Snap back
and ****** that
which fools lack,
don’t give them slack,
life isn’t a card game
we’re not
dealing blackjack
but serving facts
that track tragic acts
that sees sane minds
and hearts snap
in half,
till we all cry so hard
that we have to laugh.

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.

It is caffeine induced insanity,
heart beating rapidly,
stress and anxiety
hunting me viciously.
I try to slow my breathing,
try not to see all the possible
bad outcomes,
but my nervousness ruins everything,
tightening the valves and ventricles
that should keep me moving.

Now they keep me cringing
worried about what worse thing
that may still be coming.
I clench my chest,
try to calm my breaths.
Until, I am able to
force myself to sleep
and awaken with
just a little more peace.

I’m up.
I’m awake.
I’m alert.
While other *******
might be butthurt,
and full of hot air
my gasses are inert.
Cause despite my issues,
I do not need to go there
where whiners live.

Man
was malformed
by the mask
he made
to hide from
the more grotesque
version of
the world
that burned him.

We dream to be remembered
To be loved
To hear glasses clinging
In a toast of us
To see young love
Inspired by us
Thoughts lifted higher by us
Sorrows softened
Joys heightened
And see humanity elevated
By what we created

Little boy who runs away
Know the truth of pain
Better the most

The young mom
Starving
Struggling to make ends meet
Dealing with
A bureaucracy
That hates what it made her into
So it punishes her
For their failing policies
And she sees
Her family in poverty
Discarded
By the ignorant hearted

How many times
Can you arrest a man
For existing
Because that is
The only crime
He was committing
Because he could not
Predict which way
Your whims and quota
Will send him

How many spouses
Can you detach from
The ones you claim
Are the victims
Of foreign systems
So you keep some
And split them
Take her and send him
Back to where
He they both came from

The writer sees
The reader hears
The person feels
But the republican
Forget to be human
The democrat
Sits back
And distorts facts
Claiming that they
Will help those
Who needed the most
But the money flows
From the rich to the politician
And back around again
That’s a revolving door

This country was founded
By the wealthy for the wealthy
And does not cede the power
Does not tell the truth
Pay fair wages by the hours
Only consumes those who do
Taking the fair minded
And turning them towards
Business dreams
And get rich quick
Lottery dreams

And if I had the power
To change the world
If they suspected
That I really could
They would try
To buy me out
****** or discredit me
Luckily they don’t read
As much as me
Or a single thing from me
So I am free to tell the truth

Broccoli green
gum drop
tree tops
lean less than
lightly in
this no breeze
dry heat day.

The old lady houses
are made up of
mud encrusted
multi-colored
rough bricks

Seems to be
pre-blooming
purple flowers
unfold
before me.

Tree leaves
begin turning
from green to yellow
yearning for
the release of fall
when gravity will
take them all.

Good men are slaves
to a system
that has them
trying to stay strong,
trying to pay rent,
to feed moms,
and their children.

They do the wrong thing
because they need money
for food, cloths, shelter
for car insurance,
for maintenance, and
for medical emergencies.

So, the goodness,
We would like to see
gets buries out of
necessity.

Kind hands
become calloused tools
and the hardworking man
dies at the plant,
were other good men
are struggling the same
with some minor variations.

Why do I have to be tense
when the easily offended
are the ones who commit the offense
emit attitude with their pretense
moral to a biblical degree
With no true human decency
Publicly they frighten me
privately they sicken me
declaring hateful victory
over love and humanity
Or is it just me?

This is a dark palace
Of deliberately dangerous
desires that
abruptly disrupts
and veraciously corrupts
all newcomers.

Plebian minds
mass in manic displays
of their sheepish ways
submitting to
the least alpha
of the American
upper class
crusty *** crew.

The enemy
claims he is
iconoclast
and mysterious,
but he is not
what he purports to be.

On these dismal days
I observe
the hurtful hand
of our material obsession.
I see us become the property
of our possessions.

Yet, with an elegy
of creative energy
I seek to set
all children of
our society free,
writing and  posting
with the same passion
as the romantics
that came before me.

I want a new life
in the sun
no more strife
to run from
but years of
love and fun
that will
hopefully come.

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.

I can’t touch your hand
Cause the ghost is you
Pictures on my
Computer stand
Stand alone
Messages
Never answered
And I am
Starting to wonder
If you found
That last comfort
Or if you finally
Decided to move on

We are not the personal property
Of some person who proposed
As always I oppose
The subjugation of our identity
In pursuit of marital bliss
This institution does not fix ****
It just repackages old ideas
In modern consumerism
In love I am not yours
And you are not mine
But I am not blind
To the stunning visage
The gift of your existence
I just don’t think real love
Requires ancient legal and religious
Assistance

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.

I drive.
Each night passes by
cold shadows
tell no lies,
by flicker strangely
like specters
dying before me.

The road is mine
and I am its,
possessed by quiet reflections.
Daylight finds
hills that ride
and roll
up and down
all around me.

Stimulants,
set to see me
safely home,
little nicotine sticks,
not actual cigarette
of vapes
but gas station
electronic
devices,
stacked with
lots of caffeine.

Music and podcasts,
audio books
play by to fast,
they never seem to last,
because the drive never ends.

Hotels,
hot showers,
more caffeine
then overtime hours.

Until,
they settle me down
to one worksite
and that rogue
road work life
fades fast behind me.

Part of me misses
the unpredictable madness.
Part of me is grateful
for the stability.
Its healthy
cause I get better sleep.
Now I drive the same route
every **** day,
but I miss the strangeness
of the different roads
I used to take.

It’s a shame
that I let my
heart break,

when I
should have
just let it
rest in pieces,

let those
pieces bleed
and set myself free.

Even though, I know that a
multiplicity of alternate realities
is not a certainty but has a minor probability;
I have an affinity for infinity and eternity
with all the weird entities therein.

If time is linear
then any human error
becomes inevitable
when the time is here
and gone.

This could be a great place to rent
but I don’t want to live here.

So, I let the train roll heavy
breaking every bond
in my once well rooted
but now withering body.

These words don’t mean ****
when there is no one listening
cause I am just an over entitled
society fighter who think he is enlightened,
but in reality, I am just a coward
running as fast as I can.

It has been an hour in-between spent
just waiting for my metal chariot.
My cup jingles with ice water
because I can’t afford
the hard liquor
that other strangers adore.

Earbuds distract.
Loud music
plays strange extended chords.
The electric vibrations
swirl around
then wave in and out
as the tempo of the drum
beats in the background.
So loud and strange,
it flows faster
then the rain
that hits the rusted track.

I change trains
cause I would rather
hit the rails
then stay tamed
like a well trained
house cat.
Who never leaves his home.

Greed is a slippery assassin
That slips in
To insert itself
Into the core
Of our society
Pushes us ever forward
Towards
Our self-mutilation
And eventually
Our self-destruction

You do not face the debasement
of children and women
cause you worship
popstars, pedophiles, and rapists.
I would leave this
racist nation
but like all those trailer trash
beaten women
I keep thinking
America is a really a good man
and I can change him.

I seek peace
in observing
all things
that flourish
around me.

There are greens
and deeper greens
galvanized
by daylight
to a shimmering effect.

But every drop
of coolant,
or subtle variation of sound,
every unexpected vibration
makes me anxious,
because I am hyper aware
that my safety will disappear
because it is an illusion.

The earth beneath my feet
has been dried and bleached
to the lightest brown possible.

I am still seeking stillness
but my roommate’s presence
is a jagged intrusion,
with irregular outburst
of unpredictable rage.

There is the sound of birds
whistling all around me
unperturbed
by the train I heard
in the distance.

I make it to work,
in time to observe
smiling stranger’s
who want to converse
with me,
and despite all distraction
there is a certain satisfaction
to that human interaction.
It is a peaceful moment.

The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights

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.

What will we do
to achieve dreams
that few hearts
aspire to,

when mountain tops
try to impede
those who will not be
stopped,

when rage and ambition
become twisted mirror images
of our stretched in agony visage;

We persist beyond
what weaker hearts
claim is wrong.

We are strong,
affirming unseen possibilities
as those new dreams
unfold to rewrite
out future history.

I wonder why people measure success by the level of their wealth, their beauty, or other things that indicate class or status instead of the good they do for others. When I am close to death I hope I am able measure my success by the times I made people laugh, or smile when they were sad, helped them to think when they were confused, and was able to learn from them becuase I knew that they had vauable insights share.

We are fragments
Minstrels in our memories
Ghosts
Only partial presence
Our essence
Only vaporous
In filament
In digital
In audio
Visual
And literary
Fading
As all things do
Imperfectly remembered

Do not make
The mindless masses
Your moral arbitrator
Think don’t just act
And forget about
Your actions later

It is an altar
Of altered skin tones
People prostrate
Themselves
In front of
The mirror
Trying to mirror
Fake reality stars
Forgetting what real
Role models look like
The good guys
Who made art with heart
Set pen to higher purpose
But consumer queens
Who have been digitally remastered
Get more action
Then the masters
How many people
Remember Percy Shelley
Or Michael Landon
Two ages apart
Two different hearts
Who would not abandon
Humanity
Two voices in the desert
One Romantic Poet
And one Tv actor
Hearts held high
They do not lie
But your new age heroes
Breed greed
Sell self interest
I miss that
Age of curiosity
And generation
Of compassion

It is a miracle of desire
That flesh fits
That evolutionarily
We came together
Lust and pleasure
Temporary companions
In this temporary life

They tie us to a stake.
With the weapons of
ignorance, fear, and hate
they mentally ****
and steal the true weight
of our self-determination.

I got back fat
that barely *****,
and a front **** gut
with a belly button
**** hole
the jiggles
to and fro.

I am eternally fatigued
And all I want to do is sleep
Dreaming in restful contemplation
To awaken refreshed and inspired

It is this world that makes me weep
Broken bodies and burnt babies
Exist in fiery moments
Then digital references
Etched in the bloodiest corners
Of humanity’s mind

And I find that I am to weak
Too tired to speak
To many thoughts to think
Ideas on how to link
That which is already connected

These invisible strings
How you forget them
Denying that we are part of a collective

Violence is a ****** wound
I stick my finger in
Pulling out viscera
And making paint brushes
Canvassing all the horrors
So you can see the sick splatter art

So you can feel what it is like
When warm becomes cold
When soldiers do what they are told
Without questioning
Playing
With the video game
Bomb dropping
Remote control plane

I cry
A less tempered metal
Melted flesh
That matches this madness
Holding your hand
And hoping
Something of me
Infects the essence of you
With love, peace, hope,
And understanding

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

We are citizens,
victims of a system
of stratification.

We use fiction
to relate
us to them,
women and men,
social programming
for the progress
to do more then
just began again.

While the filthy fat cats
are raking it in
doing more then
making a killing
by selling weapons
made to ****
foreign children,

making profits
off the violence
while calling us
immoral
criminals.

So, we use fantasy
to cross the breach,
break the cranium
so you can see
reality
through
that fictional brew,

and gain compassion
from the stories you read
or the movies you see.

This is the time
to select a brave few
who may follow you
through

My wit, wisdom, and intellect
Burn with the fervor of a lover
Swell with the passion of another
And another and another
Until I am smothered in my awe
Cowered by my mind
Swimming in a sea of eternity
Unhindered by the chains of destiny
I am me as you are you
Beautiful chaos wrapped in fleshy trappings

I blink tiredly listening to parallel pipes push plastic particulates in and out around the factory, while white towers give off billows of powerful pollutants. Cylindrical silos rise echoing a sound like snowy static from an old black and white tv. I walk and watch this strange scene following train tracks that go nowhere and back from there. The train is graffitied with some minor marks and more complicated tags. One roughly sprayed owl covers an old ***** orange car with the words “I wish I could rust away to” followed by red lettered “Itchy legs” and a more elaborate display that says something unintelligible but looks spectacular. Concrete carries the weight of the old train cars. It is cracked partially from the truck drivers and other workers but mostly from the earth shifting as the cement expands over time. Shallow lines in the concrete pursue their parallels. Their more prominent brothers curving and splintering as the deepest cracks cut fully across the back of the factory lot. This is what I watch from whatever time it is to the infinity of night that fills my sight. I am tired beyond tired. Feet sore, body slightly thinning but my mind is beginning to lose its distinct edges. Until, all reality becomes a walk around the factory. There is no yesterday or tomorrow only endless caffeinated patrols, and a yearning for the release of sleep.

Stone walls don’t hold a thing
Can’t conceal a dream
Or hide the screams
Of innocent human beings
They only block our view
Till the truth shines through
So why build up these prisons
When we got better things to do

Corporate engineering with slight color variations
and logo imprintations do not impress me.
Assembly lines do not find or make time
to free the proletariat’s enslaved mind.
They just distract us with delusions of
capitalistically designed versions of individuality.
The fact is unbridled greed can only collapse this
mad consumer society,
because selfishness subtracts the humanity
that got us to this age in the first place.

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.

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.

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.

I'm tired of the ghost town
that this host found
where there's no sound
and salvation isn’t a choir
required to sing here.
The loss just stings dear
when the message isn't clear.

I am twisted.
As self-inflicted
fissures
crack
from all the pressure
that fizzles within,

not from soda or gin
but from my growing discontent
as I contend
with this trend
Of infantilizing
women and men,

this categorizing
everything improperly
for the sake of comfort,
consistency, and certainty
labeling things
that need no label
instead of just letting beautiful things
be complicated and interesting.

If god is real
then he must be
too freaking high
smoking clouds
sitting up in
a billowy white sky
baked out of
his omniscient mind.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because upon inspection
you will find obsession
poetically enthralling,
and passion all consuming.
I will treasure
all acts of pleasuring you
to  an ******* quality
in excessive quantity.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because I am passionate
and extremely engaging
sparing all other engagements
to be in your stunning presence.

Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

because my nature
is solitary,
and though I tarry
with you
I will be forced to
find moments
for myself.
Though, I longed to be
devoured by your desire
and engulfed by my adoration
of you
I will need time to reflect on
everything.
  
Do not fall in love
with an artist like me,

no matter how hard I pursue you
because I cannot promise you forever
no matter how much I want to.
I can only give you
this brief spectacular sparkling moment
in eternity.

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.

I am dangerous,
old and cantankerous,
standing up and acting
outrageous.

Amongst an infinitude
of corrupted dudes,
I am the brightest loser
In a constellation of fool.

The parking lot is a sheet
of solid ice beneath my feet
and it is fun to slip slide
but I wish I had some
warm rainy night vibes,
because all of my night lights
have either frozen or died.
You know that I tried
to believe your truth
but your truth
is my lie.

You are a strange picture
of wavy raven colored hair
and beautiful smiles.
Still there is a darkness
that hides behind
your sweet and hopeful lines.
You sing for me
like a coal mine canary
and for a bit
this bitter winter gets better.

It is not your duty,
but you are a dream to me,
a playful majesty
in a cold lonely choppy sea.
I watch a thin curvy wave of
snow flow away
running like the dying day
that fades while strays
like me stay in pain.

It is not fair to wear you
like a light tan armor
but I have lost so many other
battlefield friends,
more leaving then passing,
tenderly basking in a world
safely centered in love and hope.

But love and hope is the rope
that I wove to hang myself.
I shame myself looking to your heart,
knowing that you have your own battles.
I hope you beat every demon
that scorches the porches you call home

As for me I fly alone
waiting for the day
the icy roads take me away.

Goodnight my poetic friend,
master of the hearts that mend.
Till we tweet, tumblr, or
Instagram again.