If skin color, place of birth, politics, or religions is what separates you from a stranger. Then remember your stranger was once a baby, has lost or will lose someone, and they will cry as you do. They will walk awake in mourning as will you, as you do, because they are human to. Syrian, Republican, Dominican, Cuban, American, Conservative, Liberal, Democrat, Atheist, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, and all variations between and around these distinctions are part of our human family.

Why should she want a love
That says it owns her
And the only thing that matters
Is losing herself in it
Why can’t she have a love
That grows with her
And in its’ wonder finds herself
Growing to

You were the chaos
of swift currents
sending me under
in a ridiculous
blunder
as I was consumed
by my desire for you.

Angry, jealousy,
all things I thought
I had discarded,

but the brick wall
that was ****** red
which I built up
to protect myself
crumbled
in your clumsy presence
as you intruded
in the life
I had carefully constructed.

Sleep deprived,
driven by emotions
which I knew
clouded my rational mind,
I still longed for you;

And the thought
of the loss
of something
that never was
caused
black waves
of anxiety.

Until, today
when I found me.
I am not hurting
or heartbroken,
but working
on knowing
that some attachments
are better than others.

They are always bearers words of love I will not know,
poems in the secret chamber of my heart,
each beat uneven but electrical.
Percussion playing at life's rhythm
tragedy and sorrow heartbreak and forgiveness.
Though I live in this reality
I still feel their fingers clutch the core of me.
Separately we are time and distance apart
In words we are married to such sweet shared meaning.
My veins run with their blood
unfinished photos, moving still life portraits.
I am unintentionally discarded by the hearts
I treasure most.
Still, they're always just
one page of prose and poetry away from me.

This world can be a dark, crue,l and hateful place. That is why we must be ever vigilent against the tide of racism and hatred that overshadows the land. Where there is cruelty we must bring compasion, where there is darkness we must become the light, and where there is hate we must be love. I hope all of us can live as shining example of the goodness within the hearts of human beings.

One feather is folded back.
Wings flutter black,
not pumping fast,
but floating in a circle
seemingly relaxed
while the wind
blows him up
and around
like a kite.
Being slightly damaged
I wonder how
this bird flies
with a broken wing.

In my younger days
there was pain
and a rage
that would raze
the world away;

A deep injection
of sorrow infections,
coupled with
disappointment,

and when I erupted
I kept almost all
of my volcanic outbursts
to the form of exercise
or other means of
self-hurt,

because I did not
want to cause
anyone
the same
sickness
of anguish
that I suffered.

Whether it was
waking in tears,
punching solid objects,
or working out
to the point of
exhaustion,
purging my stable
of demons,
what a
painful exorcism.

Now,
I am healthier,
and I only engage in
a less brutal regimen
in comparison
to deal with my issues.

This bipolar late winter weather
is so confusing that the birds
return as quickly as the flowers
that try to bloom early.

The sun merges with the horizon.
Until, orange rays give way
to light blue.
Then that hue
gives into a darker view.

At night the lamplights
wear rainbow halos
that signify
the function of
my tired eyes.

While all other trees
are bereft of leaves
the conifers confer
their prickly beauty upon me;
Scratching my skin
only as fiercely
as I press in
to their personal space.

Always moving forward
and off at an awkward angle
I pursue the white light
half of the moon
that makes a Cheshire grin.
The high school windows
across the street
reflect strange distortions
back at me
as I walk the parking lot
watching the darker shade
within my shadow.
I slink up onto
the sidewalk
that is a gray portrait
of its pock marked past.

At last, I come in from the outside
losing what’s left of the bright night
and nature’s musical life.
I walk the sterile colorless corridors
that cut and cross to nowhere,
while my spirit yearns
to return to
the outside world I was
just describing for you.

You birth is an invitation
Few received from quintillion plus
Possible people
A gift to exist
A choice given
The variables
A ticket to the freak show
Or to the joy ride
Of expanding life
And human consciousness
It was now stamped for approval
Nor is it dependent on the permission
From those in power
You are required
To live by their patterns
Why would you
When you can build a better loom

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.

Purple plastic flowers
flow and fall over
the brick enclosed
raised border
around the brown
house.

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.

She is such a sweet pale hell
That makes me touch myself
Pleasure dangerously close to torture
Eyes lit with the softest furies
Lips that melt the ice of my soul
Whips that chain my pain to hers
I cry out “all my verses are for you.”
But she whispers “I am not yours.”

It is hard to
give a ****.
cause I get stuck
in the muck
with a desire
to inspire
much higher
thoughts
and ambitions,

but I am a mutt,
******* child
of the light
and wild
side.

I cannot hide
my teary eyes,
and my disgust
almost busts
right out of
my oversize gut.

Humanity
hurts too much,
but I am so
******* stuck.

Too tired to write
but I still
bring these words.

Too sad to think
but I still sing
until I am heard.

Tears soak through
my human costume.
Turning skin to redder shades,
making my shirt collar
a little wetter,
leaving me
a voice of congestion.
I am open to suggestions
on how to not forget her
but not let the memories
of loss be something
I regret later.

Caffeine to breaks the cycle,
nighttime quiet makes me
more susceptible,
more easily corruptible  
as I succumb
by not letting myself
be numbed
to all the pain and beauty
this life has to offer.

Let my sorrow drown me for now
I can always bring back
the sad clown
to make myself laugh
and smile again.

I expel
thin wisps
of cold wind,
smoking breath
that looks like
cigarette vapors.

**** its cold.

I nearly slip
on the black ice
in the parking lot
late at night
cause I can’t
make it out.

**** its cold.

Fingers frosted
till they start to
turn from flesh tones
to a red pinkish hue,
then almost to
a light blue.

**** its cold.

Ears hurt,
and so, does
my chest
when I cough.
I try to sleep it off,
but the sidewalk
is bitterly unforgiving.

**** its cold.

No one ever
looks me in the eyes.
They just walk on by;
Too busy pretending
not to see
my pain
and humanity.
They don’t
drops single thought
or dollar for me.
  
**** its cold.

No one notices
the frozen form
of frostbit terror
and tragedy,
as empty eyes
stare out at
a world
that is colder
than the arctic circle.

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.

If your dad set you on fire because you ****** him off. You would have him arrested right. So why is it acceptable to tell little kids that they will burn in hell if they don't do what they are told?

I never liked the mud,
but I loved
the smoky mist
that was stirred up
when I crumbled dirt
into a dusty substance,

when the light would catch
the passing particles
and I would try to
hold my breath
as the mist moved in a
strangle swirl,
as if the earth
was smoking itself.

I enjoyed making
little smoke bombs
from handfuls of dirt.
I would toss them
on the ground
and disappear
like ninjas did.
Even though
everyone I knew
could see through
my trick dirt
to my dust covered jeans.

I like knowing
that if allowed,
if I’m not put in
some sable box
but left to rot
I will become
that silly dust stuff.

Some people think that helping others is unselfish. I say that it is a selfishly smart act. By investing time and effort to making this world a better place you not only improve the condition of life for those around you, but for yourself as well. When you act with genuine kindness and sincere goodwill people respond in kind. Plus you get that gushy warm feeling of pride and satisfaction.

I have never loved a truth
only partial lily lips
blushed with life,
a life that was projected
from previous experiences
tid bits of passing familiarities
extrapolated, fragmented,
then placed into an impossible puzzle.

That is the tragedy.
Though I love humanity
I have never loved the truth of her
only the illusion that she can never be
plastered in poetry
dedicated to me.
The lie fits perfectly into my dreams
so I sleep with
the hopeful heart of humanity
because that is the only love
that is true to me.

Black circles darken my eye.
There are notes to play,
but my vocal cords are cut,
and I am drowning in
a steaming pile of
my own guts.

The crow, parrot, raven, and parakeet
Meet across the cracked street
Scuttle along the wrecked concrete
Where human feet once walked
Flutter up steep uneven steps
Not missing those tripping fools who
Cracked the earth with metal tools
That split lumber with chainsaws
That destroyed thin and thick limbs
With loud rusted wood chippers
That incinerated hated legal papers
Shredding evidence with precision
These birds do not miss one person
Just go searching the soft grounds
for deliciously slimy worms

The wolf, coyote, and lonely fox
Hop and trot from here to cross
Separate paths to their favorite snacks
Bloated bodies swelled with stinky fat
Exposed corpses sitting back so that
They could watch their favorite clips
Catch invisible monsters on their phones
People who now become kibbles and bits
For two howlers and one quiet hunter

A mouse, possum, and racoon
Hunt under the split moon
Going through the monsoon
Of decaying human garbage
Devouring all the waste they want
Finally, free from the humans
Who used to hunt and **** them
Now they just have to watch out for
Other local predators

But all these animals are so much better
For the lack of such a destructive species

The horses do it
The chimpanzees
Do it as they please
I watch all of these
Dreams
Growing
Cell by cell
Mother and father
Express themselves
Creating tiny haploids
Making a zygote
Minds expanding
Into a newly forming
Consciousness
A new universe is born
Came into being
A natural thing
But this birth
Will never be for me
It is only an echo
Of a loving
Fairytale dream

I used to have a horrible case of giving a ****
Sometimes you have to learn to quit that ****
Cause life will try to ***** a nail into the tip of your ****
Bust a fist in your *** that doesn’t fit
The kind of pain that you are ill-equipped to handle
This doesn’t mean I don’t love the world
I’ve just decided that I don’t have to be part of it
I’m just along for the ride on a separate lane
Off the track on a separate train
So I can finally stuff the pain of failed expectations
Where it belongs

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

Ignorance and apathy are plagues that promote human suffering.

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.

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

It is too late in life
for me to join the night
and be a beautifully brooding poet.

It is too far down the line
and I am too rigid in my mind
to be open to that world.

So, I come to the open mich to speak,
breath and read my carefully crafted masterpiece
just so I can have the pleasure
of finishing up and leaving when I please.

They strip me of my dignities.
Time steals treasured memories.
Stress ages with wrinkles and ulcers.

No new faith just tarnished alters,
majestic dreams cannot sustain.
I falter in the throes of this pain,
stand trembling, stumbling in vain.
I cannot remain the same.

Fallen family and friends disappear
moving up on and out of here.

In the end I lose it all;
dying with no angel wings
to bring me to them.

I was never your white knight
More like your sweet light
Loving fan adoring you from afar
Mirroring your affections
From a distance
In poetry
And for the kindness you shared
That was so much your nature
I thank you
And I wish that there were more
Angels like you out there

Female, male, Homosexual,
Genderqueer, Pansexual,
Transgender, Bisexual,
there is wonder in
the fluctuations
of identity’s observations.
Hunger swelling
desire blooming
then in a sated state
receding
no longer needing
****** fulfilling.
A curiosity
how such complexities
reveal humanity’s variety.
Not to be feared or hated
but celebrated and elevated
for the chance to see
something different from you and me
cause life is boring
without the beauty of novelty.

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

Stone statue
A monument
To a man who never was
Perfect pose
Perfecting an idea
Of a beautiful patriotic dream

The heart burns
Acidic fluctuations
Desire’s frustration

How can it be so hard
To find someone
To love and be loved by

To slide my hand
Down the curves
Of her jaw
To pull her close
To kiss softy
And hardly
In tandem
To speak deep
To think well
And compliment
Gaps in understanding

I see the world become
A cycle of love
And loves lost
Deaths and rebirths
Even drug dealers and murderers
Find the full passion of love
In love struggling to find their place
Together

I am a shade
Walking just outside
Of loves touch
It is my own fault
I laid the bricks
Of my own isolation
And instead of cracking
Their sad foundation
I perpetuate such frustrations
Alone
To smart for my own
good

A *******
with alcohol
did not turn
out so well.
He shoved her down
then dragged her up
as he yelled.

He hurt her hands
with his
hateful rage
squeezing
just to see
the pain
on her face.

Screaming,
“you’ll
notice this
now
you fat
******* cow.”

Her skin
swelled
like a
red balloon.
as she spoke
about
that raging buffoon.

Shadows circling
each bag under her eyes,
she cried
surprised
at the violence.

Then in a contortionist’s
sick fashion,
I watched her
twist herself
up in knots of
confusion
and weird love,
as she tried to
justify
our own abuse.

Weird yellow lines mark
the grey sparkling floor.
Lighter grey garage doors
roll open to export more
manufactured goods.

Plastic particulates
plaster the yellow painted
blocking fences that
keeps fumbling fools
from stumbling through.

Yellow metal monstrosities
powered by small black batteries
chase their own blue lights
seeming super sentient
with an electric consciousness.
They beep hard backing up
and plowing forward
with packed boxes of
clear plastic cups
coming from the factory floor.

Smokers come and go
in and out of
the glass double door
in a blur of blue hats
lunch lady hairnets
earplugs and safety glasses
ending the day
exhausted and underpaid.

It is not your room.
The wound is not
your wound,
so you do not feel
as if the pain is real

but the blood is factual.
The loss is actual.
The costs are varied.
Each face
wears sorrow’s
sick slick scars.

I can see them
from where you are.
Why can’t you?

There was a time
when the Beltane fires
blasted, the massive
crowds face
with orange heat,

when women danced,
swirling and singing
in an orgiastic fury.
When a poet’s tongue
could raise a lover’s skirt,
and with passions
unparalleled part
a ******’s legs,

when well written words
would stir adventurous hearts
to grand feats,
and the poets would be seen
and remembered.

Now black hole brains
and shallow stares
sink solemnly
onto their blinking screens.
The poets are not seen.
Their truths are no longer gleaned.
Their words are not heard.
Dull faces are lit
by other people’s
facebook, twitter,
and instagram *******.
The fools have forgotten
the former passions
of this existence.

Thus, the poets dies,
unmourned
by the unmoved masses.

I blink tiredly listening to parallel pipes push plastic particulates in and out around the factory, while white towers give off billows of powerful pollutants. Cylindrical silos rise echoing a sound like snowy static from an old black and white tv. I walk and watch this strange scene following train tracks that go nowhere and back from there. The train is graffitied with some minor marks and more complicated tags. One roughly sprayed owl covers an old ***** orange car with the words “I wish I could rust away to” followed by red lettered “Itchy legs” and a more elaborate display that says something unintelligible but looks spectacular. Concrete carries the weight of the old train cars. It is cracked partially from the truck drivers and other workers but mostly from the earth shifting as the cement expands over time. Shallow lines in the concrete pursue their parallels. Their more prominent brothers curving and splintering as the deepest cracks cut fully across the back of the factory lot. This is what I watch from whatever time it is to the infinity of night that fills my sight. I am tired beyond tired. Feet sore, body slightly thinning but my mind is beginning to lose its distinct edges. Until, all reality becomes a walk around the factory. There is no yesterday or tomorrow only endless caffeinated patrols, and a yearning for the release of sleep.

What does it mean
When I scream in the darkness
Place my face firmly
Into my pillow
So no one will know
That I am crying with
Rage and sorrow
How do those two emotions mix
When I see nightsticks
Used against the innocent
When bullets blaze
Not graze or stun
But ****** our young
And they are our young
Every white, black, yellow one
Is our young
This is our world
Where atrocities occurs
Ocean’s distance from here
Where fear rules
Where violence
Never ends
And bends mankind
To horrible contortions
Where squads of Russians
Hunt the LGBTQ
What if it was you
What if it was someone you knew
Eyes tightly clenched
I scream
While tears keep flowing
Still knowing
That another tragedy
Will be stacked upon
The one I just read about

He wears
a dull faced
indifference.

Thinks I am
a dim wit,
because
I do not
pursue
the same
worthless
*******.

Brown eye,
brown hair,
well-trimmed
small beard,
love his
gold rush
reality
tv
show.

His goals,
are a product
of a limited
mindset,
rectangular vision,
in an oval like
world.

No mind expanding
conversation,
just me
patiently waiting
for him to dislodge
his slack jawed
visage
from those
cellphone images.

Unafraid,
she makes
red braids
wrapping
death
around her
soft wrist.

Her pliable
flesh
screams
fresh
mercies.

Inside
the porcelain
prism
pain
is no longer
her prison.
Life
is no longer
her poison.

Once crushed
life’s fluid
is now
a stagnant wine
that drips down
her limber vine.

For all that abused
drank her dry
felt her up and used
all the tears in her life
she is now
an empty wineskin
with no more life
to hold in.

Death was hers
and she told him
where and when
they would be
meeting.
It was
the only game
she was capable
of winning.

No note,
no warning call,
no shot off the port
From a cannonball;
She just dove
headfirst into
the dark black that
will eventually
claim you to.

I learn the most from those who do not obscure the facts or hide themselves. Why not be free with yourself, we are all beautifully unique. How can we learn and grow if we are not open and honest with each other? People can not make fair judgment of us if we do not expose our insecurities and being insecure does not make us weak, it makes us human.

I am but the gentlest of men
that weeps for that
which is beyond my control
that which harrows my soul
running it over and ripping it
to tragic and tiny bits.

You would be hard press
to find others who express
such gentleness
and shortly you will see
the last of it in me
as I either writhe in new found rage
or wither and fade away in tearful pain.

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

It is a pittance
but for such kind words
I send remittance.
Though the distance
denies me thy presence,
I gift the with
more than mere affections
sending love and a deep
seas worth of respect.

To be a caged animal
and illicit stares
of shared despair
while trying to
clear the air here
of that ***** stench.

The populace passes
by my caged display
as I try to play
pretending that my pain
is not so real.

I dress myself up
in nice new things
watching how
the other animals swing.

Reality shows,
sports events,
and other
things
obfuscate
how human beings
isolate themselves.

My cage expands
to fit all my pretty things,
while my mind shrinks
and stinks of sinking fools
who are also drowning
in their own stool.

Why do we not raise our voice
in the exaltations
of eloquent speeches
that elevate
human beings
search for the true meaning
of this mean existence?

Why do we elevate
false cloth symbols
while celebrating
the sacrifices
of the subjected
and suckered
masses?

Why does
the angry incoherent cries
of a madman
overshadow
the million more
who struggle for
a better world?

Why do I bother
writing these words
knowing they
will not be heard
by many
and of those few
who
even deign to notice
most will ignore
in favor of
more interesting diversion?