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.

Life feels like a hammer clanging against a broken anvil
A token of what you were choking down
A broken clown killing yourself ironically
Suicidally marking dimes stretching metal to make nothing
And nothing begets nothing
Rock forgets scissor and paper cuts flesh
Words wielded like stone swords
Smashing and slashing with equal effect
I suspect I am the fool chasing today while I am wasting away
From social decay pleasures so sweet they rot my teeth
But this is just a stream of stinking slick sewage
And instead of swimming in the ****
I think I am drowning in it

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.

I want a new life
in the sun
no more strife
to run from
but years of
love and fun
that will
hopefully come.

It is the heart of me
that she does not
even bother to see,
a red bridge that breaks
collapsing into
a darker crimson pool,
I set this mess
before her,
expose my scars,
as I worship hers,
whisper gentle affections,
promise fierce protection,
but she turns away
unswayed by the fruits
of my heart,
and I turn away
forgetting the self-love
I struggled to attain
and succumb to
that old familiar pain.

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.

Pygmalion
Do not fall in love
With your illusion
Your marble lust
Will not serve you well
Will not help you grow
But see you soften
And become stale
For though your love
May be statuesque
She will chip
Falling to dust
Never learning
How to be
A beautifully unique
Human being
For she is only
A whisper
Crossing the void
And coming to nothing

What a beautiful man
a character in muted colors
speaking Shakespeare’s words.
I covet the players coven
a place where such wonders
where made manifest,
where actors did their best
to express in proper parlance
past prose and poetry.

What a fine figure
full of creative vigor
that speaks loudly
marking lines with fierceness
and a slight playful puckish
variety.

What a time to relish
spoken forms
the theater
worn for such
vocal storms
and I am in love
not a ****** decree
but an infatuation
founded upon
the wonderous creativity
of this sweet performer
before me.

Anger is born of unmet expectations.
The more entitled we feel
being attached to an expected outcome
the more intense the anger may be.

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.

Once proud this waterless rock
Now sings with all her being
Humming winds
Swirling in space
Touching the face
Of eternity
While lusting after infinity

Split infatuations
Sick with desire
She spews fire-like mud
Splitting herself
In anticipation

Her core churns
Her soul burns
Coldness creeps
Into corners where
Her strange affliction
Bares itself.

In love she is cracked
Shaking off the last bits of history
Till space and time
Consume what is left to find
And only radiated crumbs remain behind

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

There is a wonder and beauty in uncertainty,
that sparkling unknown that unfold before us
making each moment precious
for its rarity and inability to repeat.
So, I hope it brings you joy and peace.

Flicked by one frantic finger
The sting still lingers
The tiny fleck of a red mark
Left its’ spark bruised his heart
How easily a child is hurt
And yet only seconds after tears had fell
He was back outside merrily playing with himself
But not actually playing with himself ;)

I am eternally fatigued
And all I want to do is sleep
Dreaming in restful contemplation
To awaken refreshed and inspired

Perhaps, I was a peasant in love,
a partly pleasant player
in the prose and poetry
that I present to thee
my cherished queen
of love laden dreams.

Perhaps, I was
the curious cockroach
crawling across
the curators
favorite canvass,
the portrait of our
beloved queen,
to be crushed
carelessly by
the callous king,
becoming a small stain
on the otherwise
unblemished
painting.

Perhaps,
before we past
parting ways,
pondering
old playdates
when we played,
I was your partner
in strange adventures
before my feelings
became too complicated,
before I became
the crestfallen fool,
the King’s favorite jester
who made you laugh
while I tore myself in half
for the sake of your wellbeing.

Now my twin wanders somewhere
out there
unburdened by the broken heart
and if you see him
send him back
so, I can be him
once again.

It is a possessor’s fury,
false identity
unearned aspect
of desire denied,
pursuing that
which does not want
to be pursued
by you.

So, she places you
in a friends position,
which should be enough,
even though you are
truly in love,
and you try
to be satisfied
while she tells you
about these other guys,
alcoholic abuser,
toxic users,
who gets her drunk
so they can **** her,
while you want to
hold and protect her.

One day she tells you
how great they are,
the next time you see her
they are *******,
but she just goes
right back,
and your pain grows,
transforms to rage
and turns inwards
cause you know
for her to choose
those dudes
who hurt her
over you
must mean
there is something
spectacularly wrong with you.

I have seen
a mess of human tragedy
and on a bad day
wanted to see it all
just go away.

Till I met you
I used to duel
with scores of
shadow men.

I dropped the
dripping wax
that burnt me
from within
the skin
of the mirror.

Night after night
I would watch
the monster
grow and grow
and wonder if
I could find a way
to end it.

Several times I tried
to ride that final ride,
to slide the sharper side
of my rusted knife
in my enemy’s thighs
or across his wrists
as he clenched his fists,
willing him to bleed out

But he would still follow me
and in the night I could see
reflections of this darker being
staring right back at me
with eyes as black
as whatever was on
the other side of the glass.

He spoke like me,
broke like me,
and even scavenged
petal free stems
with thorns
that ripped my skin.
Until you my friend
on whom I now depend
to keep me tethered
to my tattered sanity,
who helps me laugh
at my darker past,
came at last.

But if my past
ever comes back
and I have to see,
that face of hate
that haunted me
I hope you are there
waiting with me
cause a mirror
is a very dangerous thing.

Come closer
as the earth’s crust
crunches, covers,
and **** near smothers
all existence;

As clouds conceal
the mad mass
of human tumors,

and hide the high tides
that move
to their moon perpetuated
groove.

Come here and hear
the sounds of nature.
They may not ring clear
but are held dear
by this queer
wanderer.

Come now
and see how
the splendor
of our floating sphere,
this space rock,
is so much more;

Look up
from those
strange screens,
get your *** over here,
stand with me and see
how this world moves
so **** beautifully.

The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights

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 a smelly **** furnace
Sadly my flatulence
It potent
The powerful smell
Is hell to your nose
But I do not know its’ odor
All it does is make me laugh

This year has been the last,
failing falling fierce battle axe
hovering above my neck.
Panic keeping me in check
as anxiety for the end of society
builds up like a wall of water
which rushes in
ready to crush me and my friends
and drown us all in the end.

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

Clarity is a rarity,
clouds cleared
so, I can see
sunny shades
radiate before me,

and it only comes
with a good night’s sleep,
whilst eating healthy,
exercising, reading,
chatting, and thinking.

We can earn a bit,
but it's all impermanent
so we hasten it
while we’re chasing ****,
and wrecking our climate.

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

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

What will we do
to achieve dreams
that few hearts
aspire to,

when mountain tops
try to impede
those who will not be
stopped,

when rage and ambition
become twisted mirror images
of our stretched in agony visage;

We persist beyond
what weaker hearts
claim is wrong.

We are strong,
affirming unseen possibilities
as those new dreams
unfold to rewrite
out future history.

It is a perfect
fall day
for following
whatever whim
directs me
to ride
against or with
the wind.

I daydream
that I am being
chased by
villainous
creeps.

My bike crosses
the worn wooden bridge
with the thud of
loose boards
persistently
following me.
I imagine
they are my enemies.

Brown leaves
clutter
the dirt path
crunching
and crumbling
under
the black tires.

On the sidewalk
I speed up
preparing for
the air
I will walk
as I leap off
the top
of the three steps
to finally escape
my enemies.

I love
this ten speed
purple huffy
that carries me
wherever
I choose to be.

Can you feel the furnace
You seek to stuff my soul into
See the flames licking skin
How sickeningly you sit in
Your sixteen-foot-long pews
Listening to a preacher who spews
Vile lines of ancient lies
How you are devoted to him
Singing love and hellfire hate
In the same song

I let my dreams hurt me,
helped hope hang me out to dry.
I watch the world go crazy
and sometimes I wanted to die.
Still, in the morning
just before I remember my life
I get a glimpse of hope
and the irony of it all
makes me laugh.

I send wishes like star light
Praying we will be alright
All night long where we go on
But the darkness is strong
And as deep as the sleep of the ocean
History is cooked in
Gas chambers and ovens
Despite all my loving
I can’t heal history
Still the best of me
All I have left you see
Is telling stories
Compelling strangers in danger of forgetting
To remember what I mean by regretting
Knowing it is not our fault
Doesn’t lessen the pain
Nor uncut the historical vein
I just want to teach them and you to
So those human horrors don’t happen again

Tic, the clock kicks
just a bit
counting seconds
but nothing moves.
The pen is still.
Time feels unreal.
The digital display
blinks at a slowed pace
and I match it
a slow breath
a slow heartbeat,
a scattered mess,
and an empty desk.

Tic, my sanity escapes me
driving me to boredom
ticking through
another minute or two
and all I want to do
is go home.

Tic, aaaarrrrrggggh

I'm not scared of strangers. I'm afraid of forgetting how to be kind.

I love the creative insights
drawn from long hours
of stillness.
I would live there
but for the dread of boredom
and deep dark revelations.

As a rule
I was never good
at turning away
ignoring another’s pain
even when they tried to
make it a rule.

Time is a ballet dance
Sweetness in form
Nostalgic beauty
Moving in and away
Up and down
Sweeping the ground
Soft body hardened
And hard body softened
Tears, and adulation
Till the curtain falls
And the performance is over

Dr. Cornell West.
is not a retreater,
but a bright spirit freer,
a spectacular speaker.
His vernacular is sweeter
than any lazy deceiver.

The parking lot is a sheet
of solid ice beneath my feet
and it is fun to slip slide
but I wish I had some
warm rainy night vibes,
because all of my night lights
have either frozen or died.
You know that I tried
to believe your truth
but your truth
is my lie.

You are a strange picture
of wavy raven colored hair
and beautiful smiles.
Still there is a darkness
that hides behind
your sweet and hopeful lines.
You sing for me
like a coal mine canary
and for a bit
this bitter winter gets better.

It is not your duty,
but you are a dream to me,
a playful majesty
in a cold lonely choppy sea.
I watch a thin curvy wave of
snow flow away
running like the dying day
that fades while strays
like me stay in pain.

It is not fair to wear you
like a light tan armor
but I have lost so many other
battlefield friends,
more leaving then passing,
tenderly basking in a world
safely centered in love and hope.

But love and hope is the rope
that I wove to hang myself.
I shame myself looking to your heart,
knowing that you have your own battles.
I hope you beat every demon
that scorches the porches you call home

As for me I fly alone
waiting for the day
the icy roads take me away.

Goodnight my poetic friend,
master of the hearts that mend.
Till we tweet, tumblr, or
Instagram again.

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.

He wants peace and tranquility,
but without rage he has no vitality,
there is no reason for him to keep moving,
if he isn’t struggling against the fear of losing.

She does not look up
Is she afraid of me
Scared there might be
Some unknown rage
Some violent display
That I might act
In a brutish way
Or is she worried that she
Might be
Infected with empathy
If she sees
Someone in pain
Who looks so much like
A human being

Make it quick.
You are already
killing me slowly
dragging me
through the snowy
thorn covered field,
making my flesh bruise
changing it from pink
to blackish blues
as you spread the abuse.

Just make it fast.
slip the blade past
my ribs and up into
the heart you broke
as you choked
the land I loved
as you grabbed
children by the throat,
while you demonized them
with shaded lies.

Your corruption is poison
and I am tired
of writing the same poem,
so just **** me now.

Don’t give me
your troubles
cause I got
my own.

Don’t give me
your reasons
when mine
have all gone.

Don’t feed me
no lines
about the divine.
I don’t need a god
and you won’t
change my mind.

We are fragments
Minstrels in our memories
Ghosts
Only partial presence
Our essence
Only vaporous
In filament
In digital
In audio
Visual
And literary
Fading
As all things do
Imperfectly remembered

Grey waters wear
Sun strained ripples
With one hippo head
Less than halfway
Out to a greet the new day
Till the purple sunset
Suffering from a slight
Foggy haze
Loses the day and sets
Far far away

Her feline eyes
are slender slits
of baleful irises
staring with
the ravenous ache
of a predator
ready to take
that which sustains
and entertains.

I'm tired of having to
make allowances
for other’s attitude,
excusing their abuse
of me because
I'm nice and accepting
while not expecting
reciprocation of said treatment.