The dusty
spider-webbed
wet and ruined
wooden slats
are stacked
too high
in the back,
rotting
way past
safety standards,
and they won’t last
more than a month before
they collapse
and spill
the junk we stored
all over the
warehouse floor.

Stone walls don’t hold a thing
Can’t conceal a dream
Or hide the screams
Of innocent human beings
They only block our view
Till the truth shines through
So why build up these prisons
When we got better things to do

Snap back
and ****** that
which fools lack,
don’t give them slack,
life isn’t a card game
we’re not
dealing blackjack
but serving facts
that track tragic acts
that sees sane minds
and hearts snap
in half,
till we all cry so hard
that we have to laugh.

Corporate engineering with slight color variations
and logo imprintations do not impress me.
Assembly lines do not find or make time
to free the proletariat’s enslaved mind.
They just distract us with delusions of
capitalistically designed versions of individuality.
The fact is unbridled greed can only collapse this
mad consumer society,
because selfishness subtracts the humanity
that got us to this age in the first place.

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

It is a miracle of desire
That flesh fits
That evolutionarily
We came together
Lust and pleasure
Temporary companions
In this temporary life

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

She told me what he did.
How he slid
his fingers
inside of
her,
how he pushed
and grinded her,
despite the pleas,
how he stopped her
when she tried to flee.

After the confession
I felt the fog of fury
consume me.

I set loose
my rage
and scarred his face
with scores
of scratches
and deeper cuts.

I slid my blade
inside his gut
and saw bits
and chunks
of vital organs
dribble
from
the gaping wound.

What fun to see
this dark adult
gasp and bleed
flapping like
a fish
grasping
for the ocean’s embrace.

With serial killer efficiency
I cleaned the crimson stained cutlery
and left him there to stare blankly
at the concrete.
Then I burnt my cloths
and wrote this note
for you to find
when I die.

I made a list
To organize
The things I needed to do
And the things I want to
Finding much to put to task
Like phone calls
And all the questions I had to ask
I put them down one at a time
And lost the list
While making up this silly rhyme

Every time the sun comes up
I go down
And every time the moon shines
I am up
Ready to work on my stuff
Ready to play with my baggage
Packing and unpacking
To find what I am lacking
And putting it all back in again
Then I cycle back

Damning verses
from ancient scripture
gave excuses
so he could hit her,
with logic as fluid
as ***** dishwater
that ******* father
beat on his daughter.

It is blindness by consent
Not knowing where we were going
Not caring where we went
Just tearing up the world
As we play follow the leaders

No needle still we chase
That purple syrup dragon
Let that poison ride our veins
Carbonated grape beverage
Which gives us
A light crack type rush
Then makes us crash

It is the truth that breaks a poets heart. To know such violence lies in the eyes of the so called protector. Everyday I find myself more heartbroken even though I see the violence coming. Cause for every stride we make for justice their is another ******* hiding behind authority trying to take it away.

Her smile is not for me.
though beautifully displayed,
finding feathered heart
floating away.
These sweet small
contortions
are not for me
but being so beautiful.
I am glad I was there to see
her smiling at someone
even if it is not me.

--------------------------
I am jealous
Of how beauty looks
At another
How success
Finds another
How fairness
Is only a fairytale
Most of all
I am jealous
That my past self
Was more at peace then me

I let the heater broil my skin.
29 degrees short of a blistering lobster boil
Turning my cheeks two shades less than crimson
Just so I can keep my weary red eyes alert.

Cause even though the night sky may relax
My raggedly overtaxed mind,
Exhaustion still ruins evening’s solitary stillness.

The stiller I sit
The more I wish to slip
Into dreams of yesterday
Dipping into deep and destructive waters of nostalgia
Scabbing over my itchy scratch and sniff pain
With highlight clips and theme songs
From my old favorite tv shows

Wanting to wash away today's pain
With chocolate covered strawberries
Till I restore my belief in the brotherhood
Of faith and purpose
That reason and enlightenment murdered

Mind running engine running
Vents pumping out dragon’s breathe
But the heat does not hurt
The carbon monoxide might suffocate me
But the fire does not burn
Memories keep strangling me
Till I can barely breathe
And the only thing I can inhale is regret
The only truths I know
Are the sorrows I have not felt yet

20 minutes to warm my flesh
To think and scribe the thoughts that others hide
20 minutes then I switch the heat too cold
Crack the windows and my bones
No longer stuck in the past
No longer struggling to come back
I exist in the now

Lovely light hearted Layla,
my lyrical inspiration,
the source of my hopeful heart
and tear felt frustration.

I want to ride the night,
to stand by your side,
and hold your hand
as we cross this land.

I’ve heard the tears
other broken hearted lovers cry,
and seen nothing,
but the blackness of the otherside.

Oh, treasured friend of mine
is there something there
behind your eyes
that I might find,
perhaps a slight spark
lit in your heart
that parallels mine.

Layla, I long to hold you by the hearth,
hot and ***** loving affection
that burns against the dark
of the cold winter woods.

Layla, you are my wild one,
in whom I trust
but I doubt that my love
will ever touch
the summit of your desirous affections.

Just know
in the name of greed
as business’s
influence grows
you become
less than a cog.

You are interchangeable
in any job.
You can be discarded
no matter how hard
you worked.

Integrity,
Honesty,
Loyalty,
are just
shiny
but
empty
words.

That is what it means
when the free market
rules the world.

I am twisted.
As self-inflicted
fissures
crack
from all the pressure
that fizzles within,

not from soda or gin
but from my growing discontent
as I contend
with this trend
Of infantilizing
women and men,

this categorizing
everything improperly
for the sake of comfort,
consistency, and certainty
labeling things
that need no label
instead of just letting beautiful things
be complicated and interesting.

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.

Your pride
comes from
your nationalism,
your patriotism,
rage and dissatisfaction.
You pass each moment
stewing, colluding
with each new oppressor  
in the name of solidarity

Spewing slogans and
other simple statements
oaths and weak ideas
you build a fascist nation
and wonder how you ever got here.

Eighty-one hours of work
Ten hours of driving
And in-between
There is hardly time
For me to find
A full dream

So, I rise from
A slumber
Of unfulfilled
Snips and clips
That make
Madness
My ultimate state

Exhausted
With no
Creative escape
Cause I am
To tired
To create
A single line

He longed to be revealed
Pealed like the layers of an onion
Or plucked like the petals
Of a rose
While Singing
She loves me.
She loves me not.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
Until the last
Layers of flesh
Disappear
And the anatomy
Of love appears
Wet and transfigured
In his transcendent
Affection
A beautiful grotesquery  
Falling in love
With the pain of
Loving someone
Who does not want
To be loved by him

My five-disc cd player
shuffles through
sad soft songs
that sing
me and my depression
to sleep,

a melodic muse
to still the
inner tempest
and let this
lonely witness
escape the deep
shades of darkness.

Alone with
someone else’s
consequences,
in so much pain
that I try to end this
but even suicide
is hopeless
for me.

There is no opening
out of this bubble
that I have been
living in.

There is only
the cycle that
washes, rinses,
and dries me out,
makes me cry out loud
when no one is around,
but never tell anyone
that I am hurting.

The pills and razors
are still not working,
so I’m just burning through
my terrible twenties
and most of my thirties,
never ever feeling worthy
of any sort of love.

The fees aren’t hidden just obscured
in a mile of white legal papers
that make you walk a greed growing
green and digital banking labyrinth.

We do not let go
so, their grip
remains,
but slowly the vice
untightens
and their lives
are untethered.
We come in together
but leave each other.
Till, the memories
lose their distinctness
and bit by bit.
We blink and miss
each experience
that softens and dissipates.
Until, we withering flowers
fall the same way.

I’m losing
from not using,
from excusing
my laziness.
I’m fading quietly
with disappearing memories
of the human being
I once was.

In lines of age
we find a trace
of history,

weathered responses
that come to haunt us
as we are weighed down
by all the gravity
that we have found
in this life,

creases of flesh
molded to express
all of time’s
presence.

We earn each line
with perseverance
resisting death’s
determination.

Until, the end
when death finally
takes its revenge
and wins.

Bets placed
eternity takes
all the wrinkles
on our face,
and turns them to rot
and decay.

I am terrified
that one day
my identity
will wither,

afraid
my memory
will fog up,
only flowing
in and out
like late in life
late night tides,

that familiar faces
who have managed
to stay alive
will sit by my side
without a spark of
recognition from
this human husk
they love.

I am scared
that my mind
will shed
neural pathways
like a dog
sheds fur
on a sweltering
summer day,

that my brain
will shrivel
as it dehydrates
shrinking in a physical
and mental
fashion
as the demon
of dementia
possesses
and diminishes
me.

They yell.

One father figure
far from
being young,
is a tired
diabetic,
with poor circulation,
thinning hair,
with missing
and rotting teeth,
he is a constantly
frustrated human being.

His roommate,
the other
middle aged
just turned
thirty-eight
who works
almost every day,
hair starting
to gray
just a little
teeth following
his father’s lead,
is also tired
and frustrated.

The old man is lonely
not only because
many friends
have passed
but because
his son
has to drive
fifty miles
each way
almost everyday
to work.
So, they only speak
in small spurts.

The middle-aged son
is tired because
his father always wants
to chat at the early a.m.
when he is still sleeping,
and barely even
able to open his eyes.

There are always
other little issues
like ***** dishes,
or some minor
cleaning concern.

But the son is always on the run
and the old man is always snapping
so, there is friction,

and a slight fear
that one day
when he is not here
the old man
with his health problems
will finally succumb to them,
and the son
will come
home to find
his father dead
or dying.

So, even after arguing
the middle aged-man
manages to remind his dad,
that he loves him,
even when
he is seriously considering
strangling him.

It is a quiet and uncertain passion
that rips my painted paper thin skin.
False bravado to show even though
we all know I have no real machismo.

But, under the night sky I am second
only to the full moon’s illumination.
I am cool as my midnight walks,
as sweet as my imagined talks
that flit across my flat notepad.

A thousand lines of what I would say,
a million bits and syllables of what ifs
dying quietly to become whatever
in the pitch black infinite indifference
of those stranger’s black hole souls.

I crack the plates tectonic,
stack the shifting landmasses
one more put upon
parallel spinning kitchen ware.
Till all of time and space breaks.
Cosmic energy crackling
with me in the middle
absorbing all that I can see
alone in the silent vacuum of observation,
inspired by the void my peers sired.

I present to the world
my impossible
portfolio
of poetically painted
impressions.

White winter fields sparkle like frosty glitter.
The city street smokes thin wisps in the driver's view.
While bright lights line the night road,
green promises it's okay to go.
Then yellows mellow to a slow cold flow.
Until, a rebel red screams stop.

It is black, empty of color gazing deep into it
I see nothing, a void of sorrow and hopelessness
Helpless to face the onslaught
I struggled to stack it, one day upon another
Patting it down and compressing it
Till pounds became tons
I store it up like coal in cement structures
The center of the silo cracks in a circle
Part particles part wave of dark water
One moment breaks the building
And all that I am is consume by
Depression’s horror.

Tis a fury that spurs me
to heights beyond
this herd of sheep.

It is my arrogance in knowing
that gift I have been showing
should be recognized
by my peers
to whom I am barely
peripheral scenery.

The well of anger
swells in danger,
giving me dark pleasures,
pushing me to be better,
while lesser
beings sleepwalk
through their daylight scenes.

It seems
that no one really wants
a unique human being
at least not in my vicinity.
They prefer the obscenity
of a banal mind.

So, the theological,
and astrological,
tarot reading,
flat earth breeding,
pollutant seeding,
masses turn me seething.
Till, red froth
fills my good nature.

I push on,
continuing in curiosity
to see how far
poetical philosophy
will carry me.
Hopefully it will be
to my grave
and years beyond
in literary acclaim.

But, I think most likely
like the lite night breeze
both me and my work
will die alone in the dark,
cold, and unnamed.

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

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.

A glass complexion,
distorted reflection
filled with new
shades and hues
of my personal truth.

Silent stares in contemplation
as I stand facing this tense face
that I know so well.

My body smokes itself
as the mirror fogs up,
with the hot water still running
on the other side
of the wet flower shower curtain

I sit back
letting myself be
submerged in salt rich water.

I let my dead weight
pull me under completely
as I listen deeply
to my heartbeat.

Soft drops of water
pitter patter above me
raining down gently
from my shower
like a white noise
generator.

Barely a minute until
I emerge,
sitting still
as my tense muscles
become more relaxed
then they were before
this wonderful bath.

What minor mischief makes me wait
a sweet fair hearted poetess,
a musical queen seen
on shores so far from me?
I will wait patiently
bare my curiosity graciously,
but my mind hastens to see
how you will respond.
Oh, how I long and hope
that your note comes very shortly.

Knowing that between each twinkle
in a poet's eyes lies an infinite space
of beauty, depth,
and an eternity's worth of wisdom.
The subconscious stays hidden
but for such sweet poetic purges,
reverses black holes
spewing pulses of light
that envelope us all.
Till, instead of the stars
I collapse
in a sated state
of cosmic bliss.

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.

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.

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

My art is equal to
cracks in reality
that I can
almost peer through.

Space and time
crack and shatter
with sparkling splinters
trying to force themselves
through.
Till they
pierce me
and puncture you.

I’m not as gifted
as I would like to be,
cause my language
does not fit perfectly.
It is mostly limited
by the limitation of me.

As the cracks widen
I can almost look in
and make out
a mirror dimension.

It is just an inkling,
art flowering
not yet infirmed
is interred
in my minds
frozen
mid explosion

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

She wears soft shades
of feathery white
and purple;

A sensual
fantasy
casting a
casual glance
back my way.
An artist’s dream
of strange beauty,

no hair
just more
plumage,

her ornate
tattoos
cause me
to further loose
myself.

An exotic
extra-terrestrial,
a being of
supreme
power
to influence me,

too bad
she does not exist
in reality.

Maybe, she will
visit me
in my dreams.

I got a multi colored lite brite like memory
that comes and goes slipping pass my past
tripping me up until I switch memory lanes
from fast and slow
letting go then going back
picking a field of lemon and strawberry details.
Till, I can partially recall who I used to be.

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.

What is this search for,
when the dirt poor explore
the locked heavy vault doors?

What are the blind trying to find,
when all roads lead to
streets where lonely-hearts bleed through
before they ever get to meet you,

a place where the closest thing to an angel
is that strange human being
who drops off a few essential things
for the scattered flock of forgotten
flesh forms who follow the hollow
and hard streets            
to find a warm and semi safe place to sleep,

where stop signs and streetlights
are the most productive spots
for the needy to plead freely
with cardboard requests
to ease the hunger pains, they are feeling.

What is the point of this struggle?

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,

We are not the personal property
Of some person who proposed
As always I oppose
The subjugation of our identity
In pursuit of marital bliss
This institution does not fix ****
It just repackages old ideas
In modern consumerism
In love I am not yours
And you are not mine
But I am not blind
To the stunning visage
The gift of your existence
I just don’t think real love
Requires ancient legal and religious
Assistance