She broke her own heart
For a love that was not even fit enough
To bare her weight
To stare and say
Sweet promises for today
The feather fell
Flying lightly in the breeze
Cold as ice
Her skin was twice
As heavy as death
Her sorrow was as deep
As the Marianas Trench
Left her drenched in despair
The places where
She put her hopes for love’s return
That love once spurned
Could be restored
Instead her tumblr is erased
Her facebook is replaced
With a blank face
And old messages
Left unanswered

I know better
I love life’s pleasures
Unlike the old philosophers
Who created grand systems
Of morality
That they could never live up to
Systems that sustained their ego
But I know
I am no hero
Half hearted
Hopeful
Maybe a word warrior
Working wisdom
Into my poems
But I do not sacrifice much
I am weak
I love
But not enough
To decimate myself
Not enough to give up
The pleasures of my life
I know myself
I would like to be better
But I am too **** lazy

I am the forgotten butterfly
The friendly fairy who does not cry
For being passed by
For being left behind
A nice guy
Ahead of his time
Loving in secret stanzas
Smiling and idling
While potential lovers
Move on with another
And the wings become ornamental
Flutter, frozen in the winter
Crack and crumble
Frost bitten and forgotten
Beautiful but broken
Till waiting and loving
Leaves me all alone

In this new world
We should take up the cause
Of play
Make up a pause
To stay the way of innocence
Not ignorance
But in aw
And be merry
And be playful
Returning to the wonderful
Like the children do
Every day renewed
With adventures

It is a hollow hole.
The clicking sound
ticking down
is not my heart.
Instead inside,
I find the truth
to **** the lie,
that hope is an illusion and
order is an addictive and
overly optimistic delusion.

That the fleshy thing
I thought was beating
sending blood and energy
through me
was just a bomb
waiting to blow
laying me low
so I would know;

That we dance on strings,
not made of god’s energy
or fated things,
but thin golden lines
of our own mortality.

We evolved to be
nothing but
corpses in clothes,
whose flesh feeds
the next generation
which needs our particles
to grow.

Is there wisdom
to be unraveled
in the words
that she wrote,

perspectives
of a watercolor world
that I did not know,

abstract conjecture,
projections of
a future,
through
reflections
on the past?

Or, are these
lily white
pastels
of sweet
sophistry
only meant
to distract
or comfort me?

Poet’s passions
are prevalent
but lesser men
classify them
as deadly sins
denying the
black ink within
that boils to the brim,
forcing her or him,
to take and bend
words to their own
passionate whims.

I listen beyond the night fatigue
Nature sounds barely dinner
The country road are quiet

History looks forward to me
Filling moments of silence
I search old memories
For the various stages of me

Hazel eyes closed
Find darkness that is deeper than
And cold starless sky
Infinity allows my identity disappear
I am little me
Full of unsymmetrical scars
And superhero dreams
Fearless

Little me
Traveling down forest laden roads
On a sunny summer day
With my grandpa

Little me
Kissing razor shadows
Hope, sharp and stinging
Young soul, so solitary
Longing for the void

Little me
Wondering why
I have to live
With all my pain
Buried under
Her rage and pain

Little me
The insignificant adult
Drawing strength from
Despair
And poetry from death

Calls wet stones
Glimmering in Sandy dreams
Come back to this shade of reality
No real lesson learned
Just traveling back and forth
As the pendulum of personal history swings

I got a fascination
with the frequency
of my urination
in relation
to the caffeination
of my beverages.

Spring, summer, and fall
Have fallen so fast
Now the sickle is sharpened
The scythe is ready
The harvest is bountiful
The wine is heady
The winter is here
So let’s be clear
You froze to death
Before you disappeared

If I disappeared
The universe
Would not mourn me
The loss would be
Fractionally
Unfathomable
I only matter in
This small circle
Of human influence

We crumble
into the rubble,
collapse into the past.
We cringe when
the fire comes,
but never run
fast enough.

It makes us
It breaks us
Shreds us
To pieces
Lifts us up
Causes us to retreat
In solemn defeat
To repeat
Painful behavior
It is *******
And Agony
Hope binds us
And separates us
From our humanity

I’ve got anger for days
and you call it my rage.

I was seething before,
writhing on the floor
by the kitchen door
that led to nowhere.

Which is why I
never ever got there.
I just got more ******
felt like I was
being dismissed
because no one appreciated
my humble genius.

So, I put ambition on layaway
paid on it a little every day
financing life with a little hate
that drove me towards
working out late
and writing even later;

Popping ephedrine
to make it through work,
crashing all day
then waking up
with such a deep thirst
that my whole body hurt
that much worse.

Honestly,
the art wasn’t as good
as I thought it was.
I mean it was still better
then this modern pop ****,
but I hadn’t, still haven’t
mastered it.

I’ve calmed a bit,
but the anger is still in there
waiting to push me farther
then I went the last time.

The tv is blaring
with the
big bad wolf scaring
three little pigs,
who manage to
get the jump
on him,
making me grin
when they win.

I see
other cartoon figures
get hit with
a TNT blast
if that was me
I wouldn’t come back.

All the ducks in a row
like Donald and Scrooge,
even got a black duck
who is a daffy dude.

All the laughter
is great,
this passionate pleasure
made frame by frame
eases my pain,
and remind me
how funny
****** up
**** can be.

An average person can live within the constraints of their social programming. A smart individual can recognize how they are being socially programmed, but it takes a little bit of genius, arrogance, and madness to rewrite one's own intellectual and emotional programming.

I am as fit as a fractured fiddle,
with my wooden cords galore
that don’t make a sound anymore,
and a neck like wet cardboard
that is ready to fold and fall
on the bathroom floor.

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

Stand silent stand still
Don’t think and don’t feel
Don’t fidget at all
And you will get paid
Security shift ****
At this bank

The faint fauna falls behind me;
Thick coat encumbers my lumbering form
as I follow natures slightly frigid visage.
I am seeking something,
some soothing warmth
or soft storm
to calm my lonely soul.
I still seek some partner in life
but for now
I must settle for nature
as fair enough
for my affectionate love.

Jealousy is the anger of lusting souls
Wet with unmet ecstasy
Promised nothing yet they believe
They deserve everything
Finding resentment for those
Who do and are eager to receive
The same pleasures they desired to achieve

I am terrified
that one day
my identity
will wither,

afraid
my memory
will fog up,
only flowing
in and out
like late in life
late night tides,

that familiar faces
who have managed
to stay alive
will sit by my side
without a spark of
recognition from
this human husk
they love.

I am scared
that my mind
will shed
neural pathways
like a dog
sheds fur
on a sweltering
summer day,

that my brain
will shrivel
as it dehydrates
shrinking in a physical
and mental
fashion
as the demon
of dementia
possesses
and diminishes
me.

A ticket won’t take
these tired children
to a safe and warm place,

won’t help me escape
from the darkness
that stains
their strained face.

My fear is misplaced
as a scraggly faced stranger
stumbles out of the night shade
asking for the time
and any spare change.
My apprehension
is mine not his shame.

A shining sign
sears the night,
illuminating the people
who sleep
just inches from my feet
under a thin torn blanket
that barely conserves any heat.

Their struggle
makes me uncomfortable.
It is not love,
but guilt
that makes me give
the hurt homeless kids
a buck or two.

A day away
I barely
think of these
struggling
human beings
as I luxuriate
in my comfortable lifestyle.

I am preparing
for the sharing
of grief
as a another doctor
leaves.

Space and time
part like
the red sea.
I believe
the next one
will be good,

but I am emotionally attached
like I was to the last,
and the other doctor who passed.

Christmas time
and I will come home
to find
these tears of mine
are rather silly,
falling for
a fictional character
who isn’t even
dying.

He is just regenerating,
just changing
like we all do
even though
we struggle to
hold on to the past.

Nothing lasts,
nothing last,
nothing………

Straight out of the gate
if you’re standing with hate
then you are my nemesis,
so vacate the premises
because your premise is
parallel to white supremacists.
Your weakness is obvious.
Our problems can’t be solved
by ignorance that abolishes
any semblance of human decency.

Life’s strange variety helps society
overcome unforeseen calamities,
create new works of art
and science that moves us
from here to where we could be
traveling universally,
whilst expanding intellectually.

Your violence
doesn’t help human beings;
It loosens the strings
that tie us together.
Defining a stranger
as a danger
because of their color,
imaginary borders,
or gender identity
doesn’t serve to
strengthen our foundations
but turns earth to rot
as those who have a lot
use the wealth they got
to disseminate hatred,
and take more and more.

I know you love it,
but take your Sexism,
Transphobia, Racism,
and discrimination
and shove it.

-2022 December

I'd like to tell the police
to stop helping these
people into an early grave,
considering they were the ones
cops are supposedly paid to save.

I’m not a prodigal prodigy,
just a product of
the poetry I read
and love.

The devil revels
in his wicked rebels,
those bouncing beats
and hyper treble,
blasting bass sounds
and destructive percussion.

She told me what he did.
How he slid
his fingers
inside of
her,
how he pushed
and grinded her,
despite the pleas,
how he stopped her
when she tried to flee.

After the confession
I felt the fog of fury
consume me.

I set loose
my rage
and scarred his face
with scores
of scratches
and deeper cuts.

I slid my blade
inside his gut
and saw bits
and chunks
of vital organs
dribble
from
the gaping wound.

What fun to see
this dark adult
gasp and bleed
flapping like
a fish
grasping
for the ocean’s embrace.

With serial killer efficiency
I cleaned the crimson stained cutlery
and left him there to stare blankly
at the concrete.
Then I burnt my cloths
and wrote this note
for you to find
when I die.

It is a gush
of cultish greed
that sees me seed
these gray streets
with cement
and litter.

Searching for
the stars that glitter
in commercials
and window shops,
the tyranny
of humanity
swells in my heart.

Callus to the collective
because of the things
I seek to collect.

Then with each purchase,
and each pleasure pill
I use to conceal
the depths of
what I truly feel
I lose
a piece of
the empathy
I once cherished
and loved.

Till, my leather worn face
turns bitter
and the last of my humanity
escapes me
because of poor scheduling.

I'm not scared of strangers. I'm afraid of forgetting how to be kind.

I’m a sneaky little devil,
a daring dancer who dwells
just this side of the soil
and Dante’s hell.

Come closer
as the earth’s crust
crunches, covers,
and **** near smothers
all existence;

As clouds conceal
the mad mass
of human tumors,

and hide the high tides
that move
to their moon perpetuated
groove.

Come here and hear
the sounds of nature.
They may not ring clear
but are held dear
by this queer
wanderer.

Come now
and see how
the splendor
of our floating sphere,
this space rock,
is so much more;

Look up
from those
strange screens,
get your *** over here,
stand with me and see
how this world moves
so **** beautifully.

Even with
honest intent
any system
meant
to govern
men
can easily
go awry.

People
build up
big bubbles of
like minds.

Bobbling heads
bobble yes,
seldomly
questioning
the odds
of success
because
each individual
possesses
strange pieces
the point them
in the same
direction.

They build a shield
to protect
their power,
build a wall
to prevent
the incursion
of new ideas.

But any man-made system
that is not open
to innovation
will face disintegration.

The tic click tic click
is a slick sick trick
of time playing with
my mind,

some twitch
a phantom itch
with no obvious
cause for it,

a voice dragging me
from the comfort of sleep,
yelling out my name,
so I get up to see,
but there is no one
out there calling me.

I am scared
because my family
has a history
of mental illness
in varying degrees
of severity,
and I am afraid
that one day
it won’t be me
questioning my sanity,
but a clinical certainty.

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.

I have drowned
a thousand times
in my dreams
but I’ve only seen
the sandy beaches
of the sea
once.

Feet freed from shoes
that were heavy with
all the wetness
they could sponge up
I let my toes sink in
rubbing sand between them
barely moving or breathing.
I felt the push and pull
of the primordial tides

One step in,
the water covered my shins.
Another two steps
equaled twelve more inches.
Three more steps
and I was waist high
ready to let go and dive.
Five more, then up to six
and I could feel
the strength of it.

Till, it was in my nose.
Eyes closed
I felt the undertow
pulling me in deep
as if it longed to keep
the body of me.

A few more steps,
I braced myself,
but someone else
pulled me back
from the eternal black.
I was not
happy about that.
I knew my kin
waited within
the dark murky depths
where something wild crept,
but I just left.

They fed me my feathers
One beak full at a time
With red flecks on their neck
I picked and I pecked
After I fact checked
I gobbled them up
And now I can’t fly

I saw her body
before she was buried.
All goblinesque,
all skin bunching,
so, she doesn’t make
cameo appearance.
However, I didn’t get to see
the little boy blond
who has been long gone
for over twenty years
or my grandpa
who died alone in the hospital.
So, once in a while
they stop by in my dreams.

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.

For the fear of falling asleep
I ingest to many legal stimulants
causing me to be extremely nauseas
then ***** my quick crap breakfast up
and end up exhausted anyways.

It is the journey
The richness of
New experiences
That expand my consciousness
Feeding the creative frenzy
Creating new neural pathways
Improving my mind
And enriching my humanity

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

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.

In lines of age
we find a trace
of history,

weathered responses
that come to haunt us
as we are weighed down
by all the gravity
that we have found
in this life,

creases of flesh
molded to express
all of time’s
presence.

We earn each line
with perseverance
resisting death’s
determination.

Until, the end
when death finally
takes its revenge
and wins.

Bets placed
eternity takes
all the wrinkles
on our face,
and turns them to rot
and decay.

They knew I was coming
like a savage to ravage
weak minds,

Poetry lines
to find the heart
of these troubled times,

Prose to point to
better people
then me and you.

They saw me coming
from a million years away
and prepared for the day
when I would try to
give my heart away.

They locked the doors,
closed the shutters,
blocked their heart,
with all types of clutter
like political and religious doctrines,
like material possessions,
they were possessed by
each demon.

So when I arrived
as others had before
there was no room for me.
So, me, my poetry,
and fancy sophistry
die unknown,
a million lights
un-shone  
tombstone unmarked and a life unmourned.

Though I rage
against the days
on blank screens
and white lined pages
I know Dylan Thomas
wouldn’t give a ****
and neither would
T.S. Elliot.

Robert frost
is not my boss,
nor is Allen Ginsburg
any sort of mentor.

I like the Romantic
movement,
but the modernist
and symbolist
do not direct
or reflect
the truth of my existence
and trifling experiences.

I love Plath, Poe,
all the Bronte sister,
and Miss Dickinson.

Though they are
all deceased
I do not surpass them
with my own vision.
I am merely on a
parallel mission.

And if perchance you do allow. I will curve those lip while I furrow my brow. I will split your serious demeanor with a clownish tact, making a joke you have laugh at, and if a chuckle  refuses to arise, all sink so low as to do the pull my finger bit because that one get all the girls and guys to laugh then leave the room choking.

Scream for me
As I work your flesh
Doggedly
Challenging
The brands
That were burnt in
Your young skin
Reshaping
The essence
That once suffered
Such pestilence
In the face of
Other people’s opulence

Though you beg and plead
On bended knees
Seeking to stay
In such deep shadows
I will pull you out
From the wreckage
Offer you Eve’s apple
Give you knowledge
And wisdom
Give you a brand new kingdom
And though others name me devil
You will come to call me
Your guardian angel

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.