Today I’m struggling
to find
a potent
portent
of the human
condition
to place in
my poetic
compositions.

When she came to school but never smiled, she was asking for help. When her eyes were swollen red with tears and she could barely breathe she was asking for help. When she was startled and flinched at the slightest touch she was asking for help. When there were bruises on her arm, and blood on her lip, she was asking for help. When she could not say the words because she did not know or was to scared she was asking for help, and when she slit her wrist in shame, or was beaten to death it was too late you stupid *******.

I am most alive
late at night
when the evening sky
overcomes the light.

When silence reigns
I come to explain
many things
in the poetry
of solitude.

The daylight
might
blare
whilst I
walk among
many of you
but the true me
is not there.

Daytime brings
this pale shadow being,
a lesser reflection
of me.

But in the darkness
I spring,
a broken seed
blooming
into a beautiful
black orchid.

Some may fear
the loneliness here,
but I am already
a multitude
made of many voices
and I need to be
alone at night
to hear them clearly.

Do you know how to love shadows
sit in a sick stew of solitary confinement
for a crime you did not commit?

Do you know the feel of someone else’s violence
the stinging lashes, reddening
rage distorting
fury unleashed
by someone who seems
to hate you
as much as they
hate themselves?

Do you know the flinches,
the constant guarding,
the tears cried
only when no one else
is in sight
cause why
give those ******* the satisfaction?

Do you know the self-deprecation
self-debasing
pretending that your pain
is so freaking hilarious?

Do you know the loneliness
of the vacuum
cause you distrust
any stranger
who might touch
you?

Do you know the shame
and pain
when people push
and claim
that you should let
the perpetrator
back in to your life again?
Do you know
how it feels
to press down
on the skin that swells
while tears and snot
stifle your breathing
after a beating,
how the physical pain  
of the abuse
seems to weaken
but the other stuff
leaves you wishing
you were never born?

So, an orange ape,
with hair so real
you’d swear it was fake,
said we have to make America great
and the first thing he plans to do
is punish anyone who chooses
to burn a flag.

Doesn’t mind the kind
of KKK dudes who burnt crosses
the David Duke
white sheet brotherhood
who endorsed him,
but if you’re a Muslim
or a Mexican
you better watch out.

I don’t want to be divisive
but this guys been selling *******
and conservatives wonder why
a lot of people are contemplating
evacuating America or suicide.
It is because in our younger days
this nation faced
fascist states that grew the same way.

Lesbians and gays are afraid
cause the VP Pence
tried to pass a law that allowed
people to discriminate.
It is strange cause people used to proclaim
that the LGTBQ struggle
and the civil rights movement
were not the same.

So some sit in terror,
some rise to march on,
some show their solidarity
with Facebook posts,
and others write in hopes
that words can overcome
this ******* rerun
from nineteen fifty-one.

Your wishes are wasted on her body
Tasting desire’s empty promise
The illusion that passion equals love
The truth of the moment is only passing
The passion is a byproduct of living
Reducing us to animal urges
When our better natures
Would be better served
By jerking off
So our rational mind can be heard

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

I tell of the hell
that befell
a young whale
as purple pastels fell,
mixing in the foam,
bleeding colors
mostly unknown
in this aquatic world,
tainting the slick skin
of my orca acquaintance
I consider a friend.
So, that his kin
barely recognized him.
If not for
the sonic waves
that emanated across
the ocean floor
this purple painted
whale would have
died alone.

Such a brutal braggart once brandished blade
cutting core through knave and slave
in power mongering machinations
through acts of war and devastation.

Death is not fair.
It does not care
or breath.
It does not take
what bleeds
leaving seeds
to spring into
a lighter view
of the heavenly
some days.
It discriminates
against the poor
taking them more
other day it plays
with the wealthy.
It does not balance
or think
grow or shrink.
It is not a tangible being
or a solid thing.
It will not make a deal
no matter how deep you feel.
It is not your enemy or friend.
It is simply the end.

This tangled web
of red nerves divide
and separate
into strange vines.
Their throbbing heat
blocks my sleep
with surges of
pain and anger.
Roots work their way
to the broken tooth
and gums inflamed.
**** builds
its own bulge
then explodes
a yellow, thick,
viscous, poisonous
liquid.
My face swollen.
In defeat
forces me to seek
a dentist.
whom I distrust
because of
the previous ones.
I do not want to
but I must
or this ****
fueled folly
will be the death of me.

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.

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.

There was rowdiness.
There was disobedience,
non-compliance,
but not any directly
dispositional disorders
of defiance.
There was violence
but not his doing.
There was a troubled child
bright, buoyant, but wild
There was me growing.
In my personal experience,
it felt as if they would rather medicate
and make their life easier
then deal with a complicated situation.

You meet in committees
with shareholders from
war contractors
watching them proclaim,
“We need more money
and less oversight.
We need to expand our
external influence.”

Their words spread
like the bubonic plague.
Such a phage,
yet they still say,
“We have to delay
China
and Russia
from doing the same.”

So we put up
the TTP,
while the drones
we made
invade
other countries.

You say, “we are
the only people
who can save
the whole world
and it will take
business interest
to truly preserve
our military power.”

You say……

I have to turn you off.
I have to turn away,
because my tears fall.
They are tears of rage.
You never hear me
no matter what I say.
So, ******* America
you are not great,
stop putting your greed,
inhumanity, and stupidity
in display in a parade
of such extremely
violent charades.

This dismal day
dulls my emotions
in favor of
some distant
tv visions
that I used to love.

The city is a jungle.
Streets run like
ravaged rivers
polluted by strange people,
plastic cups,
unread newspapers,
and other pieces of clutter.

The cruel king crow
cawed at the awed
cod fish cad.

Foolish feathered fiend
fawned and preened
as he walked the
cool cat scene,
while his fishy friend
stopped to bend
and tie his
loose shoelaces
up again.

Meanwhile
not even
one tenth of a mile
down this road
a feline ****
snuck up
and jack slapped
a fat cat
*** hat that
was hassling
his sister Jaguar.

The streets howled
As pigs prowled,
stressed and tense
strangers vented
misdirected anger
at random passersby,
like one unsuspecting
fly by bird guy
who was running on
a caffeine high.

Then there is me,
observing this city,
dumb jack ***
with a fat ***,
who thinks he
understands
what he sees.

It is the soul of the night that devours me. Hours spent in silence frightens, enlightens, and bores me. Nature spins in all her soft cool glory. Little pools of water lit by lamplights. Cold fences swing in and out in time to the shifting masses of shift workers. Trucks come and go at random intervals. I am tired, so deep in the fatigue that I require crippling amounts of caffeine. I am a stimulant fiend. Barely functioning as me, more like a specter of me. I watch the world from my comfy shack, letting it spin me back. Dipping in the solace of solitude, I search the universe for truth. Eyes cast everywhere, mind running wild, I ask the night for answers. Its silence says, find it yourself.

Do you recall
the black dot
dark spot
fevered body
burning
sun hot
getting dizzy
and cold
feeling
a hundred years old.
Till, you fought off
this severe
chest cold congestion
that might have been
pneumonia.

We sad strangers have stood idly by
Watching people suffering
Brown skin Muslims rounded up
While waterboard artists play cover up
Unmanned missile launching drone
Blow up innocent bystanders homes
Justice is just a joke’s simple guise
To promote social inequality
Worthless warfare idiot warriors
Public figures probably figure
Were just sheep cow toe to heroes
Noble sacrifices will quiet riots
Justifying all of those lies
Can’t call a soldier on his crimes
Well then string up the general

Cut her open
and you will find
immeasurable potential
hiding behind
skin and muscle.

Not a casual canal
but a tunnel to life,
brewing ingredients
deep inside;

The chance to grow
a being who will
develop unforeseen
ideas for humanity,

the chance to harbor
a hopeful artist,
soft hearted songwriter,
social worker,
teacher, scientist,
painter, activist.

A man does not wield
that level of power,
that wild wonder
of a body working
to put a new lifeform
together in a womb.

A woman’s body
is a gateway
to all worlds beyond,
it is the center
that pushes our species on.

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.

I don’t want to fall asleep
Cause death is not that far
From the other side of wakefulness

Perhaps, I lack patience.
I am rapacious
for more rapturous
word wonders worked
from your weirdly wired,
but beautifully inspired brain.

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.

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.

They are lost
soft petals
fallen on
hard earth
now rotting
become soft dirt.
Only things left
of their essence
is the presence
that haunts our mind.

Fogs of memory
coalescing and receding
back into the black void
of time
leave a lingering pain
tingling in vain
an addiction for a drug
we can never achieve again.

So occasionally
we wake in tears
spend a day in fear
that peace will not return here
believing the grieving
is what we have become.

But if that pain could be undone
would we unwrite our memories
take back the shared stories
let the water un-wash their dead forms
let our hearts be unbroken
and un-warmed
by their affections?
Would we willing lose
all that we were with
and because of them
to not feel that pain again?

I could not bear that lost.
Could you?

The streets are empty.
Yellow lines
run from
the horizon
as I ride them
to the end.

The houses
are boarded up.
Hordes of home maker
won’t wake up.
Soccer moms
won’t be
driving on,
because its all gone.

Glass windows
are shattered
with strange webbed cracks.
There are no spiders
to climb them
just long lines
of silence.

I can find this
lack of violence
everywhere I look,
because all roads
lead to a state of
nothing hood.

Nothing is good,
but it isn’t bad either.

I used to be scared
of big fat spiders
but right now
I would be happy
to see
any non-plant living thing.

There aren’t even any dogs
left barking at me
while I move.

Its just miles
of mind numbing
loneliness
and an eternity
of time
to be consumed
by many mad
states of
my fragile mind.

This dismal day
dulls my emotions
in favor of
some distant
tv visions
that I used to love.

I need to read
to seed my mind
with a variety
of strange fantasies,

to inhabit a multitude
of identities
and let disparate ideas
be revealed to me.

I’ll set them free.
scattering all these things
like jig saw pieces
to an unknown puzzle.

Then I will write
A new  fictional
world of words with
truthful purpose.

I will let all prose
flow
letting all poetry go
where my subconscious
wills it.

I will follow fleet of foot behind
barely keeping up
with my quick witted
well read and readied mind.

Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold.
A frigid wind blows
with indifference
as strangers
pass each other.

A soulful voice
accompanied by
a beautiful keyboard
sings hope
from a street corner,
while nursing
a small plastic cup
of transparent
brown liquid.

Such a sweet
street performer,
I drop him
two dollars,
as he shivers
and smiles.

Such a sweet
street performer,
but the night
is a promiscuous lover
leaving him behind
in time
looking to find
tomorrow’s mind.

Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold.
A frigid wind blows
with indifference
as strangers
pass each other.

A soulful voice
accompanied by
a beautiful keyboard
sings hope
from a street corner,
while nursing
a small plastic cup
of transparent
brown liquid.

Such a sweet
street performer,
I drop him
two dollars,
as he shivers
and smiles.

Such a sweet
street performer,
but the night
is a promiscuous lover
leaving him behind
in time
looking to find
tomorrow’s mind.

To you my fellow poets
Write me a wall of hope
With yellow ceramic tiles
And forest green blocks
With sunny paintings
And strange abstractions
A tile per heart that still beats
A tile per person who still dreams
Hold me up with your love
Cause I have no hope of my own
Please write me a wall of wonders
So I don’t feel so ******* alone

People retreat
further and further
into religions,
politics,
consumerism,
or chemicals
to avoid
confronting
painful truths.

Im not angry only disheartened. I offered you a universe of wonder and you chose a dull road of uninformed and camouflaged conformity.

Dark is the insight of love
Not light that devours each night
Spawning the play of day
But evening shades
Layers of grey
Turning to black
It’s cool and welcoming
Quiet and beautiful
It’s expansive
Frightening
A vexing void
And every variation in between
These two similar things

It is a curse of negative spaces.
Strange featureless faces
speak in discordant tones
repeating bland talking points.

So, I escape into the worlds I make,
sing in swift but slurred words
making my own rhythms and lyrics
as I stumble in a manic state,
pulled down by the heaviness
of my creative plates,
those several pieces of porcelain
spinning on thinning sticks.
Till, I fall, crack, and break.
Then in my broken state
cut all those around me.

The politicians
are corporate shills
who take our taxes
to pay their bills,
then let greedy businessmen
keep their pockets filled
not caring who gets killed
by the bombs of
the war profiteers.

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.

The Earth is art. A production of natural forces projected to projects beyond our basic comprehension.

I am stupider when i know but smarter when i think.

They cast me out
into the open ocean
to float alone.

The choppy waters
rippled randomly
all around me.

As I sought to swim
I found a tree limb
adrift in this infinity
of water that was
trying hard
to drown me.

While I hugged the
thick brown wood,
my skin was
scraped and shredded
from the rough bark
and other protrusions.

After an unknown
quantity of hours,
daylight was devoured,
and the once bright sky
gave way to starlight.

Above me lay
an infinite expanse of space
which was reflected
in the water
where I struggled
to remain
afloat.

Then in an instant of fatigue
one wave captured me
and I screamed silently
as oxygen was replaced
by saltwater,
and I was swallowed
by eternity.

Curse the scribbles
that stretch to form
strange and monstrous feature
of beasts unborn,
creatures of never were,
sharp and violent
nightmares
moving silently
like ninjas
who seeks to
eviscerate me,
such unlovely things
that would ****** me
if they weren't
abstract reflections
of my sick imagination.

Yesterday was a winter road
with frosty figures lining up
to dam a young soul to limbo,
not quite hell but purgatory.

Now they all change
their gory stories
so they can feel better
and in their tales
they make themselves
sainted knights.

But we outsiders
know the harsh facts.
We do not make ourselves
the heroes of our tales
but journeyman
of varied skills
seeking the truths
and speaking it to
despite how painful
it might feel.

Life is my office
corner cubicle
where Plato's Cave
enslaves my day.

Phone calls and data entry
till ones and zeros becomes me
and I go away
to become we,

a dull unknown
who goes home
for just the slim hope  
of finding myself
in quiet introspection.

To long I was living with a singular vision,
became a self-perpetuator of my suffocating obsession,
the spirit of my possession
was possessing pretty things,
and all of my collecting
was to the detriment of my well-being.

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.

If you say that a child should not go off to war
Then I say everyone I know is a child
Youth in wisdom and intelligence
Full of potential
Not made to waste in the ways of war
But blossom in the days of peace

Welcome to another year
of pursuing my supposed
state of physical and mental
superiority.

Welcome to another year
of watching the world
dissolve right before me
as morons run it straight into
another apocalyptic attitude.

Welcome to the cessation
of deep and thoughtful creation
as each heartbeat breaks down
and each friend falls flaccidly
to feed this already rotted ground.

Welcome to the fruitless
endeavor to enlighten the clueless
as I become the best useless artist
of my dying generation.

All ego and fluff as I stuff
each page with my grand intent
to pursue the betterment
of every single human being
that could be served by my creativity.

Then, I welcome myself
right back to this reality
remembering that nothing I do
really matters to the universe.
I am just a speck in the cosmos
with a slightly bigger ego.

A man is measured by his work
Stressed and struggling
Gasping for a breath of relaxation
A daily compounding of suffering
Dignity sacrificed
Life
Judged poorly if he is poor
A person should be measured better
Perhaps not judged at all
Could be judged by his kindness

I come from
a myriad of
multiverses,
all times
and spaces
that converged,
all potentialities
that led up to me,
to the river that
will flow,
and the mountain
that will rise,
climaxing
in the epic apogee
of the death
of this frail body.
I am
a prisoner
of that certainty.