Her beauty is unattainable
As I stretch myself taring at
The thin ****** strings that hold me back
The visor painted completely black
The horrible buildup of ear wax
And the ****** brown wash rag mouth gag
That makes me deaf, blind, and mute
While killing my sense of humor and hope
in one fell swoop to boot

As a child I asked my mother
to mend my lonely heart
to accept and understand me
as I am and not as who she hoped I’d be.

Please do not turn your pain on me
inflicting wounds so deep
that I refuse to ever trust myself.

Eyes aflamed with tears.
Sinuses clogged with snot.
Without comprehending
without words I asked for her patience
her kindness, to secure my innocence.
I asked for safety at home.

Had I known the violence she would sow
planting row after row
of red marks and broken hearts
I would have found a gun
and a safe little corner.
I would have asked no one
and taken the peace I deserved.

They yell.

One father figure
far from
being young,
is a tired
diabetic,
with poor circulation,
thinning hair,
with missing
and rotting teeth,
he is a constantly
frustrated human being.

His roommate,
the other
middle aged
just turned
thirty-eight
who works
almost every day,
hair starting
to gray
just a little
teeth following
his father’s lead,
is also tired
and frustrated.

The old man is lonely
not only because
many friends
have passed
but because
his son
has to drive
fifty miles
each way
almost everyday
to work.
So, they only speak
in small spurts.

The middle-aged son
is tired because
his father always wants
to chat at the early a.m.
when he is still sleeping,
and barely even
able to open his eyes.

There are always
other little issues
like ***** dishes,
or some minor
cleaning concern.

But the son is always on the run
and the old man is always snapping
so, there is friction,

and a slight fear
that one day
when he is not here
the old man
with his health problems
will finally succumb to them,
and the son
will come
home to find
his father dead
or dying.

So, even after arguing
the middle aged-man
manages to remind his dad,
that he loves him,
even when
he is seriously considering
strangling him.

I am disconnected.
Though I long
to be a part
of the collective heart
that binds all,
I do not feel
its tangible will.
I do not see
the helping hand.
Apathy stands.
Dullness fills
this ill fed
fawning,
yawning body.
The heat saps,
makes me
want naps
more then
human
connections.
Today dies
the dullest death of all.
nothing ventured,
nothing gained,
and only a
small poem
to mark this
mundane Monday.

I am just a fish,
a tasty dish
that others missed,
a tuna plate
or salmon patty
with just a pinch
of mercury
poisoning.

Feel free
to eat me
and tons of
my floundering
family
so, you can die
oh, so slowly.

All I can see
is a wasteland of
stone, glass, metal,
and wooden rubble
in an open air prison
where children are living.

Six thousand bombs,
stirring up
thick clouds of grey dust,
obscuring the horrors
people are enduring.

The attackers are
barely even
warning people
to move on.
The exits are blocked.
The power and water is off.
The suffering doesn’t stop,
and these civilians
are unable to leave.

How are you unable to see
the hell spring of grief
that is burning human beings,
the furnace that still cooks
even when no one bothers to look
because all of the crooks
were just waiting
for the perfect excuse
to make the news
with a justified genocide.

Mass ****** and more oppression
with the weapons
America supplied,
and guess what,
another child just died,
more parents got radicalized,
and if they survive
will you be surprised
if hate is the new demoncont.
that wears their tired red eyes.

The rich guys lied and decided
that unequal retaliation
is perfectly justified,
so we are on a road
to the extinction of
human decency
as the world murders
our collective humanity.

Crack, boom,
the sound of thunder blooms
orange heated chaos,
breaking the foundation
an entire building.

A whole family line
gets an early burial,
as what’s left of my heart
gets carried inside,
popped in a box
to be buried alive,
because their beat
was the same as mine.

Nothing I write
will change the minds
of those unwilling to
listen and see people who
are close to total annihilation,
as deserving of love,
and compassion,
but even so
I am still asking.

Help, please, help!?!


Instead we get beheadings,
mass shootings,
****** assault,
retaliation,
and the expectation
of more tragedy to come.

I can easily condemn
violent actions taken,
but I need to understand
the origins of this rocky foundation,
and potential solutions,
because I can’t stand the
horrors I am facing
without eventually breaking.

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

You can have this body.
It is only a borrowed thing
made up of grass and mud
of burning stardust
and everything I ate
and everything that was
eaten by what I ate
every drop of water drank
every particle and wave
of those lovely raving solar rays.

I am only a place holder
for the next thing.
So, you can have this
soft body for the breaking
for the decomposing
and atomic, molecular reshaping,

But the dreams our mine
as are my thoughts.
For all that was gained
taken or lost
you cannot have my heart.
Unless, I decide to give it to you later.

Real freedom is not won
in a ****** war.
It is fought for
in small moments.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are digital displays
that parade advertisements,
enticements to subdue
the brilliance of you
to a brand name.

But a free man claims
no exterior blandishments.
His passion is a forest fire
to the average candle stick.
He doesn’t give two *****
about the shirt he is wearing
as long as it fits
and keeps him warm,
while he watches the world
play whack a mole
with the styles of the day.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are built up
pay day to the next payday.
Each individual tries to
sustain the quality
they have gotten used to
while slowly improving to.
So they struggle through
the tedium of repeated motions,
dull their tempestuous emotions.
Until, it takes a drunken weekend
to find the child inside that
life has brutally beaten into submission.

But a free man
feeds off the land,
takes what he makes
with his own hands,
and the help of nature’s bounty.
He fishes. He hunts.
Despite what the government wants
he immerses himself in the splendors
Of books and bountiful nature.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

They are written by academics
and in critic’s reviews of what
other artists should say or do,
how they must bend to
a particular style or form
to acquire the praise and applause
of the frothing swarm.

But a free man writes
what he wants,
how he wants,
and when he wants.
He does not reduce
or restrict his language.
He does not hold back
letting silence serve
the servile gatekeepers.
He is his own master,
mastering his own identity.

The walls are not
iron heights
and concrete made.

I have not escaped.
I have my foot
halfway out
those iron gates.
Perhaps, I will make it there
one of these days,
or these definitions
of being imprisoned
will be the prison
that I need to escape.

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.

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

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

The introductions come
Words phasing
Crossing the barrier of my character
Or at least what she thinks
My character is
Pleasantries are reduced
To simple statements
No observations involved
Only assumptions made
And I do not care enough
To trump their misconceptions

What a dashing figure,
shirt unbuttoned halfway
as he delivered
his lines with grace.
However, this is not a gay man’s appraisal
of another man’s handsome face,
but a straight and secure observation,
a poet’s reflection
informed by the actor’s
performance.

Small shadows
of little spiderlike forms
followed the
folds of my blanket.

Terrified,
but never surprised,
or paralyzed,
I swatted hesitantly
at those imaginary
nightmares,
**** little
intangible demons.

Even after
sharp swipes
they still
moved forward,
and I retreated,
not in defeat
but stepped back
and allowed
sleep
to overcome me.

In dawn and
other daylight hours
those little nuisances
never made any appearances.

They merely
made me
question
the state
of my
sanity.

Be forewarn
that when I write
my autobiography
I will lie;

Sometimes by exclusion,
omitting the unfitting
bits from my narrative.

Other times
by the blindness
and biasness
of being
so far removed
from the life
I wish you
to view.

As I strive
to write
about my life
in truth,
I will fail me
and you to,
but not for
lack of trying
to do right.

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.

Another sun down,

another broken sparkle
fading in the distance
turning into an empty instance,

another black hole nightmare
swallowing every stray ray
dimming then destroying
every beautifully bright day,
leaving us lost in the dark.

While parishioner celebrate
history’s ending this way,
on this tragic date
cause they think
destruction makes us great
and will take us to
a final holy space,

they sing hallelujah,

but I am not happy to say
goodbye to today
and all of my yesterdays.

There was a man sitting at the docks with a boat as he watched a young boy drown. The drowning boy cried help me in gurgled tones. The man with the boat at the dock sat and said "I will pray for you." He prayed patiently waiting for an answer while the boy drowned.

I see the trees
rotting diseased,
void of spring’s leaves,
Roots cleave
dry brown dirt.
Wooden daggers
pierce the earth.

Grounded,
they are my roots
hungry for all
life needs
drinking deep
of the natures
rainy liquor,
but we are each
still dying.

The sins of the father do not own the son.
It matters naught where we come from,
We can scramble out of the shadows of history
and become a better breed of humanity.
Just because it was and always should be
will not be a rallying cry for traditions.
We need not cow to superstitions
that diminish us,
because we have the potential to be
Brilliant.

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

My dog is
going to die
but the tears
do not come.
They are hovering
just out of reach
on the otherside.

This time
as someone
I love dies
I intend to
remain
by their side
as they journey
into that last night.

The last time
I was too busy
too distracted
to visit,
but in my defense
I thought
he had
plenty time
to live.

The time
before that
I cannot excuse
I left her alone
a withering
figure
stuck in a bed
till she was dead.

I know most
have the blessing
of believing
their grieving
is only temporary.
Their guilt is absolved
because after all
they will see
their loved ones
in heaven.
So, it is easy
to take people
and animals
for granted
but to me
this planet
and life
is a one time ride.
So, I will
hold this grief
and guilt inside
so that I remember
to be kind.

Its heavy breathing,
heart stopping,
as a heavy man
crushes you
beneath the sheets.

You scream,
but he silences you
with threats.

Then shame
becomes the name
of you silence.

Years unsteady,
eyes unraised,
walking afraid;

Whistles
send shivers,
nerves
on an edge so deep
that sometimes
fatigue
is not enough
to bring you to sleep.

This is not my story,
but I am trying to see,
hoping to understand
so, I can be
a better man,
a helping hand
for those in need.

But when I speak to loudly
sometimes
you cannot breathe
because of the anxiety.

Then this poetry
of attempted empathy
becomes my shame.

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

Nine to eleven years
dedicated,
frustrated,
overworked,
but loyal,
put time in
at the expense
of family and friends.

Events missed,
but work required
you push yourself.
Till, your stressed,
and oh so tired.
That is the job,
and for every year in
you might get a raise
and some time for vacation.

Forty to eighty plus hours a week;
Eyes blur as you swerve
driving home.

Thud, thud, thud, thud,

The safety treads save the day.
You make it home ok,
kiss your kids goodnight,
and your gone before
they head off to school.

Nine to eleven years
but after the buyout,
I mean after the merger
the main office is moved
and you are let go.

In the holy pursuit
of capitalistic growth
business is righteous.
The free market is god.
Now you have no job
And you find loyalty means squat.

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.

Summertime
drive to work,
car running,
hot engine gunning,
I keep moving
making sweat
roll down my neck.

All this heat
seems to sharpen
my senses,
intensifying
once dormant
emotions,
that make me cry.

Cinnamon and raison
memories resurface,
tasty pastry affections
from my grandmother
who made such delightful
treats,
and tucked them away
in her Tupperware tray.

A blue and white
small plastic pool
we used to stay cool
punctured by twigs
draining into
cracks of
the sidewalk
that worked its way
from our back door
to small the side streets
in the public housing.

Baby brother
on the back of my bike
as we ride
to the library,
baby brother and me
going to the movies.
Time keeps moving
at an uncomfortable
accelerated pace.
Moments are replaced
then changed
or erased by times
cruel intent.

The loss of pets,
the loss of grandpa,
the loss of grandma,
the loss of my presumed
innocence
is scorching.

Until, the season’s
rambunctiousness
slowly softens
to more bearable temperatures.

The night is sweet
and generous to me,
offering a soft breeze
to please,
and prevent overheating.

But there is something
eating at me.
Grief bating,
it has been waiting
for an unconsciously
expected tragedy.

So, tears threaten
to consume me,
water devouring
soft skin,
and flesh reddening
for something
that has yet to happen,
something I have imagined.

Though, I know
the night is beautiful,
I still cry.

We do not let go
so, their grip
remains,
but slowly the vice
untightens
and their lives
are untethered.
We come in together
but leave each other.
Till, the memories
lose their distinctness
and bit by bit.
We blink and miss
each experience
that softens and dissipates.
Until, we withering flowers
fall the same way.

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.

If I said I didn’t mean to make you cry
Then that was a big blatant lie
I wanted tears to fall
For you to sink into a sullen state
Then rise inside a phoenix like furnace of rage
Reborn and open to the world
Ready to explore
That is why with words
I implore you to feel
The heights of anguish, rage, and joy
So you can slip the restraints of dull emotions
And ride the rising tide
Of the beauty in this one life
We all get to live

In words
she works
her dangerous tongue
shaping the
desires that were,
are, and yet to ***.

Viper eyes
of Egyptian fire
surge towards me
purging any urge
I have to resist
the demon’s lips
that ache to kiss
my tired flesh
to death.

It has been far too long.
Rain never looming.
My eyes always averted,
hands working out
****** frustration,
but when I face her
I yearn to bend
to her whims.

She commands me
to crawl
and I do.
She demands
that I beg
and I do.
Then she tells me
to devour her flesh
as she devours me
and my tongue
whips viciously
savaging
her moist lips.

Legs parting,
heart thumping,
she demands
all that I am
as a man.
I become hers
and give in
pumping
with a passionate fury.

We howl,
growl,
and nip.

The wet sounds
of desire’s fulfillment
fills the room.
We are consumed
in such a sweet
****** tempest.

Till we part,
only temporarily satisfied
animals waiting to refresh
so, we can feed the lust
again, and again.

There is no release
from this vile disease
that affects a society
that claims it owns me.

I watch in disgust
as fools drool over the dust
of our most recent bombing.

The mother of all bombs,
the biggest ballistic *******,
killer cadre of collective bombardments.

Even though I have not looked at
the pictures yet,
you see them and then
still embellish with inflated sentiments,
claim the explosions and armaments
are so beautiful.

Our youth line up
to sign up
and support
this reckless endangerment
of humanity,
while I write to plea
begging that they see
this violence is degrading
the quality of our
American collective.

I like loving beauty from a distance
A soft spot
Not lust
But adoration
Lesbians
And
Straight girls
When I was younger
The hunger for love and ***
Drove me
But now
I am a vessel for appreciation

I’m glad that someone finally got through to you,
that you are listening to someone who
says the same exact thing that I always do,
and now you’ve got this can-do attitude,
so everything is going to be better.

However, I am a little annoyed
that you managed to avoid
hearing anything that I had to say,
when I was trying convinced you
of those truths that you now believe in.

Life is flagrant debasement
Inspirer of self-effacement  
So I flagellate myself
Skin raw and exposed
Like my heart and artistic soul
Ready for just a little more
And a little more
And just a little more

She has tip toed
Straight to the edge
No railing to hold her back
Just a drop
Dull thuds
Sound
Her body breaks with exhaustion
She will fall
Collapsing into nothingness

She wears
a pink dress
with a pink
flowered crown,
as pink leaves
flutter
and fall
to the ground.

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.

It is a certain sadness,
an empty sorrow
for something I never had
but still miss.
I ache for any scent,
for any nasal experience
cause I have never known
the sweet smell of anything,
but if I consider it a blessing
I have never known the stench.
of anything.

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 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.

Do not wake me
Do not take my sleep
Haven’t I suffered enough
Wont you just leave please
Take me back to my dreams
Where I might find
A modicum of peace

I break my fist
as I crash against this
brick wall of
prepackaged *******.

I break my neck
as I try to twist
and barely miss
taking a bruising hit,
but still manage
to hurt myself
dodging it.

In the end
as I move to bend
letting light in,
and distorting it
taking the fragile part,
and reporting it
I break my heart,
but never lose it.

Two fish
swim in
their own
aquarium
prison.

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?

You break me beautifully
split the fabricated flesh
that once felt like silk
under your soft fingers.

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

I break my pattern
and reduce the restriction
of obsessive attention
to a particular
schedule or behavior,
because if I want to
I can do it now or later,
take the time to savor
the flavor of the moment
because I own it
and not the other way around.

This type of freedom is profound,
and easy to achieve
even though it frequently eludes.
Obsessions frequently intrude rudely
and take more time than
I care to admit to.

The world may be
very close to ending
or not,
but my life is all
that I really got,
so I will greedily
hoard my individuality
and liberty to see and perceive
that strings that seem to direct me
and sever them immediately.