Her presence
is like
old wooden steps
that risk
a split
and break
or a wet spot
where I will slip
and take
a terrible
emotional
tumble.

I am humble
as I bumble
through this
boring existence
and I like
not being bothered
by her idiotic
insistence
in pursuing
abusive
men.

But when she calls,
I let her back in,
leave just enough
of an opening
to feel the sting
of her hurting
combined
with my broken heart.

I know where to start
by blanketing my heart
with harder steel
against the way
she makes me feel,
but I do not know
where going that cold
will lead me to,
and I really don’t
want to
find out.

Life is like your feet. You can go around wearing shoes all day to protect yourself from rocks, glass or other things that might  hurt you, or you can go barefooted and feel the soft moist earth beneath your feet, enjoy the cold hard concrete.  Think of this as a metaphor for your heart. If you are constantly gaurding against the pain of life you miss out on alot of of the good stuff.

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

They see the circle take the square
Going around round here
Without fear
Cutting corners
Till love cycles back
To there is no white or black
Just humans
Hands by the fire
Hands held all together
Till better angels are inspired
One foot into the coals to forge better metals
And our bond finally becomes
Unbreakable in love

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.

They blasted us,
made more landfills from
the dust that was once
our skin,
toasted a succession
of successful thefts
as they took
what was left
of our hope
and innocence.

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 ***.

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.

He is alone
licking the salt filling
from his cheesy crackers
before crunching them.

Then it is time for him
to do his last patrol.
A set of standard keys
jingles against
the walkie talkie.

It is quiet except
for the extra foot steps
that sound on the ground
behind him.
He turns and
tracks them
to an empty elevator,
that seems to be
changing
floors
of its own volition.

He follows grey stairs
that step up to nowhere,
then walks along
the long quiet corridors
pursued by the sound of
the stuttering
heating and cooling system.

Small papers
covered in
water colors
spin in
the shape of
folded white flowers,
sadly lacking
any rosy scent.

Photos from years ago
adorn the thin walls
of the day worker’s
cubicles,
in the darkness
they seem to blink
quizzically.

The sweet perfume
of holiday treats
lingers and draws him
several feet off course,
towards tiny red lights
that flicker
shifting
in the strange spectrum
of dimly lit rooms,
as the coffee pots
burn off
the last bits
of brown liquid.

A stray stag statue
stares creepily
at the fire alarm.
In the darkness
it seems to shift its
antler covered head
in the direction
of the security guard.

He brushes it off
and finishes the
last part of
his hour long walk,
to find a door unlocked.

He hears a cough,
then jumps in start
turning to see
his evening relief
fifteen minutes early.

What a weird wonderland
as Alice comes so close to see
the strange curiosity that is me,
an inverted reflection,
while I see negative space
filled by her body, face,
and the thoughts she traces
out for me.

The sparkle in your eyes
is the shadowy sky
that flames from
dark blue to easy orange hues,
the stars that burn
with diamond points
powerfully pushing out,
the space that turns,
your galaxies spiraling
into short stories
and our lives
into even tinier
minuets
that we can dance to.

Till, our bodies do
what they were always
going to have to do.
Stardust sparkles and crumbles
while eternity devours
the basic building blocks of life.
Black holes bend, pull, and swallow
the speeding light

and we hope we may
we hope me might
find our way back in to life.
We dream that our soft bodies
will seed, bleed, and blend into
oncoming generations,
making us immortal as we can be.

Thus, humanity comes to an end
not with a whimper or a bang
but with heads held down
by the gravity of digital devices.
Strangers dissolve.
Flashing screens absolve us
of the need to meet.
The outside shades
of orange, purple,
white, and gray
fade away.
Humans disassociate.
Conversation evaporates
to be replaced by a stenography
texting quality
paired with a variety of emojis.
Years of evolution
Are discarded within the span
of a few generations.

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

The pharmacist is not your friend
He may put you up in a high hotel
With slip streams of ****** pills
Paxil and Wellbutrin
Designed to defeat depression
To facilitate a fog like
Fugues of perfected moods
With drugs made to create
The perfect drone state
So you can pay your bills
So you can **** and sleep well
So you can keep your health
But it is poison
Kidney killing swill
And while you are under the influence
Perfectly sedated so you forget how to feel
One hand is in your pocket
Thinning your wallet draining dollar bills
While the other hand holds your heart
Crushing what is left of your already weakened will

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

And if perchance you do allow. I will curve those lip while I furrow my brow. I will split your serious demeanor with a clownish tact, making a joke you have laugh at, and if a chuckle  refuses to arise, all sink so low as to do the pull my finger bit because that one get all the girls and guys to laugh then leave the room choking.

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.

You don't have a good grasp
on those snakes in the grass
that will bite you in the ***.

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.

Good men are slaves
to a system
that has them
trying to stay strong,
trying to pay rent,
to feed moms,
and their children.

They do the wrong thing
because they need money
for food, cloths, shelter
for car insurance,
for maintenance, and
for medical emergencies.

So, the goodness,
We would like to see
gets buries out of
necessity.

Kind hands
become calloused tools
and the hardworking man
dies at the plant,
were other good men
are struggling the same
with some minor variations.

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.

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.

This is just half a memory
A quarter of a daydream
Remembered fondly
As I stare blankly
Through arches to nowhere
Looking back to the past
Where a vine tree
Fought against me fiercely
With whipping strings
That rapidly snapped
Sharp sounding cracks
Opposite of the thunder
Landing in the distance
My feet found mud and water
Then sunk in muddied water
As I fought hard
Against an unseen foe
Kicks that cut the storm
With well practiced punches
That followed in perfect form
Yet each droplet
Was a mighty blow
From some dumb thunder god
That I was fighting off
Till, I finally lost
Because no mere mortal
Can beat an imaginary deity

Depression is a hydra
Of loneliness
Head lobbed off
Replaced by a friends suicide
Memories of child abuse
Children Soldiers in Africa
I lob off the head of child abuse
A relative dies
A cop kills a kid
Military state
On and on it goes
For everyone cut off
Another one grows
Another one grows
Another one grows
Leaving me heartbroken
Sobbing alone
Facing a beast
I will never defeat

It is partly
some practical
procedural
precedent
that holds up
our presidential
nonsense.

So, I guess
I should applaud it,
but I am just
nauseas
with the madness
of the whole system
we live in.

One hug can collapse
my inner galaxy,
bringing me to the verge of tears.
Till I push them back
confused
by the strangeness
of my own madness.

I do not rush
I let the day find me
Still
Breathing slowly
Waking from the illusion
Not sleepy eyes
But wearing eyes of wonder
The water drips and drops
Pooling into a puddle
The wind wooshing
Through my coat
Through my hair
The air is cool
A dog barks in the distance
The ground is soft
Giving slightly beneath my feet
I indulge the forgotten feat
Of stopping
Seeing, feeling, hearing
Still as a stone
Well almost still as a stone

Why do you hate nihilist? Do they impose those fancy lack of beliefs upon you? Are you afraid to let go of the meaning many cling so dangerously to. Must you have a certain order in order to sustain your own existence?

She took my corpse soul
Bone dry and empty inside
Blood soaked scythe
That painted the night sky
With hopes for an ending
Soul spending in spinning
Atomic energy on the demon in me
She rose to see my flesh form
Finally feel and bleed
From the deeper need
I was regenerated and reinvigorated
Just in time to cross loves line
And have her turn loves laughter
Into lover’s lament

Palestinian
children
and women
attempt to
protest apartheid,
fighting against
those borders and walls,
walking towards boundaries
where snipers sit
settled in
to shoot the innocent,
and continue
freedom's infringement.

Soldiers fire to take
the lives of those
they dehumanize.
Two thousand
are wounded
and fifty plus
dead.

My government is complicit
in these illicit
acts of violence.
We support and supply
the horrible ordinance
used to brutalize
and end those unfortunate lives.
Our politicians
spin blood red threads
into golden ***** lies
and celebrate the bad guys
who have no intention
of compromising,
the ones who
go on occupying
and terrorizing the Palestinian people.

Meanwhile,
state supported
media guys,
are televised
to tell us lies,
go on air
to share a side
that shames
and blames
the victims of
new atrocities,
by their favorite
allies,
repeating
reports of agitation
incited by
Hamas,
but no one on
the Israeli side
was wounded
or died.

Carousal dreams
Carry my laughter
While my past screams
Chase happily ever after

And I age faster
As the day fades
Stars stray
From their place
And die
Before I ever see
Their true face

Sparkling carnival colors
Spin around
Up and down
Absorbing
The sunny summer day’s
Heated rays
Till the ferris wheel seats
Blister my broken bottom

Grey gravel
Green leaves
See me passing
These barren streets
Crossing memory lanes
Passing past self
Leaving all the blame
With a person
I will never be again

The circuit board breaks
Pathways flare up
And fizzle out of existence
Muscles spasm
As I walk in to the last chasm
Leaving trails
Of nothingness behind me

The cavern closes
No one else goes in
And I never come out

The numbers don’t match.
They really don’t work.
I sit and scratch
my head
till my scalp hurts.
I add up all the variables
subtracting what’s right
and I am still confused.
It keeps me up all night.

A sparse field of clouds
circled a splendid moon.
Thin vapors curved around
the moons glorious rainbow aura.

I tried to capture
this spectacular scene
with my phone.
Unfortunately,
that bit of technology
did not detect
and collect
the quality
I was enamored by.

Then I tried to use
a camera that had
been sitting in my car
for over a year.
The first attempt found
that the batteries were dead.
I replaced them
but the camera
still could not capture
the rapture
of this fabulous
lunar sight.

With only two minutes
until I had to clock on
I gave up on
this moon I had
set my sights upon
and disappointedly
clocked in at
ten fifty-three.

I walk quietly into my own damnation
Not fire and brimstone with demons afoot
But the dankest pit fit for a suit of despair

Brisling with a whistling rage
Boiling discontent
With our slow movement
Our lack of improvement

Your grand amusement
Drunken stupidity

What a pity to see
That humanity
Brings out the sorrow in me

Perhaps tomorrow will be
Better

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 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

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.

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.

He who works
with mortality
seeks morality.
To be good,
to be kind,
he walks into
the burning
sands of time
alone.

But a man should not
stand alone,
should find a home,
work out his wanderlust
but settle down,
should have a tribe
to stand by his side,
to be his guide,
when he is wrong
and listen when
he is right.

Perhaps,
I am a fool
who is too far gone
and always wrong,
but how far would I go
to come back home
to my friends again.

Will I always be
one second to late
to see them succumb
to the only true fate?

This is not a depressive poem,
merely a preemptive
elegy for the heart of me.

The best artistry enraptures its creator in a fugue of furious activity that is almost beyond his/her control. They are overcome with inspiration and must follow it. It is the unconscious mind ripping and taring at the fabric of the creators mind, and it is is the closest thing to ecstasy I know.

I wear a costume
of poorly executed
ink artistry
that could barely
be called calligraphy.

Claiming to be
a culture rebel
I write poetry
to challenge
this society;

But is my nonconformity
the camouflage that
I use to protect myself
sticking out at a safe distance
so no one tries to get
to closed to me.

Am I a zoo animal
of sweet entertaining intentions
on the verge of extinction
cause no one loves
my kind of disposition?

Old eyes flutter open,
awakened by the sound
of soft water on
a car roof,
and a sharper thud.

Spheres of light,
blur,
breaking the night.
They vary in color
shape, and size,
while thin streams
of liquid slide
down the rear window.

The upholstery
is torn,
from time
and its stiches
being stretched
too far.

Blurred points of pressure
push in on his fog filled brain
as the rain
continues.

He rolls down one window
allowing the pungent odor
of sweat
and old ***** cloths
to spill out.

Another thud,
is followed by
an angry voice
bellowing
“You need to move this car!”

The old man moves
crawling from the back
to the front
disturbing the junk
he has acquired.

With leaden bags
and burning red eyes
from his harsh life
he tries to
start his car.

It will not move.

So, the city takes
the last place
this old man
called home.

Deep are the eyes that devour my soul
Soft onyx surrounded by emerald lightning
Hypnotic expressions of ****** obsessions
Lips grasp, mouth slurps, tongue sends shivers
But the eyes cause quivers of climatic fury
I gush with lust’s completion
Moving with unparalleled muscle memory
I toss her fair form roughly against the bed
Rip the last barrier from her body
And lap up desires sweet juices
Till she to finds completions
Then I make her come again

I do not enjoy the
busy highway.
So, I take a slow ride
on the frontage road
on my way to work
tonight.

Thin wisps of
dark blue clouds
curve over
a turquoise sky.
Then the day fades
and nightshades
are interrupted
by lightning
off to the left.

Past the gas station,
where buildings become
fewer and farther between,
glow worms work
the fields of grass
blinking like
stars on earth.

Tears work
there way
past my solitary guard
as I recall
an old yard
of childhood games
and familiar family faces.
Too many of those faces
are now specters
planted in a deadman’s field.

No time for nostalgia,
no signs of weakness,
I beat this melancholia
with exercise
and caffeine
before my coworkers
can ever see me.

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

The anger does not fit
the cage in which you sit
when with a quick
flick of your thin wrists
you throw ****
and hit more often
then you miss.

You claim to be bereft,
that by some strange theft
your dignity was stolen,

but your religious devotion
pushes you right on your back
as it attempts to enslave,
takes the feminism you once praised
and burns all that progress we’ve made
away;

And your political affiliations
set you in a binary conflict
of liberal against conservative
as the wealthy puppeteers
put their hands up
both party’s ****** derriere
with campaign contributions
and other bribes.

While the pursuit of status
from the materials you lack,
like your Iphone ******,
your sports car crack,
and your commodified
individuality
which comes in
three different colors
a personalized
perfectly designed
clothing line,
makes you an addict
who has to pay
way past closing time
with soul sapping debt.

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

Can you see beyond
What you believe is a sea
Though in reality
Is a tiny trickle
Expanded only
In the minds
Of those who were fooled

Cross that tiny gap
Break the barriers
Of the past
And find the truth
Of our human connection

We are not a small
Band of ****** brothers
Or a class of kin
Classified by our borders
And the color of our skin

We are a collective
Cut from the same cloth
Of history
The same chain
Of DNA

We are human
To be loved and accepted
Not feared or rejected

We are children
Living within
The limited life span

We are not one clan
Against a million
But one tribe
That counts seven billion
plus

They rack my brain
with loss and pain
so I take this rage
and start again.

Crack my spine
and break my back
I will not stop.
Tare me in half
explode my heart
don’t make me laugh,
I will not stop.
I will not fall.
I will not drop.
I will not crawl.

I’ll keep on running.
I’ll keep on rising.
Even if I lose it all
cause I’ve lost before.

I will not stop.
I may cry.
I may eat poison,
but Ill sweat it all off,
till, the day I die.

I can’t say what day the knots gave way
To full blown anxiety
When the hopeful parts
Gave way to the broken heart

Was it when my withering heart
Took one to many blows
One rejection stacked upon
Another broken promise
So on and so on and so on

Was it when I lost a job
That I really loved
To an *******’s misconception
He can stick that thick
Jagged and dangerous attitude
Up his high blood pressure
Sphincter

Was it when I gave up
Retreated to the dark corridors
Of a dead and dystopic
Fantasy world
Where even my daydreams
Became dark things

Was it just now
Cause I don’t know how
To reverse my pain
To get back the good things
Find the old me
And be better

I just can’t say