Little boy blue
Burning in the stew
Cooking piping hot
In a crock *** full of bits
Chunks of me
Parts of you
Boils us till we are done
And eats us through and through

I outsourced
my inner turmoil
to this medium,

all the conflict
of trying to fit
and not fit
maybe dangling
between two *****
that I can’t give.

Rhyming and non,
never posting anon
because even though
I know that
I don’t belong
when I am gone
I want someone
to know me.

My identity
is complex,
crossing
ideas that
are counter
to themselves.
So, I identify
as the poetry guy
dying to stay alive.

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.

The numbers don’t match.
They really don’t work.
I sit and scratch
my head
till my scalp hurts.
I add up all the variables
subtracting what’s right
and I am still confused.
It keeps me up all night.

He will suckle
and spit
drinking blood
from your ****.

He will spread your legs
and leave
an unprotected present
deposited
past your ****
once he climaxes.

He will claim your womanhood
and demand that you submit
to his weakness,
calling his faults
dominance and confidence.

He will prey upon
ancient insecurities,
that subconscious programming
because you do not know
your own binary coding.

He will trick you into
drinking your resistance away,
plant his pin *****
in your fertile crescent,
and if you try to erase
that lifelong mistake
he will claim
that you are a sinner.

Subdued you will
sublimate your will
and fulfill
fifties sitcoms
housewife fantasies
for a family,
sacrificing all your dream
for the man who schemes
to enslave you.

The strange old house
with gray crumbling
tiles that were
exchanged for
off yellow siding

A place where
I spent so many years
laughing and playing,
personal history making

A place where
the stone sidewalk
was placed unevenly
from the screen door
and the gravel street

A place where
we buried
a lot of pets

A placed where family
would come to meet,
and speak
of important things,
where we would convene
for delicious meals

A happy place
that I sorely miss
as I write this
to sadly state
I no longer
go back to
that special place

Is it sad that life lacks the poetic flare
But that is only if you are blind
For I find the flare is everywhere
In the chipped white painted cement ***
Were dead plants lay to rot
In the lightly faded red brick buildings
That businesses reside in
But over head in night times
One can see the light shines
And finds a friendly face
Here perhaps those cracked sidewalks
Were children use to jump and say
That is the way we crack our mothers back
The root that saw such sidewalks rise
Slowly pushing out of the earth until
The sidewalks wears a rising crack
And that is only the nonliving things
That catch my fancy
Wait till you see how nature inspires me

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

Desire is the will of flesh
Wanting to pleasure oneself
And when it harms no one
Whose business is it
But your own

Dear, your dainty dandelions
are dancing daringly across
the dirt path way
straight up to my driveway
and it is very creepy.

How fast my favored fuel
of rage burns,

pushing me to
ascend higher then
most humans do,

but not in the pursuit
of materiel wealth.

Instead, I prevail,
pushing myself
in the pursuit of
a better me,

channeling
all the things
I see and seek
into the art
that leaks
from my
poetic veins,
while most of you
barely change.

The sun sets
on your repeated
madness,
as you use drugs
to dull this
unsatisfying ache,
seeking simple pleasures
from the things
that others make.

As I strike
the golden core
of who I am
and who I seek to be
you are drenched
in the misery
of your sick
complacency,
rushing to fill an
ever growing hole,
with more
and more stuff.

Death has come to take its’ fill
From a sleeping serpentine creature
Writhing with longing to make still
A slithering thing with viperous sting
Slashing or smashing never concealing
With no breath left in its’ chest
A cold stiff corpses has no feeling
No heart beating beneath this breast
Only empty eyes praising the ceiling

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.

They split
the splendor,
hurt mother nature,
grabbed and slaughtered
her bright red, and green
bedded daughter.

They cut down
the tall brown,
broke with burning blasts
the bulging bottom
of the beige mountains
that were snowcapped.

They painted in plain mortality,
stained that verdant quality
of waving grasslands
that expands
before the curious swarm
of a young humanity.

They cracked the crust
beneath us
causing the gas
to come rushing up
and poison us.

So, now we weep
salty sea tears
tainted by oil spills
and dead otter bodies.

Till, at last
when all those
tragedies have passed
when stillness reigns
in our place
we are disgraced
and displaced
by our self-inflicted
genocide.

She is in part
a viper,
a poisonous plague
upon my heart,
venom spitter
dark adder
damming me
from a distance,
crumbling my
resistance.

She is dangerous
but I do not mind,
I find I like that kind
of danger.

I quit
Cause you are not worth
The sea of salted tears
That spill
Assaulting me
You are not worth
The red elixir
That feeds
Your distorted
Vampire needs

I retire
Before my will expires
Because I am tired
Of seeing spires
Of factories
Smoking pollutants
Choking all humans

I am through
With claiming
That the truth
Will set us free
When all I see
Is a bubonic plague
Festering and growing
Tumorous cities
Of infinite stupidity

I am finished
There is not enough spinach
To Popeye my way out
So I exit stage
Flesh and rage
Pull back those skin pages
That life was written on
Letting strangers carryon
As the carrions come
To devour me

Cause I am ******* done

Your pride
comes from
your nationalism,
your patriotism,
rage and dissatisfaction.
You pass each moment
stewing, colluding
with each new oppressor  
in the name of solidarity

Spewing slogans and
other simple statements
oaths and weak ideas
you build a fascist nation
and wonder how you ever got here.

I will not kneel or yield
in any form or field
to the fallen dreams
we call god.

Engage, in deep conversation not just hollow pleasantries. I want to see what is deep inside of you, let your universe unfold. I am certain through intense dialogue we will peel back the dark mask you hide behind. You are more then your previous relationship. You are more then the binary politics of society and all their simple slogans, and obfuscating talking points, you are more then the religion and ancient texts you turn to to find meaning and morality. You are a set of unique experiences, in a unique vessel, in a unique time, and a unique space. You are transcendent flesh formed from the cosmos with consciousness. Please do not squander that gift.

There are men who died
Not fighting with weapons
But with words
No shooting
But standing up

I rest upon their shoulders
A coward with a hero’s heart
Too lazy to be a real activist

Too tired to fight this bulk *******
So I write about it
With love
It is almost the least I can do
Short of not sharing anything with you

It is a painful boil
that we must burst,
lancing the tip
even though
it hurts,
see the center
bubble
and drizzle
up and out
of its
volcanic center,
so, the swelling
may cease
and we may begin
to heal again.

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

Lovely light hearted Layla,
my lyrical inspiration,
the source of my hopeful heart
and tear felt frustration.

I want to ride the night,
to stand by your side,
and hold your hand
as we cross this land.

I’ve heard the tears
other broken hearted lovers cry,
and seen nothing,
but the blackness of the otherside.

Oh, treasured friend of mine
is there something there
behind your eyes
that I might find,
perhaps a slight spark
lit in your heart
that parallels mine.

Layla, I long to hold you by the hearth,
hot and ***** loving affection
that burns against the dark
of the cold winter woods.

Layla, you are my wild one,
in whom I trust
but I doubt that my love
will ever touch
the summit of your desirous affections.

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

Language is the way i love humanity with an outsiders affection. Listening to the language of their stories, as they slowly reveal the essence of who they are, tentatively exposing just enough to intrigue but not scare strangers away.

Do not wait for me.
As troubling as it may seem
I babble on
breaking brooks
in my stone laden
dreams.

Do not stop
or slow a step behind.
Please proceed.
I hope you find
the peace of mind
that eludes me.

Do not carry me
when I fall.
For I am far to broken
and each shard
of my being
is a dangerous thing
made of
silver and sterling
nighttime daydreams.

Do not worry,
I was in no hurry.
While you rushed into
the death you thought you knew
I stayed behind
to enjoy this time of mine.

Do not look back.
Fear finds its own facts
and sadly I lack
that spark which knows eternity.
Unfortunately, there is only me
here in the moment
on my mud rock
that pirouettes space.

Do not stop.
Go on and rush to death
because heaven or hell
awaits your final breath.
I don’t mind
keeping my heaven and hell here.
Whilst you wither and disappear
I’ll enjoy the crystal clear
running water,
the clean skies,
the beautiful animals
that you cannot take with you
when you die.

Do not worry one bit.
I got this.
Just go on my dear
I’ll rest right here
because this is such
a sweet and wonderful
but one time only life.

Today was a lazy day
Shameful play
Not working at all
Just shoveling ****
Down my throat
One unhealthy calorie
At a time
One thirty minute
Show at a time
One video game
To ease my mind
No books
Just sleeping
Not much thinking
Just peaceful dreaming
Ashamed
Because I was unproductive
But sometimes
People just need to veg out

Some say be patients
it takes time to measure
and debate this
racist institution
while your religious
delusions
put you right back
to the place you
started from.

I don’t like periods
In my poetry
They are fine
In prose
And paragraphs
But I don’t find
They work
At the end of my lines
The stanza stops
Or enjambment
Works better
For the poetics

Life is chaotic
Uncomfortable
Incompatible
With stagnation
Constantly changing
Direction
Changing truths
Impossible becomes
Fact
Star trek fiction
Becomes reality

The broken hearted
bare the shame
of seeing their loves
forget their name,

Lovers who do not
see or share their pain.

Gentle floating
flower petals
fall, withering.

Birds go on chirping.

The forgotten go on hurting.

Who can blame
those who do not call again?
Cause the lonely hearted
would not even call themselves.

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.

Oh, humanity
can we strive
to live a life
of compassion?

If we hear
the elderly
crying and lonely
can we spare
a moment,
can we care
enough to listen?

If we see a stranger
standing on a corner
with a lifetime
of white hair
and pain to share
even though
he may be scamming
can we still care
enough to spare
some food at least?

If we stand shoulder to shoulder
with the disenfranchised,
the disrespected
and the disappointed people
who have been
discriminated against
can we look them in the eyes
with love and respect
and not add to the grief
that they always seem to get?

If we get the chance
can we be better
then the others
who came before?
Can we do just a little more
and be decent for a change?

the greatest thing an artist can aspire to is masterpeice, the same can be said for a novelist. But the greatest thing a poet can aspire to is love and all of its wonders

The streets bleed violence
But it’s not what you are thinking
Tv has got you drinking up
The new age of segregation
The cultivation of gentrification
One neighborhood split by the highway
One street built up with new projects
To expel so called misfits
Lies value profits over people
See specific skin colors as evil
Or at least deviant

So, I cry out across the canyon
“Tell me you don’t believe in it.
Please tell me you can see it.”

But even the echoes ignore me
How can I save humanity
If they can’t see what I see.

I Put one foot in the grave that I dug,
Take one last hug then I shrug.
Blood pressure rising,
from trying to fight the tyrants,
but it is a losing battle
and even I know it.

So, for every inch forward
I take a hundred and one back.
Till, I collapse ready for the dirt nap,
ready for the final pause,
but maybe someday someone better
will take up my cause.

What is it like
to live on
the storm front
in the USA?

When clouds of discontent
come close and portend
agents of our
shared destruction;

When poverty’s blistering winds
blast the faces of
the poor women, men,
and starving children;

When the sounds of sorrow
swoosh in a swirling
tornado,
even though,
the wealthy know
that those
tax cuts don’t grow
our system
but push it to the brink;

Till, the storm drops
and this farce we
call democracy
is washed away
in favor of
an uncertain future.

I sail down the stream of consciousness, aimlessly, while the moon's chesire grin lights my way.Crickets serenade each other.The wind ruffles the leaves with a rythmic and harmonious beat. I find myself chuckling as those standing at the shore yell at me, "your going the wrong way." Their faces are weathered by the daily storms of petty concerns. How can they tell me the way to go when they rufuse to get wet?

With the flick of my nose
I lost the soft scent of a rose.
Now I know no rose will ever grow
and I weep to myself,
“Why am all alone?”

Then they plucked out my eyes
so now I can’t cry.
My soul is so parched
that even my heart is dry.
Thus, dryly I sigh,
“Why am I alone?”

There were sounds that made me smile
but the loudness of this life
caused my eardrums to burst.
Now I sit in a state of silence
left with only fingers to touch air
and feel the vibrations I can’t hear.
It’s like a Greek tragedy
with bits of irony I will never see.
So I think in my head
that I might as well be dead
because now I am truly alone.

Oh dear in dressing to be a princess
you cut your feet on glass slippers,
ate the poisoned apple of conformity,
had *** with a big abusive beast,
wept deep in dark dreams as you slept,
gave up the sea and your voice,
forgot how to sing, swim, and learn,
traded childhood dreams for adult schemes,
so you can aspire to other’s desire
to confine you to your pumpkin carriages
and strange boring marriages.

I could not find the words
To fulfill the fullness of this thought.
I could not bare to forgo
The wonders we both know
If such a thought was lost
So while you went on
I waited in this song
Searched for the precise way
To express what I wanted to say
Now you to are gone
And I might have been wrong
Lollygagging around
Looking for the perfect sound
While everyone else
Has moved on

I love all avenues
of human advancement
as long as they
seek the expansion
of knowledge, wisdom,
and compassion.

Oh, the tears of joy
that fill my face,

the salted streaks
of liquid sliding
down the sides
of my age lines,

as I seek some
past time
of pleasant
daydreams.

I attach myself to achievements of another
Me in the string of consciousness
But I am a shadow of him
As he was an echo of older versions
Reborn in the morn of refreshed brain chemical
A regeneration and transformation
Working with the passions of past moments
Playing with old phrasing, claiming ownership
But for each verse edited, each syllable reworked
The me of now revisits and demolishes
The me of old, as I have done so many times
Today I am myself, yesterday I was someone else
And tomorrow I will be changed again

I feel the flutter
Of the wingless
Butterfly
Mashed up
And shredded
Flesh
Embedded
In a grisly cocoon

Sometimes we slip through the cracks
fall down a hole or trip into the looking glass
and never manage to find our way back.

Innocence is betrayed as it is parlayed into
the whole growing up thing that
we don’t want to do.

Playmates fade away as we lose yesterday.
Their faces blur then just disintegrate,
along with the games and stories we made.

Time becomes the anchor that weighs us down
as we struggle and drown in deadlines.
Playful pixies dust fantasies are lost to these
important and emerging responsibilities.

Teddy Bear hugs and fairytale love
become the stuff of forgotten hopes,
and with each romantic advance rejected
the dreamer dejected retreats to
the safety of a stale and scheduled reality.

Till the mirror reflects the inner sadness.
Our shoulders slump, skin sags, and wrinkles,
as our eyes lose that sly Peter Pan twinkle.

-2023

When the stress
runs roughly
over these
current moments,
we look back
to the black pasts
and remember
shiny slivers.

We turn
those dark
and dangerous days
into greener shades
of pastural pleasure.

We celebrate
our own
old ignorance
and call it
nostalgia.

We ride
a carousal
of colorful
what ifs,
and maybes.

Wasting fleeting
opportunities
to make today
better then
yesterday.

Good morning Springfield
how are you?
don’t you know me
I’m your working son?
I’m the poet who
drives up from Litchfield
and I’ll be heading home
when my shift is done.

Well, here comes the sun.
My shift is almost done.
I’m tired as I can be
without falling asleep.
As I head home
I hear good songs
playing on my cellphone.
I wish that they were louder
because that music is usually better
then what is playing on my radio.

I stop once or twice
after a long work night
to drop a pound of ****
and keep driving home.
Orange hazes paint the sky
but my eyes are tired and dry
and I can barely keep them open.
So, I turn the AC up full blast
as the early truckers speed on past.
Drops of visine and shades to help me see
as I stretch my right arm
on the seat right next to me.

One last song before my exit,
I hear Willie Nelson sing,
“Good Morning America,
I’m the Train they call New Orleans.”
Then I hit repeat to hear the song again
before my car come rolling in.
Now, I am finally home my friend.

These are strange messages,
in a sweet and deep
conversation;

Thoughts I speak
from fingertips
to myself,
and maybe
someone else,
as I dance
in and out of
other peoples
perspective,

aware that I
cannot connect
a hundred percent
to them
but I can get closer
then most others
ever get.

This comes from
a lifetime
of listening
and reading.

I find wonder in the warmth
of human connections.
They lessen
the coldness
of this
dark reality.

Which is why
it helps me
to see
strangers
happy in love
no matter what
their orientation
may be.

We break like waves on a rock
Slamming again and again
Then running away
Rejoining the trillions
Of water molecules
Then restarting the race
Separately moving together
Crashing and returning
The rock erodes
As we come and go
Go and come
Shattered stones
Become wet sand
As we break like waves on a rock

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.