The sky is eclipsed
by dragon lips
that snort and smoke
while white wisps
work their way
across a
turquoise day
as observers say
“man that's a strange.”

Oh, how I long to be
the silent lips
of your poetry.
Eyes wavering
to and fro
like a pendulum
falling down the page
as you find my poems
and devour them.
Then,
I long to be
the one you wish to see,
so you can speak about
what you read.

It is not red hot,
but a beautiful
ink blot
on the white spot
where I let my words
write themselves
and reveal how much
of a fool I really am.

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.

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.

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.

I have not loved a loss so well
As the hell I put myself through
Engaging this age’s darkness
Swiveling and dancing in
The cycles of sorrow's
Ancient kin
Loss, war, death, pain
Supping up the sick stew
Of carnage and fractured flesh
And reviewing it
Over and over again

You do not know your enemy;
For the flesh you see
bleed just like thee.
Tears swell and fall
when they lose those
they love
those whom
they would hold close;
But then when your
bombs explode
shrapnel goes
in their throats
in their arms
and in their eyes
clouding and killing
their consciousness,
our enemy buries this
body boiled in
rage and chaos
setting the stage
to make them hate us.
How can you blame them?

My muse burns with a cold fury,
a frosted fire that flames in the night
fast as death and slow as time.
I sit and wait, hoping I’ll find
the right words to fill this rhyme.

So, I seek soft speakers who feel as I,
the ones who use poetry
to tell beautiful truth filled lies.

Then once I have devoured their vowels,
once I have sipped and savored
their constant consonants
briskly reading through
the stuff they share with me and you,
I let my mind do what it must do.
I rest, absorb, learn, and get ready to use,
the sweet words of my wonderful muses.

The words will not save
or even obey me.
They are not my salvation.
Truly they enslave me,
keep me from escaping
into dark bouts of stupidity.
Ignorance cannot invade me.
The words work their will
becoming my ****** poetry
as they try to elevate me.

I’m a dead poet
Ya’ dig
I don’t have to makes sense
The academics
Just have to think I did

You are resentful of the essential
growth of knowledge and wisdom.
You treat good men
like garbage
and bad guys
like heroes.
Your poets
and scientists
are forgotten
and in exchange for that
your leaders give you this ****.
The **** you miss
is replaced by a face
of pure contempt
and you praise him
for a *****’s definition
of greatness.

It is hard to explain
When you work the midnight shift
You only seam to exist in nightshades
Not the warm daylight hues and tints

When sunshine becomes
Inverse in your tired mind
And days are measured by
Moonrise and moonfall

When solar heat
Is just a sweet precursor
To the night that cools you
And the sunrise signals slumber

How sweet it is
To interrupt this with
With a day
Spent awake
Surrendering to the
Splendor of the sun

Stuck in Springfield alone,
all my friends are back home,
nothing to do but sleep,
but that's not me,
so off the gym I go
to workout all the pain and anger
in my soul.

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.

She has the face
of a blonde-haired angel
with spectacles.
Tears slide down her cheeks
as she sits and speaks
trying to work out
if this is her own fault.

He has the face
of a tired war hero,
wakes up at night
when no one is near
with too many tears.

One old man stands
on the corner
with a cardboard sign.
Another one
has a heart attack
before its closing time.

You may think
that you are fine
but you’re just standing in line
waiting for your turn
to wear the mortar
and the earth.

We all get a foundation of hurt
but can we build compassion
up from that dirt.

People move
in fear,
migrating from
the dangerous militia
chasing them
with death’s gleam
in their eyes,
fathers carry
their daughter,
mothers urge
their sons
to move on
as miles pass.

Strangers
and
family members
are tightly packed
and stacked on top
of one another
as a world of choppy water
moves them forward
to a harbor they hope
is safer than the home
that they ran from.

Thin tired faces
hungry and anxious
hoping to escape this
nightmare,
easily inches from death,
move to march
across soft lands
and desert sands
seeking something
us soft bellied
cheeseburger
loving sedentary
men and woman
could not comprehend.

I hear the horrible hate speech
screeching out at me,
beer bellies bulging dangerously
with prechewed stupidity
denying the humanity
of these struggling human beings.
Tears of strained patience
crease my age lined face
as I try to explain
the reality of another being
who is suffering.

My peers do not hear me
instead they promote fear greedily,
But I see some strangers
holding up signs of love
speaking the same truth
that I eschew
to show all of you
that refugees do not walk
without a reason,
and we have enough resources
to be decent human beings.

Life is the lead of the century
The best role we were born to play
These lines are what we breathe to say
Struggling to live today
Only to die tomorrow
And all that went in
To how we got here
Each struggle
Each generation
That birthed the previous
Stretching all the way back
To the beginning of time
Is the only miracle I need
To feel like I am
Part of something divine

The heart is a lonely hunter
But the souls is a silent savage
Designed to steal and plunder
While our spirits and minds are ravaged

Sparkles in the distance
Partial to our own existence
We are human
Martians
Venusian
We are creatures
Reaching
Searching
Beseeching
The universe
For reasons

So here I am a freak. Undesirable to some confusing to others annoying to most. I think to much about why things are the way they are instead of accepting them as they are, I question to much, so I don't get to far, and in the chaos of the world where people try to pretend there is order I understand more then most, becuase I walk along the borders of life like a lonely ghost and see more then almost everyone I know.

People say honesty is the best policy. Yet, some in situations being completely honest can destroy the social glue that binds us. What a conundrum how much honesty is to much? Is it relative to the person and sitaution? and if it is relative how does one calculate the level of honesty?

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

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

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.

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

How kind any mercy would be
Instead I lived in her shadows
Ever changing moods
More tempestuous then
Any restless sea
And ten times as dangerous
Stupid to the point of cruelty
Ignorance and violence intertwined
Making bad bed fellows
I spent my childhood on the gallows
Begging for the headman’s axe
Or a naked noose to set me loose

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.

The human narrative can not be written till after the fact. Only then can humans force it in to some cookie cutter continuity of meaning.

It’s not submission
but a positive disposition
towards those in a position
to be friendly
or a thorn to me.
Hopefully,
I can spread
positivity.

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

The ship is done.
The sea is bare.
My ocean soul
no longer stares.
The ripples still.
The water stops.
The waves rise no more.
The journey is through.

Nature is weighed down by winter’s solid white water.
Cold winds break across the burial ground,
soft mounds where their family history is found.
Mother, father, brother, and daughter stand
struggling to hold onto each other’s hands
while the black clad tools of this corporate land
prepare to eviscerate the safe drinking water
with metal pipes of pure crude destruction.

These nightmares
Are black and white
Rectangle pieces of paper
Because colored
Cuts would hurt
Too much

Instead we track
Railway cars packed
People stacked
And dropped behind
Barbed wire restraints
Bare burnt brick buildings
Were soldier’s stole
Pretty clothes
Trinkets, and anything gold

Never forget
The nearly naked numbered men
That barely survived
The acid burning
Of women and children
Starving saints
More bone than flesh
Ovens made to cook
The stolen Skin of their kin

We hold such horrors
Far away
Keeping shallow thoughts close
While Forgetting those
Who suffered such indignities
But this is our shared history
Lessons we need to see repeatedly
So we do not let others succeed in
Seeding the same dark tyranny
In our modern democracy

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

As I drop my drawers
to drain my ****
of yellow ****
I see this
flickering ****
and I am afraid
it might cause
an epileptic fit.

Afraid that I might
drop and hit
the white porcelain tip
that is covered
with a little bit of ****.

I am afraid that
exhaustion
has made me hallucinate,
but it is just a large cylinder bulb
about to burnout.

Her love is a disintegration of the self
A sacrifice of everything inside
An Identity suicide
Draping the void over life
Suckling on eternity
As if it was the lips of death
In one breathe
She erases her existence
With one verse her persistence
Finds affection to be a ****** mess
Red ribbons cutting flesh
Suffocating the best
Of her individuality
But we all got our vices
So who am I to judge

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?

Such a fruitless endeavor,
as this dullness devours
my endless hours.

I sit seeking stale stimulus.
Being used to immediate
gratification,
of the menial mental
*******
type,
I am stumped
by my listless response to
having everything to do
but not wanting to do
anything.

No movies but one
yet to come
stir my passions.

No tv shows
that I stream
or download
get me excited.

No outside adventure
unencumbered
by the once weary winter weather
inspires me
to get up and go.

No books
even garner
random looks.

I am merely
burnt out,
but just for now.

You’ve been lied to
They spied on you
But that’s not half the ****
They used to and still do
To my brown brothers

Dark is the heart of the cosmos that beckon us. Racing waves of solar energy. The ocean ripples with moon's reflections. I wish to drown in the yellow orange hydrogen furnace. I wish to drown in the shiny brine that reflect the same shade as my hazel eyes. I wish to drown in love, in awe of all the wonder this reality has to offer. Let it swallow my poetic soul, leaving only a lite littering of poetry in my wake, and I will die a contented fool.

Cut that country music in half
and laugh at that,
cause it has become so weak and sad,
sorry sentiments bend in a season
of uninformed political reasons
for patriotism,
a schism, and vision
for dumbing down.
Until, this clown
self-selects
for Darwin’s award
of a dumb death
that makes the rest
of humanity
smarter on average.

It is not completely destructive
But a deep dulling
I want to ask for help
I want someone to love me
But I cannot speak
I am muted in my pain
Because my pain does not matter

These brick buildings
are built up from
the ground
wearing empty porches
with no sound of
family conversations
or love.

The beauty that held me hostage
Was scaled dreams
Fire breathing armored wings
Green eyes glowing in the night
Green fire
Green streaks across the heavens
The beauty that held me hostage
Was a vicious predator
Ripping its prey asunder
Limbs and bones crunching
Chomping violently
Nipping at me closely
Turns me ghastly almost ghostly
To know such beauty
Could be the end of me
All it takes is one misstep

To each writer who wears a world unique
Bleeding on their velvet sleeves
Infinity within their grasp
Heavens lips spread from present to past
Eyes denying all forms of hubris
Only blocked by human ignorance
To you my dear who’ve made it clear
That every day is a grand exploration
That every syllable is a new gestation
And each sentence a phoenix birth
To burn anew and be reborn with every generation
For you I have nothing
Because in your mind is everything

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.

They were
crimson
arterial
kisses,
blown in
razor sharp wind;
loving me to death
as I was frozen.

The river flows
As subtle as a golden rose
Scent straining to reach
Any receptive nose
Firing weird wiring
Synapses flare and glow
I fall into the clutches
Of what all dreamers know
Time and space is vast and fast
But I am small and slow
Beating back the wild waves
Shrinking as much as I grow
Such a sparkly little speck
How little I truly know

The musical fog
mists my eyes
and mystifies
my curious life.