me,
but he’s no danger.
He’s just checking
the ashtrays
for stray
butts.

Three and a half
hours in
and it’s time for
my caffeine friend
to pep up
my lagging steps.

Healthy snack
every other hour
broccoli or cauliflower
and a rotisserie chicken
for dinner,

then when the nighttime
is over
I head home
on the highway
and come back
the next day
to do it all again.

The walls are a litter
of chaos layered upon
the anarchy of
spray painted letters;

Various styles of
dripping calligraphy,
silver lines spilling
their energy down
this hard word laden wall.

A lovely looping Y
is engraved in flesh tones
while the rest of the word
remains unknown
permanently obscured
by the intent of
newer artists.

I am awestruck
to the point of
an autistic response,
paralyzed by the
thick presence
of chipping paint
that flakes off
to take us back
to a blank canvass past.

Till, a swirling view
twirling through
enchants me to move.

My hands tremble,
reaching for the small breach,
longing to be swallowed,
absorbed, and added
to this discordant beauty.

Why do I have to be tense
when the easily offended
are the ones who commit the offense
emit attitude with their pretense
moral to a biblical degree
With no true human decency
Publicly they frighten me
privately they sicken me
declaring hateful victory
over love and humanity
Or is it just me?

You cannot guard your heart
against the grief of loss
for very long.

Cause the pain will creep
while you’re asleep
and find you
waking in tears.

Even years
after the conscious pain
has lain dormant
a sound, a scent,
a sight will send
you back in again
to the place
you hadn’t been
in a long time.

The mind finds
ways to make you remember
whether you want to or not.
The only way to the lose the pain
is to die.

Weird words of working men
Collar wearing ******
Peacemakers clanging swords
Breastplates of hate
I watch us all get churched
On the ways of cruelty

I can’t stop crying
Cause love used to be
So beautiful to me
Two men holding hands
To friends kissing publicly
No shaming

Now there is violence
We break the silence
With days of silence
But it never seems
To stop the screams
And suicides
Children hang out
Flailing lifelessly
The memory haunts me
Even though it is not mine

Pale boy loves a brown boy
Sweet proclamations
Of their affections
Poetic exultations
Holding each other
As their salvation
To be loved is a wonderful thing
To be touched is a mercy

But fire burns to close
To the core of fury
Angry faces hide behind
Masks
We ask
For love
But brutality
Is their response
And now the saltine sorrow
Overflows
The ocean grows
As one more love
Is demolished
And the world becomes
A lot darker

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.

Is it sad that life lacks the poetic flare
But that is only if you are blind
For I find the flare is everywhere
In the chipped white painted cement ***
Were dead plants lay to rot
In the lightly faded red brick buildings
That businesses reside in
But over head in night times
One can see the light shines
And finds a friendly face
Here perhaps those cracked sidewalks
Were children use to jump and say
That is the way we crack our mothers back
The root that saw such sidewalks rise
Slowly pushing out of the earth until
The sidewalks wears a rising crack
And that is only the nonliving things
That catch my fancy
Wait till you see how nature inspires me

Today was a lazy day
Shameful play
Not working at all
Just shoveling ****
Down my throat
One unhealthy calorie
At a time
One thirty minute
Show at a time
One video game
To ease my mind
No books
Just sleeping
Not much thinking
Just peaceful dreaming
Ashamed
Because I was unproductive
But sometimes
People just need to veg out

I spend my days in an exhausted laden haze
Weariness working on me on several levels
Sapping my will
Snapping at my heels
Weakening my wit
Creating more stress
Retaining more fat
It is not a matter of debate
But a matter of fact
That I state
Aging me rapidly
I am certain most of us
Could use a little less work
And a little more sleep
So I strive to thrive
Not live dead tired inside

Today I’m struggling
to find
a potent
portent
of the human
condition
to place in
my poetic
compositions.

My bifocals reject me.
Reality is not made for focusing.
It is made for massive blurriness.
There is no true form of clarity,
just varying degrees of disparity.

One man cries out to me
about how he is so hungry.
He has a bloated beer belly
that bulges out of his jeans.
He is crying about the purity
of his country, so angry
about the brown Muslim,
and so close to a stereotype.

Another man is merely weary.
Thin and drawn lines run down
wrinkling his withering form.
Each one that is found
is like the rings on a tree
reminding us all how he is aging.
His shirt is torn and holy as the mother Mary.
His calloused hands are as harsh as
the sandpaper he has been wielding.
While other yielding tools
play in digital pleasure palaces
of instant gratification
go on week long vacations,
he is working, fifty-something
going on seventy-two.
What is a Brown Muslim
supposed to do to prove
he is a good man?

Sister says it’s all gods will.
She loves all strangers.
She has faith and says that I should feel
the divine energy flowing through me,
but life is way more confusing
because more of the faithful
pledge their support
to the greedy and hateful

I can’t see through to the truth
The bifocals might have worked for you,
splitting life into two points of view,
but for me they are pointed askew.
Perhaps I need to find trifocals,
so I can focus on more varying perspectives.

Rough wheels run circles
Around a static background
Passing the same horizon
Over and over again
Like some old cartoon
Driving in place
As he races to his next stop
To live unload his next drop
Early bird waiting hours plus
Hoping they can fit him in
So he can hit the road again
Before his electronic log
Locks him down for the day
He brings his paperwork
And waits
He pulls his tandem back
Then waits
Drops his trailer in the door
And waits
Rest stop gas station shower
On the road
Smoke stacks cough up
Black clouds
Yellow lines
Become yellow blurs
Another load down
Another pick up
The road rides him roughly
Home beckons him on
Fifteen hundred miles
To his own bed
Coffee break and **** stop
To clear his head
And the sunset runs seventy miles
An hour
While he pushes seventy-five
Two million miles down
Two million more to end his life

If life is a show,
it is one that
goes with the flow,
growing and retreating
with the seeding
of insights
we are receiving.

Rivers shift, feeding
bigger bodies.
Life is change,
but no one
really taught me
how to accept
that reality.

People come
and go
in and out
of our lives
and periphery,
occasionally
coming in for
a reentry,
then fading
into background
static.

Life is for the living
to grab it,
because death
will not grant us
any grand reprieve,
so all I need
is what I see
to go on existing
whilst being me.

-2021

See this is so strange to me,
all this obsessing
doesn’t break down logically.
But you are breathtaking,
soul shattering if you chose to be
and I would risk eternal damnation
to be next to you and do whatever
you want me to do.

In the morning, my first thoughts
are of you.
In the evening I daydream,
play out strange fantasies
that circle around all the things
I long to do for you
and to you.

When I go to the gym
I try to strengthen
my body and mind
so if the time
comes
when you need me
to defend you
or help you run
then I know
I have done
all that could to prepare.

Part of me is very scared,
because I can imagine
getting lost
somewhere
deep in there,
in a place where me, and I
becomes we and us
because I must
Still, I trust this love
is more than lust.
I desire your mind
and you naked touch

If I am an egg
fragile and ready to shatter,
and all the yoke spills out
like yellow brain matter
if you break my heart,
I know that all the king’s men
and all the king’s horses
couldn’t glue me back the same
cause you would have my heart
and I would keep what remains.
But I will risk it,
because to miss it for fear of trying
to sit out the inning
and go on dying
well what an empty life that would be.

I want to get lucky.
I’m not trying to be
a slick trickster
who makes you
fall in the love with me.
I just want
to fall into
your wet ****
and ******
and ****.
Till you ***.
Then I ***.
Then maybe later
we can chat
share a bit of this and that.
Until the urge strikes again.
Until you bite my skin
and invite me back in.
I’ll call that sin lucky.
Cause you feel
delicious on the tip of my tongue
and I want you to *** and ***.

My love was the darkness
Sitting beside me
Promising nothing
While softly chiding
Saying that we will walk
The shadows together
Not forever
Cause we are not that clever
But in the moment
As flickers in eternity

Unaffected but afflicted, convicted
of the crimes my people have committed,
and all the pain of history that was inflicted;
Sometimes, I get white cisgender guilt
for a system that was already built.

My eyes expand
Pupils dilating
To see the night
Adapting to the darkness
No streetlights needed
I can see clearer than most
But in the day
The light is harsh
Burns my retina
Hurts to see the sun
So I labor in the shadows
Hiding from the
Light

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because upon inspection
you will find obsession
poetically enthralling,
and passion all consuming.
I will treasure
all acts of pleasuring you
to  an ******* quality
in excessive quantity.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because I am passionate
and extremely engaging
sparing all other engagements
to be in your stunning presence.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because my nature
is solitary,
and though I tarry
with you
I will be forced to
find moments
for myself.
Though, I longed to be
devoured by your desire
and engulfed by my adoration
of you
I will need time to reflect on
everything.
  
Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

no matter how hard I pursue you
because I cannot promise you forever
no matter how much I want to.
I can only give you
this brief spectacular sparkling moment
in eternity.

I don’t like periods
In my poetry
They are fine
In prose
And paragraphs
But I don’t find
They work
At the end of my lines
The stanza stops
Or enjambment
Works better
For the poetics

It is a rough winter,
and I worry;
Not for me,
cause there is no need
to hurry,
but for the tall thin
black homeless man
who sleeps on
the strip mall
sidewalk
next to his bike
and black
plastic
bags of stuff.

These are
biting temperatures,
artic cold
and I know
many have froze
in the past.
I fear this
winter weather
will claim
the strange man’s
exposed skin
and limbs
while he is sleeping.

But in keeping
with my tight schedule,
a full day
of driving,
exercising,
then working
and driving again,
I do not bother him.
I do not talk
to the rail thin
brown skin
man who is sleeping
on the sidewalks tonight.
I just selfishly follow
the patterns of my life,
only pausing in retrospect
to write a small poem
that doesn’t help
the homeless man
who might
freeze to death
tonight.

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.

He will suckle
and spit
drinking blood
from your ****.

He will spread your legs
and leave
an unprotected present
deposited
past your ****
once he climaxes.

He will claim your womanhood
and demand that you submit
to his weakness,
calling his faults
dominance and confidence.

He will prey upon
ancient insecurities,
that subconscious programming
because you do not know
your own binary coding.

He will trick you into
drinking your resistance away,
plant his pin *****
in your fertile crescent,
and if you try to erase
that lifelong mistake
he will claim
that you are a sinner.

Subdued you will
sublimate your will
and fulfill
fifties sitcoms
housewife fantasies
for a family,
sacrificing all your dream
for the man who schemes
to enslave you.

I never trust the pretty parts of life,
I only really believe in the dark side,
gritty brutal violence and pain,
so I am seldom let down.
That’s why kindness always makes me cry.

It is time for a mellow ride
To the musical side
Of this temperamental
Dark life

To you my fellow poets
Write me a wall of hope
With yellow ceramic tiles
And forest green blocks
With sunny paintings
And strange abstractions
A tile per heart that still beats
A tile per person who still dreams
Hold me up with your love
Cause I have no hope of my own
Please write me a wall of wonders
So I don’t feel so ******* alone

I searched the streets uncertain
corners and alleyways
to find my escape,
a place where
some mythical
love sits and waits.

I looked in libraries,
comic book shops.
not barrooms
where normal people stop,
but everywhere
I might dare
find the other half
of this lonely pair,

Because songs, tv shows,
movies and books
promised me
there was love
somewhere
out there.

But, I am slowly
learning
that that promise
is a cruel lie,
that the only love
I will ever know
is fictional
small fantasies
in paperbacks
or tv screen,

or sometime
in my mind
where I find
only I can touch myself
while dreaming of
a make believe love
that is nowhere to be seen.

Disembodied voices
Sit in a conference call
To convince tellers
To tell people
That credit cards
Are awesome
That it won’t cost them
Much at all
And they can get rewards
Not mentioning
That the percentage
Of interest
Outweighs any rewards
They claim are so great
And if the cardholder is not careful
Heavy debt waits
To chain them to
Financial insecurity
And a job that is cruel
Countering the countenance
Of mankind’s
Desire to be free

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.

This is for all the crazy people thinking that they were made to rule
Walking around with ray ban glasses wearing Armani cause  it’s cool
Believing that they are so much better even when they act like a tool
Don’t give in to the status symbols that people keep making
You think that this is what you’re made to achieve but your mistaken
This is for all you lazy people slumming around and wasting your day
Life isn’t something that you get to do over and over again
There’s always someone out there who could use a friend
And don’t forget there’s a million ways to be a better person
Then standing around debating shuffling lies and cursing
Don’t you know life isn’t a stage for rehearsing
If you’re not trying to make it better than your just watching it worsen
I know you think that it’s so hard to make any improvement
But all it starts out with is a little social movement
This for all the silly dreamers dreaming of a beautiful world
Refusing to just sit back  take it while violence and hate unfurls
Don’t give up when they try to tell you that you’re stupid
You got so many arrows of change so be the heart of cupid
And shine your light of love all over the place

It is hard to explain
When you work the midnight shift
You only seam to exist in nightshades
Not the warm daylight hues and tints

When sunshine becomes
Inverse in your tired mind
And days are measured by
Moonrise and moonfall

When solar heat
Is just a sweet precursor
To the night that cools you
And the sunrise signals slumber

How sweet it is
To interrupt this with
With a day
Spent awake
Surrendering to the
Splendor of the sun

With the flick of my nose
I lost the soft scent of a rose.
Now I know no rose will ever grow
and I weep to myself,
“Why am all alone?”

Then they plucked out my eyes
so now I can’t cry.
My soul is so parched
that even my heart is dry.
Thus, dryly I sigh,
“Why am I alone?”

There were sounds that made me smile
but the loudness of this life
caused my eardrums to burst.
Now I sit in a state of silence
left with only fingers to touch air
and feel the vibrations I can’t hear.
It’s like a Greek tragedy
with bits of irony I will never see.
So I think in my head
that I might as well be dead
because now I am truly alone.

I have read a thousand poems,
perfect pastel paintings
of parting affections
or partners reunited.
The ****** being excited.
The mind stimulated.
The soul subjected
to the withdraw symptoms
of a broken-hearted victim
to someone’s cheating whim.

I have seen beauty broken,
flesh cut open,
skin pulled back
like a burlap sack
that holds her heart
a burden of
daring to love
then loving too much.

Identity shredded
by the one who bedded
then left sheets red wetted.

I have read the thin inscriptions
stone written in the arms
of grey angel statues,
and ****** Mary’s sacrifice
how she gave love and life
to be despised
because of what lies
between her thighs.

I have heard the moans
followed by a flood
of suicidal tears.
Each droplet eroding
the confidence
the lover once built.
Till, she wilts.

I have loved
all those broken hearts,
pushed poetry,
past their whispering rain of pain
breaking sorrow’s barrier
to help them clean the stain.

Till, the addiction claims them again
and they fade away
like a snowflake
on the cusp of spring
no longer able to fly or sing
because they melted their wax wings.

My beloveds floats away
on a crimson stream
and I cry in the wake
of losing such beautiful
human beings.

I have spent years
Fighting your fear
Of complexity
And I am tired

Uncertain if my struggle
Has made a difference
Wondering if my existence
Is worth the flesh that made it

I guess I will have to wait and see
And if I find it wasn’t
Well then my folly will be
Trying to believe
In a world where
We can be better human beings

Empathy is What makes us an amazing species. It is how close we can actually come to understanding another's pain. It is a spark that lights the flame of compassion. As artists we engage that emotion in other's hope to utilize to our own ends.

       My greatest ambition has always been to write that which inspires love and compassion. To create some thing that clears the distance between you and me, and makes this a world of us.

      I have failed but continue to try.

Anything to avoid pain
Medicate to a stupor state
Sugar coated OxyContin
****** attraction
Mediate the different ways
With only small intervals
Of pain
Sleep, work, play
Do not think
Snort, drink
Puncture your veins
Novelty for nonsense
Morphine and Novocain
Music to sooth the inner beast
Books, plays, tv
**** movies
*******
Anything to avoid
The deeply planted pain

The coat is coal black and twice as heavy
compressing me
but I will not turn into a diamond.
The early winters white waves of crystalline water
are like deserts sands,
A barren wasteland,
leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The sky is turquois
blue beyond blue,
but that hue
is not the truth
past the atmosphere illusion
there is a black infinity
with Christmas lights
blinking beyond our
light year conception.

Your pain is relevant, like the Syrian refugee who is running from death to find a life, like the black mother in the black lives matters movement, like mine. I am broken, deeply cracked and ripped like paper when I see that you fail to understand their grief is real.

I made
a beautiful space
in the corner
of my shade,

turned venom
into lace
and raced away
from your hate,

swirled quicksand
with my tired hands,

petted pretty vipers
that hissed,
slithering
to where I stand,

chased fireballs
that were ready
to consume me.

I pursued
my own agony,
bit my tongue
to taste
my own blood,
then spit it out
not in spite
but to watch
the red grow.

I wept in
the spider’s den
embedded in
a cloud of webbing.

I slept in
the sinking ship
that fell into
the cold underwater
abyss.

I lay afraid
to move
and died in
the infinite
eternal
black
that was once
beautiful,
until
it collapsed
and took
all the warmth
I ever had
back.

He only eats brand names
She only likes Loui Viton
Got to have a nice car
So they can drive on
To a fifty hour work week
Plus more overtime
Over worked to chase
The vaguely defined
Pricey good life
Fancy restaurants
Great vacations
But in between
Pleasures visitations
Pressure builds
Tensions tops out
Hours go grey
Before old age
Days turn to dust
Natures turns to rust
All in the pursuing
And eschewing
What they thought
They must
What they assumed was just
Cause markets never lie
And the only way to win
In this heavy human race
Is to have all the best stuff
Before you die

I love all avenues
of human advancement
as long as they
seek the expansion
of knowledge, wisdom,
and compassion.

I am tired of **** shaming
Of renaming pleasure as evil
And violence as noble

I put pennies into
empty fountains
To wish for you

Stealing a kiss
Or two
From your deep
Blue hued
Expanse

I put quarters into
A broken bubble gum machine
To see it spit smoke
While I sit and choke
On the empty verses I wrote

A poet
In mourning
A poet
In longing

Right turns turn left
Wrong turns turn right

I write
One soft touch
That will never happen
Spew out my hopes
And take them back in
Knowing that you do not exist

The pennies fall down
That dry drain
As I exit this
Sad street lamp lit life
All alone

Yesterday was a winter road
with frosty figures lining up
to dam a young soul to limbo,
not quite hell but purgatory.

Now they all change
their gory stories
so they can feel better
and in their tales
they make themselves
sainted knights.

But we outsiders
know the harsh facts.
We do not make ourselves
the heroes of our tales
but journeyman
of varied skills
seeking the truths
and speaking it to
despite how painful
it might feel.

I am the bed you fall into
Soft mattress that gives in for you
The covers that wrap you up
Like a tasty burrito
But I won’t eat you
Unless you want me to

The clouds came courting,
converging on the moon,
a congregation
of celestially
illuminated bodies,
painting the night sky
with their smoky grey, white,
blue, light
cumulous wonder.

She scratched
the brass latch.
So, I can’t open it
and get back
to my past
without a
a tnt memory
blast.