Though I rage
against the days
on blank screens
and white lined pages
I know Dylan Thomas
wouldn’t give a ****
and neither would
T.S. Elliot.

Robert frost
is not my boss,
nor is Allen Ginsburg
any sort of mentor.

I like the Romantic
movement,
but the modernist
and symbolist
do not direct
or reflect
the truth of my existence
and trifling experiences.

I love Plath, Poe,
all the Bronte sister,
and Miss Dickinson.

Though they are
all deceased
I do not surpass them
with my own vision.
I am merely on a
parallel mission.

I did not really listen
cause everything written
that I read
was devoured too fast.
It was only when I slowed down
that I saw the words
for more then what they were.
They became images in my head
of the spiraling universe they represented.

I am space
Expansive
Not expensive
No price to put upon
The wonder of infinity
You gaze upon
It is free to see
All that celestial beauty

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.

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

Life is a strange interpretation
of mud, blood, and vexation.
Where logic fails, reason takes a vacation.
Perception is the only tool we find to measure
memories we hold as sacred treasures.
Till, those transcribed are passed down
and every generations finds their own variation
played on the same theme.
But one day annihilation will take away
the strength we lost and gained
along the road of ever evolving years
and we strays will part ways
with all of reality.

Used to be the poet’s pen
Was his soul mate
Then the typewriter came
Like a bitter lover
Then the computer came
And I dropped my second lover
For a better one
I hope that she will be my last

The clown in me
sees the mirror man’s
suffering
and camouflages his pain
into puns.
The jokester runs
fast away
from the truth of today.
He plays
with symbols
to say
that I am not ok
but lets laugh
anyway.

My skin is
black and blue,
a tender bruise
that matches
my nightly muse.
Darkness
silently expands
beyond my
understanding;
So I sit
and observe
as my vision
blurs to
completely obscured,
then finds an even
darker universe.

You are beautiful my dear,
and if it is not clear I fear
given less distance
between us
I would let you lie to me.

I would let you
string sweet syllables
of seduction,

till my mind’s reductions
causes me to collapse
like a black hole
devouring everything
that is us
and letting nothing
ever escape.

Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold,
and a perfect place
to put my bare foot
to ease the aching pain
as long as no one is
looking my way.
So, I slip off
my right shoe
press it against
the cold concrete
until the pain leaves my feet
and hope
no one notices
this silliness.

Pretty eyes,
pretty smile,
pretty hands,
pretty ***;

She handles
all those
compliments
fields all those
unwanted stares.

Some young guy
says something nice,
but when she doesn’t
acknowledge him
he calls her a
stuck up *****.

Some one
grabs her ***.

Someone
presses her up
against a wall.

Someone
raises her blouse.

Someone
intrudes
where he is
not meant to.

Now she is awkward.

Now she is uncomfortable,

Now she is untrusting.

Now she doesn’t
want to be beautiful.

I proclaim
to an unnamed
friend
that I’m so tired
of walking,
but even though
I complain
about the pain
of my tender feet
it is in these
small journeys,
of an hour or more,
in which I explore
my thoughts
and soft surroundings,
that reinvigorates me
poetically.

What sense’s sensuous delight
may breathe joy into
my anxious state of mind.

A gentle breeze
that cools me
bringing in
the scent of
smiling flowers
slightly muted
by the morning dew
that almost
forms a rainbow,

The same wind
now rushing
makes the sound
of rustling leaves
then flows
like a wave across
the growing
glowing green
parallel path
of grass that I see
from the harsh highway
that seams
to own me.

Or is it
the soft hairy head
and the sound of
a baby laughing
after I gently tickled
his tiny toes
that makes me feel
just a bit better
then when I am anxious.

No fault of her own
This heart that is known
Gives praise to her lips
Indulging the razor tipped
Poisonous barbed edges
Asking for more patience
And getting nothing for my troubles

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.

Night after night
laughter just feels right,
cuz it brings with it the light,
that relief of delight.

I sit in the dark
and puncture my heart
play poet to start
balancing all of those
uneven evening stars.
Till all of our scars blink at
the same twinkling beat that
blows me away like
an old-school gangster’s gat.

Now, I bleed
and I can’t get that red shirt back
this isn’t Star trek
but I use to figure that
we would be better than that.
Instead, we are worse.

So I curse this curious soul,
drop off to sleep and lose control.
I let my sub conscious go,
shrink my hope and let sorrow grow,
write it down so you will know
that we are not getting better.
We’re getting way worse.

These digits,
fingers flexing
are made for grasping,
and manipulating
man made
devices.

These five things
have moved
to master
random rhythms
that I tried to tap.

Flaccid while I sleep
although I do not know
for certain,
perhaps they twitch
when I hit
REM.

They have pulled and pinched
plucked, and poked,

but my favorite thing
I have ever done
with my fingers,
is ****** and caress
feminine flesh,
and plunge deep into
a woman’s
moist desire
while stimulating
her *******
with circular motions,
bringing my partner
to the height of an
******.

Oh, the spiral descends.
Empty eyes watch
as the stairs drop
into a circle that bends
swirling in an
infinite depression.

Soft thuds fill the air
as numerous feet follow down
chased by their own
bone chilling sound,

and while they move forward
the darkness envelopes all.
Waves of light retreat
as the children of man
come here to fall.

As an artist
I forgot
how to
draw the
feminine
form,
but
I used
the women
at the gym
to inform
and refresh
my amateur
artistry.

I have
strong arms
to hold you
but a gentle spirit
that does
not want to own
or control you.

If I had white wings
of soft feathers
on my back
I would wrap
you up in them
to protect you
from any attack,
and if I was heavenly
I would still
submit to thee
an angel’s decree
of love and devotion
given joyfully.

I will not drown
in those deep blue eyes
but swim those seas
for as long as my
lifespan allows me.

No surprise
you know that
this is not a lie
I am ever your devotee.

So, whatever or whenever
you need or want me
call and I will come running
yours until
you are done with me.

She's a protester
not a warrior
but something
so much better,
a singer song writer
a warm and brighter
lamp that keeps us
from succumbing
to the mind numbing
dullness with which
greedy men try to use
to **** our muse,
and give us the blues.

We write our regrets in stone
Monuments meant to recognize
Those who will no longer
Be in our lives
Tears of heartache mark
These harsh days
The cruelest and only real fate

If desire was a wild white rose
Would you let me paint it pink
Slam your back against the wall
And grind you while you’re sitting in the sink
Take a handful of bubbles to wash
And consecrate your flesh
As the holy temple your body is
Feel the goosebumps on your skin
As my tongues slides deeply in
Twirling in a tornado fashion
As I take you beyond the rainbow
Till I know you have cummed
And when you think that I am done
Oh dear let’s be clear,
That’s when the real fun will begin.

Despite my desire
to slow this
unsettling pace
things keep
happening
everyday.

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.

It doesn’t matter if I am trying to be
a superior version of me
while every other *******
is out for themselves,
getting fatter and dumber,

cause I’m a whiny little *****
to sit and sob about this
when I am doing great.

Once my mind fell
into the swell
of waves rushing
and crushing
the shore, salty sea foam
swallowing everything, I've ever known.

What is holy to you
is something I view
as almost see through,
full of obvious holes
that you should be able to
navigate through
and find the other side
of what is right.

Frequently,
I race across the words
reading too rapidly,
missing the depths
of descriptive sounds,
and failing to engage
the full immersive array
of language the writer displays
because I wish to portray
the fiction of a deep person
who reads intelligently.

The soft egg shelled mind
is soiled and embroiled
by the terrible turmoil
of technological silence,
with a key board click
we once lost it
however now
in swift with sic stealth
the quiet imbeds itself.

Sorrowful seeds dropped
sowing painful thoughts.
Small sprouts
peek and poke out
through the surface
to catch us all
as unsettled earth
is disturbed.

Fierce floods of
painful stuff
erode the
fertile ground.

Stillness brings
crimson flowers blooming
and fruits falling
to rot on the dirt,
it hurts
but births
new verses,
till there is
poetry.

Most times,
kindness is my instinct,
a reflex that I direct
when it is not
to inconvenient,

cause it feels good
to be nice
and cost little effort
in my little life.

I am just this side of
the lunar light
lying naked
open to display this
broken vessel.

My sanity
should be questioned
as I am questing
for the truth in art
for the part of my heart
that is made to
blow up and bleed
all over the
white screen.

I am sinking
and self-elevating
at the same time,
a caffeine fiend
and barely seen
best friend
to humanity
who works
behind the
behind the scenes.

My mind is moved to distractions
but loathed to take action
as I sit and ponder
that which all humans squander.
Till the ticking beast
finally beats me.

Introverted, with frantic outbursts
of playful manic energy,
unlike Freddie Mercury
I am not going slightly mad.
I am already way up
that particular banana tree.

If there is a heaven
waiting up there for me,
patiently playing
on eternity’s
celestial strings.
I hope there are
less human beings
and more trees.

More majestic oaks
standing firm and deliberate
never speaking till
they find the truth
and are certain of it.

I would rather cherish
a cherry tree
in the after life
then face a horde
of alt right
idiots.

Or,
perhaps
as it really is
I would prefer
not to exist.

My problem is that I am driven. I have a certain level of willpower that most cannot honestly claim. However, many with this degree of will power become rigid. I am fluid, because directing much of the energy i have is a undeniable sense of empathy. This makes pursuing a world of materiel things highly detestable, because I know these things come at the cost of our humanity. So my pleasure comes from the consumption of art and knowledge. I am a strange **** that strangles the seeds, and softens the earth of your subdued minds. While you keep trying to grow straight like the rest am trying to bend you so you can see around OZ's curtains. Good luck,

The bologna
is better
with the bitter
butternut bread.

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

I wonder why people measure success by the level of their wealth, their beauty, or other things that indicate class or status instead of the good they do for others. When I am close to death I hope I am able measure my success by the times I made people laugh, or smile when they were sad, helped them to think when they were confused, and was able to learn from them becuase I knew that they had vauable insights share.

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.

I used to dream of
endless M.C. Escher stairways
that led to quiet rooms
with no one in them

No lie can live forever
Cause liars always die
Leaving the next generation
To waddle slowly to the truth
Letting honest hearts free to fly high

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

I feel like a strange man of contradictions As a rational human I want to aproach every thing logically, but as a dreamer I want to live life with such amazing zest and passion. I want to be consumed by the beauty of life and lost in its wonders drowning so deep in the moment that I can not escape it, yet still be able to focus and do what needs to be done to acheive greatness.

The flooded fields
of folded flesh
that fell upon
thy aching chest
burnt thy heart
but failed to
grant you
a merciful death.

America,
I am tired of
your bad boy
obsession.

I am
fed up with
the adoration
of this racist
nation
with confident
sociopaths.

See,
these guys
used to make me
laugh,

but there frantic
antics
got really dangerous,
and their harmful ideals
have become
a plague level
contagious
social pathogens.

So, America
please stop
enabling these
war mongering
old men,
with inferiority
complexes
that make them
keep waving
their rocket wieners
at foreign nations.

Or else the
nice guy minority
will take our
goodwill
to other countries
and let you deal
with the real
fallout
of your
nuclear
gullibility.

I am a magnetically charged vessel
of negative spaces
attracting shards
of dangerous intensity,
while spitting out electricity
only to find my passions
fading in the delusion
of this *******-up ether.

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

Tears scar
my fevered
red face
as I rage
against
these
unites states.

Pillars of pain
pushed to the point
of bullets and
blood stained
t-shirts.

To young,
to run
far enough
away
that day,

Now politicians
send thoughts and
prayers
but that is
much too little
to even be late.

The media
garners
silent stares
of inaction
while anonymous
internet commenters
call grieving parents
crisis actors.

facebook posts
of dividing positions
put friends in
combative opposition.

I would like
to be fair and neutral,
but the roots
run red and deep
as this dark sea of grief
rises from its sedated state.

So,
I keep on asking
how many more children
have to die
before people do
something right.

What a monster you make of me
All teeth and claws
No heart to speak of
No love to dream of
No hope for a better world
And the beast emerges
The darkness consumes us
But it will only take one of us