I’m letting go
To let you know
That I am unsure
What I am thankful for

Some have less
Some have more
Some live
Some die
And I struggle to decide
Why

I made
a beautiful space
in the corner
of my shade,

turned venom
into lace
and raced away
from your hate,

swirled quicksand
with my tired hands,

petted pretty vipers
that hissed,
slithering
to where I stand,

chased fireballs
that were ready
to consume me.

I pursued
my own agony,
bit my tongue
to taste
my own blood,
then spit it out
not in spite
but to watch
the red grow.

I wept in
the spider’s den
embedded in
a cloud of webbing.

I slept in
the sinking ship
that fell into
the cold underwater
abyss.

I lay afraid
to move
and died in
the infinite
eternal
black
that was once
beautiful,
until
it collapsed
and took
all the warmth
I ever had
back.

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

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

Pygmalion
Do not fall in love
With your illusion
Your marble lust
Will not serve you well
Will not help you grow
But see you soften
And become stale
For though your love
May be statuesque
She will chip
Falling to dust
Never learning
How to be
A beautifully unique
Human being
For she is only
A whisper
Crossing the void
And coming to nothing

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 only die
If I refuse
To use what I am
If I stop pushing
Past the parameters
That other people
And myself put on me

Where do all the super heroes go?
Big bulging biceps,
pecs ready to
rip right through
in t-shirts
or super suits.

Moral quandaries,
social philosophies,
counter to expectation
these are not merely
masked muscle men
and women
we are facing,
but symbols.

Righteous warriors
going round for round
putting clowns into the ground,
or refusing to yield to
the urge to **** the few
big bad dudes
who wear ridiculous costumes to.

Guns and knives
squads of suicide
life on the edge of tomorrow,
but those forces are fragile
frightening forms as agile
as circus acrobats,
almost immortal
because they
always seem to come back.

These are merely
specters of mythic glory,
manifestations of our magnificent
imaginations,
panels of artistic exaggerations.
Truly, the inspiration
of my own self-creation
because in a world
without superheroes
I long to be one.

The lights should not twinkle
or shimmer like they are reflecting
from a swimming pool.
My eyes should not water
but they still do
when I remember you.

One cool long trip,
when I had to put
these waxy things
in my ears to swim;
One long ago time
with water in my nose
that strange wet
and awkward sneeze.

These are only tiny fractals
fractions of a memory
minus depth
and color quality.

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

He hasn’t got a shot
On this brown town block
Except the one shot
By the stopped cop
Who pulled up hot
Cause the little brown boy
Was playing cops
On this cold stone block

The lesson is
we are not less then
other men
but different
in our radiance.

Some may shine bright
while others wear a light
that is on another spectrum
one that most humans
are not even looking for.

As a child I was devout
Faithfully glued to
An idea with no truth

But I spoke clearly
Understood the fictions
Better than most adults did

Like little girls understand
Barbies, My little ponies
And monster high dolls

Like grown women
Who still want to be
The princess they saw
On Disney

Like little boys understand
GIJOE, Spiderman,
And Superman

Like grown men
Who still want to be
The Batman they saw
In movies on tv

I clung to this fair unreality
Hoping it would be redemption for me
Because the bruises and red marks
Demanded I believe
Insist I must need
A superhero Jesus to save me

While I was drowning in a sea of sin
I had to beg the divine to let me in
Noah’s Ark,

Hoping that god knows my heart
Was full of good intentions

But the bathroom florescent lights
Made me feel ugly
Like everyone was judging me
With all my pores and acne
With all the scar my mom gave me
Though she hid them perfectly
Just beneath my skin

I thought god would save me from her whims
Or at least take me away to be with him

Instead of leaving me in pain’s den
To lose those faithful delusions
One heartbreak at a time
One history and science lesson at a time
One standup routine and comic book at a time

Till I lost my taste for the divine
While at the same time
I was just plain losing my **** mind

She is the only Christmas gift
I wish to unwrapped
Red cap, red lips
Fitting my tip
In this desirous being
Emptying all that I have
In her soft silk stalking

It was a bright and beautiful
brand new day
as she crossed the courtyard
with a lullaby on her lips,
saw the swans take off and fly,
then slowly descend
dipping their delightful necks in
the once still water
that was now surely stirring.

A sweet tune tantalized her tongue
as she hummed
something that bordered on forgotten,
it was powerful
but only echoed,
imperceptible
in her unconscious mind.

A fire swept through
her anxious gut
as she struggled
to recall
something she was certain
was important.

A dog barked.
Bees buzzed
about their honey making business.
She was certain
even anxious
she would not forget this,
but she missed
the magic of her musical muse,
and cursed herself
for not remembering the tune.

Time obscured
dawn’s radiance
the day died
a brilliant turquois
to dark blue and blackish
death,
and stillcont.
the song would not come.
It hovered within
her breath.
It beat beneath
her soft blossoming chest.
A tear fell
as she struggled
to unforget
the song she had lost,
but even in sleeping
and waking
the wonderful melody
would not return.

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.

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.

I gathered the ladders
One after another I strung them together
Planted their base
Like a bed of wooden flowers
And set them up towards the heavens
Till the top pierced
The white billowy clouds
And when I got to the top
The clouds didn’t stop
They went on like
A white winter wasteland
But I never found the place
Where the human race
Settles after they die

The panel is cracked,
but it still opens when
I pull it back,
peeling
fat ***** of wooden skin
to expose
whatever lurks within.

I open it up
just enough
to look inside,
trying to put
pieces of my past
memories together
even though
they are like parts
of different puzzles.

My head pokes through
and I can see
that old tv,
the Nintendo,
and a little me
playing Mario three.

I can see the
soft recliner
laying back
as my baby brother
plays with those
little lettered blocks.

I push farther in
even though I am afraid,
terrified
that I might get
trap inside
my previous life.

I am trying to
recapture
the parts of my history
that are true
to share them with you,

but the bits get
blurred with time
and details get lost.
Till, I can’t find
the rooms behind
the other side
of the wooden portal.

Tv made to many promises
Saying we could conquer all problems
That love would solve them
All that Disney sentiment
In reality it meant ****
Truth hurts and love is all the worse
For the losing in poorly using
One vulnerable heart
Failing find false starts
And arrhythmia
All fluff and hopefulness
Doesn’t mean a **** thing

I stumble in the dark
Not dumb
But silent
Observing the night
Not partaking in the rites
Of this redundant life
But the surprises
The high rises
Of new hopes
That the dreams
Born of nightmares
Can birth new rights
Kissing the canvasses
Making sweet love
To  the portrait of light

I do myself great harm
seeing the long arm
of the War Department
and all the innocents bombed,

while preachers and Mary Kay moms
go about their days.
I shift the rubble and clutter
that covers the internet.
I look for things,
I won't forget.

Forcing myself to see things
that make decent human beings
weep with grief and indignation
children lined up, bodies in bags
small faces wearing the veil of death.

I take myself to the brink of tears
and cross sorrow’s sick threshold
to learn and share my despair;
Hoping that like-minded hearts
will stop
what violent people have started.

The factory is a human mutilation of our soul
Mindless repetition putting out one part of a product
No skills fully learned or refined just another machine
Nothing to learn and grow for, nothing to strive for
Just day in and day out until death, illness, or retirement
Claims your fleshy sacs of aging water skins

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

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

Dopamine swelling
And swarming
Our brains
Fingers hands
Arms
Touched
But in loss
We lose ourselves
Shivering in withdrawal
The agony of life
Is in the loosing
One by one
Addictions
Not given up
So much
As stolen away
And we tremble
With tears
Knowing
But still living in fear
It has been that way
For hundreds of thousands of years
Since the first burial
Till the last mound is past
Till the last human basks
Withering in grief
Wallowing but raging against the thief
Who stole eternity
And will not give it back

It is a quiet and uncertain passion
that rips my painted paper thin skin.
False bravado to show even though
we all know I have no real machismo.

But, under the night sky I am second
only to the full moon’s illumination.
I am cool as my midnight walks,
as sweet as my imagined talks
that flit across my flat notepad.

A thousand lines of what I would say,
a million bits and syllables of what ifs
dying quietly to become whatever
in the pitch black infinite indifference
of those stranger’s black hole souls.

I crack the plates tectonic,
stack the shifting landmasses
one more put upon
parallel spinning kitchen ware.
Till all of time and space breaks.
Cosmic energy crackling
with me in the middle
absorbing all that I can see
alone in the silent vacuum of observation,
inspired by the void my peers sired.

Scabs crusting;
Feet wrinkle
with an unrelenting
wetness
in cold socks.

The soldier walks
reaching the point
of contact,
a swift interlude
of gorilla combat.

After the gun fight
he collects
small bullet casings.

Then when silence
finally comes at night
he takes them out,
rolling them
through and around
his fingers.

Various
colored casings
of memories chasing
each potential
point of pain;
He imagines
the cycle of sorrow
that each projectile
might have injected
into this world.

Then the soldier
buries the bullet casings
and
finally, leaves the battlefield.

It is a spectacular explosion
Of strange puffy whiteness
Daring to duel against
Huge light grey blue hued
Storm clouds
Descending into night time
Star strewn colors
Till the cool cumulous disappear
And the evening rain falls here

Deception is the art of media, church, and state. It should not be the foundation of how human beings veiw and treat each other. That we are seperate is a deciet. As humans we are all bound together, not in some magical web of destiney but as a human collective with a social responsability to make this world a place of peace love and understanding; instead of a world driven by self-interest, and fear.

He's a brawny brat
whose got bratwurst
for brains.
He talks ****
and complains
about less then
minor pains
while the whole
world is
going up in flames.

Come forth to dance my fairy kin
For long have I grieved the loss of innocence
Fluttering wings of fanciful dreams
Where children and cherubs sing
Where teddy bears parade and play
Till the picnic prepared is displayed
and they can devour delicious honey treats
Where goblins conceal themselves admiring
The playful Pegasus’s acrobatic flying
Where guardians with soft pearly feathered wings
Protect all young and saintly human beings
Where spirits offer solace to combat the grief
Of knowing that all things living will be deceased
It is a land of legends, fairytales, and myths
Where only children, fools, and dreamers visit
And I miss it dearly
For in adulthood I have been many years
Separated from that fantastic realm

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.”

I am a smelly **** furnace
Sadly my flatulence
It potent
The powerful smell
Is hell to your nose
But I do not know its’ odor
All it does is make me laugh

Time is
flexible glass
that reflects our painful past
showing transparent shades
of our better angels
bending to pressure.
If we push forward hard
we break the glass
lose the illusion
of our troubled past
and have a chance
to move on.

Perhaps, I was a peasant in love,
a partly pleasant player
in the prose and poetry
that I present to thee
my cherished queen
of love laden dreams.

Perhaps, I was
the curious cockroach
crawling across
the curators
favorite canvass,
the portrait of our
beloved queen,
to be crushed
carelessly by
the callous king,
becoming a small stain
on the otherwise
unblemished
painting.

Perhaps,
before we past
parting ways,
pondering
old playdates
when we played,
I was your partner
in strange adventures
before my feelings
became too complicated,
before I became
the crestfallen fool,
the King’s favorite jester
who made you laugh
while I tore myself in half
for the sake of your wellbeing.

Now my twin wanders somewhere
out there
unburdened by the broken heart
and if you see him
send him back
so, I can be him
once again.

That light enters
through my window
and lets me see
little floating particles
that seem to flicker
in and out of existence
like tiny twinkling stars.

The coat is coal black and twice as heavy
compressing me
but I will not turn into a diamond.
The early winters white waves of crystalline water
are like deserts sands,
A barren wasteland,
leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I do not rush
I let the day find me
Still
Breathing slowly
Waking from the illusion
Not sleepy eyes
But wearing eyes of wonder
The water drips and drops
Pooling into a puddle
The wind wooshing
Through my coat
Through my hair
The air is cool
A dog barks in the distance
The ground is soft
Giving slightly beneath my feet
I indulge the forgotten feat
Of stopping
Seeing, feeling, hearing
Still as a stone
Well almost still as a stone

There is paper
in the fire,
white sheets
bloated with
ink blot thoughts.
Some are dismissed
while others are lost.
Scattered ashes
spread beyond
the blinking
blank canvass
of human consciousness.

Partial photographic evidence
charred and cracked
kills her once
serene complexion.
Red hair
turns to
orange flares
that only leave
more ash there.

A crumpled notebook
of diary sheets
scream its loss
out to me
in silent pleas.
Till it pops,
crackling
like dry leaves burning.

Outside this
field of fiery grief
there is a
cool bluish black night
beckoning me
into its amnesiatic relief.

Words cannot describe everything so we use numbers to break the noun barrier.

Anger is not a
sustainable source of fuel.
It is far too combustible,
and dangerously volatile.
It will either burnout
or blowup in your face.

What a monster you make of me
All teeth and claws
No heart to speak of
No love to dream of
No hope for a better world
And the beast emerges
The darkness consumes us
But it will only take one of us

Poetry and writing are partly the quest to find the patterns that illuminate our inner truths.

I hope those beautiful flows,
Flowery verses, and deep prose
Always help me find my way home
Whenever I am searching these roads
For a place where humanity
Can finally see what I see
And celebrate the success
Of setting world citizens free
From the tyranny of greed

Certainty and ignorance are terrible bedfellows.

They say to be heroes
To be great
We have to become killers
Harbingers of hate
Bullets and bomb bringers
No one line zingers
But ****** rage
Howling sorrows
Creators of destruction
Anguish in the name of
Our love of a nation
Patriotism facing
One way while war
Wages in another direction
Violence there for our inspection

A heroic deed indeed
Would be better defined
As the art of ending such wars
Standing arms intertwined
To stop the hate
To end the wars
To obstruct the tanks
The drones
And the soldiers
Who march on thumping
Backs heavy with their packs
Souls stained with their warrior way

I’m too tired.
My minds a blank,
got no gas
in my tank,

no cash
in my word bank,
and every verse
is super stank.

I am going to drown
in the gown
that was grown alone,
brown and dried
from the leaves that died
and the seeds of death
that were sown at home.

When I was younger
I wanted to be
Superman
Spiderman
An X-man
A man
Like Gandhi
Or MLK Junior
A writer
An artist
And through
All of this
A good man
So here I am
The poet activist
No leotards
I am not marching
Or flying
But I am trying
By writing
To make the world
A better place