Frequently,
I race across the words
reading too rapidly,
missing the depths
of descriptive sounds,
and failing to engage
the full immersive array
of language the writer displays
because I wish to portray
the fiction of a deep person
who reads intelligently.

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.

Love is a lie I tell myself
A little joke to poke
A hole to hopefulness
Mostly it’s like an illness

To feel the sickness
Of desire that turns into
Bouts of melancholic
Moody human mildew

The truth is this kiss
Is a token of destruction
Her tokens of affection
Our eternal damnation
That open me up
To more painful stuff

He sculpted reality
Shifted melted metal
To shape a better world
The hand of man

She sculpted flesh
Growing cells
Pygmalion of the womb
Suckling and nurturing
A newborn

He made madness
Mimicking solar explosions
Destruction
Death

She gave birth
To generations
Yet veneration
Was given to the masculine
Man made god a male

The progeny turned upon
The progenitor
Male propagated pain
Female yielded the fruit of life
In all forms of adaptation

Though I reject gender division
In societies expectations
I would prefer a female god
Giving birth
To the damning male model
Condemning all those who live on
This beautifully evolved Earth

I got the worst human deformity,
a kind heart and extremely sharp mind.
You see one or the other
would be so much better.
A soft soul with a sweet disposition
tempered by a lack of information
would make facing reality
a little less bitter and heartbreaking.
While a rational mind minus
the temperament of the compassionate kind
would make broken hearts
a thing of the past.
I want to look beyond the past,
and be a true gentleman,
but to be aggressive,
competitive, and
alpha minded is what
the cattle wants.
Unfortunately, due to a mix up
I got both qualities
which makes me
so ****** up
and disposable.

Time’s enduring kiss
is not a thing of
romantic bliss.
Instead it bares the agony
of aging ungracefully.

Teeth decay,
rotting in pain
that requires
Vicodin
and dental surgery
just so we
can get some sleep.

Hair grays and thins
or thins and grays.
Till, white threads
fill your head
or a bald shine
lights the way.

One by one
people recede
like a tide returning
to the sea,
bowing out voluntarily
or due to mortality.

The mind loses
its grip
and confuses
many things,
while vision
begins
blurring
and we become
hard,
HARD,
HARD!!!!
Of hearing.

Till, the finale
comes nearing
and death starts clearing
your consciousness
from all that is
living.

It is too late in life
for me to join the night
and be a beautifully brooding poet.

It is too far down the line
and I am too rigid in my mind
to be open to that world.

So, I come to the open mich to speak,
breath and read my carefully crafted masterpiece
just so I can have the pleasure
of finishing up and leaving when I please.

In my younger days
there was pain
and a rage
that would raze
the world away;

A deep injection
of sorrow infections,
coupled with
disappointment,

and when I erupted
I kept almost all
of my volcanic outbursts
to the form of exercise
or other means of
self-hurt,

because I did not
want to cause
anyone
the same
sickness
of anguish
that I suffered.

Whether it was
waking in tears,
punching solid objects,
or working out
to the point of
exhaustion,
purging my stable
of demons,
what a
painful exorcism.

Now,
I am healthier,
and I only engage in
a less brutal regimen
in comparison
to deal with my issues.

Myths take
mistakes
humans make
and elevates
them to
proportions
we can view
from history’s
fictionally
inflated
perspective.

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 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.

In order to maintain the status quo the government targets dissidents with obscure laws and media slander. Once the counterculture started to decline the rebellious individual were easier to target, because they lost their collective power. The progenitors of our hippie and beatnik history have been silenced by spin doctors, and we have lost the message of peace love and understanding it has been replaced by consumerism. Isn't fascism a tricky little ******.

I am the unpacked parachute
that will not stop the fall
but the fall will be beautiful.
Till the ground catches us
crushing flesh under the force of
gravity’s hateful love,
as you take in air and give it up;
Slip in the quicksand
that becomes mixed with blood.
Till, the dried terror trap becomes mud
and the earth spins like a ****** up
treadmill. You will learn to feel
just enough to die from flying to high
and coming down from that
hormone honey drug,
cause I am not big or soft enough
to stop this collapse.
Perhaps you must be flattened.
Perhaps this **** must happen
so you can be free.

Yesterday was a winter road
with frosty figures lining up
to dam a young soul to limbo,
not quite hell but purgatory.

Now they all change
their gory stories
so they can feel better
and in their tales
they make themselves
sainted knights.

But we outsiders
know the harsh facts.
We do not make ourselves
the heroes of our tales
but journeyman
of varied skills
seeking the truths
and speaking it to
despite how painful
it might feel.

Dusk is dull and gray
but the poet
will not break
his addictive trance.

It is not a romantic dance
of swirling fools
twirling to
a concerto
we all knew,

but a dangerous stream
going full steam,
a watery dream
of the unseen
unconscious
activity,

pushing and pulling.
Till, he stumbles, drooling
like a mewling fool
not controlling
his roving mind
but being moved
with its rapid taps.

His words are marked
with a metronomic beat.
His face is flushed
with the rushing heat,
a side-effect
of his anxiously
overactive mind.

Pushing well beyond
his normal bedtime
he writes
like a recovering
word addict
who he has relapsed.

You don’t always have to
wear a red cape
to swoop in and save your
super friends.

Sometimes you can
share the burden.
Sometimes you can
let me in.

Then I will be wearing
my own green cape
cause green is great
and it’s my favorite color.

I do not begrudged
this hearty heart
that feels so deep
and drowns in part.

Knowing that strangers
may exist
but once we meet
we are no longer this.

Once we break bread together,
shed tears together,
walk in wavy roads
Of parallel pain together,
though we may be quite strange,
we are no longer strangers.

Thus in our mind’s connection
the only real option is to lessen
the suffering of one another.

We are not a first world country. They are not a third world country. We are all part of the same world. I am not part of a white race. He is not part of a black race. We are all one race in our human family.

She took a razor tipped
Farewell trip
To rip strips
Of now red flesh
From her breast
Desiring the expiring
Of the deeper pains
To be replaced by
Physical ones

So cut for cut
She cleansed her soul
Drip for drop
Draining on the floor
And then
Then there was no more

No more pain
No more cuts
No more her

Dear memories,

I regret to inform you
time will malform you
as you are retroactively reshaped
to deal with your limited
understanding of today.

Dear compassion,

I am saddened to say
this will not be
the end of your pain.
As you see more and come to learn
the world may still turn
but you will burn
in agony.

Dear heart,

It is my duty to tell you
that despite the breaks
that have found you
there will be more to come,
unless you decide
it is time to run.

Dear dreams,

You have been recruited.
Your hopeful nature
will never be disputed.
We must now work together
and find a way to
challenge each other.

Dear me,

I am glad that you
are not yet
a casualty
of the callousness
of our society and I hope
we shall overcome
the horrors yet to come.

I can no longer be
the in-between,
watch you play
out the same sad scene,

watch you walk away
and come back
the same day
with a bruised heart
and a marked face,

feel you rest
your tired head
against my chest
as you express
affection for
a violent *****,

then talk to you
while you are
texting him,

or listen as you justify
your own abuse.

I feel guilty because
I want to walk away,
move on from the insane
vein of pain
you spray my way,
as you say
that I wouldn’t understand,

but I have felt
an abuser’s hands.

I do not presume
to mansplain
the layers of
your pain,
so please do not presume
that I do not understand
as much as any other human possibly can.

There is a
feverish swell
of warm pain
suffused with
lots of mucus.

I grab a book
of poems
and read this
verbal twist,
longing for those
words
to break the thick mist.

But the poetry
does not relieve me.
I am so sleepy.
My nose is dripping.
My throat is scratching,
and I am not catching
any sleep.

I fumble for
any thoughts that
came before
this nasally
flemmy storm.

The words will not come.
My mind fog
becomes a hot
brick wall
that blocks
all deep thoughts.

I can only cough
then shift
and hope
this ****
finally passes
after a full day’s slumber.

It doesn’t matter if I am trying to be
a superior version of me
while every other *******
is out for themselves,
getting fatter and dumber,

cause I’m a whiny little *****
to sit and sob about this
when I am doing great.

The bloviate voices bellow
unbound by morality
or the clarity of logic
that rational people seek.

I search the multitude
of men and women
for the ecstasy
of a poet’s euphony.

But the unmoved masses
do not parlay that way.
They simmer in their hate,
rage when they
don’t get their way,
causing strangers
undue amounts of pain.

In an autumnal day
I am impelled
by the sharpness
of these unmovable hearts.

However, my mettle is molten
marked by my persistence
as I seek the betterment
of all mankind.

These four walls
are not made
to save
but built
to blockade
and enslave.

This cave
we engrave
with our strange
collecting ways,
soon becomes a
self-selected grave
for our histories
and all of our
distorted memories.

A *******
with alcohol
did not turn
out so well.
He shoved her down
then dragged her up
as he yelled.

He hurt her hands
with his
hateful rage
squeezing
just to see
the pain
on her face.

Screaming,
“you’ll
notice this
now
you fat
******* cow.”

Her skin
swelled
like a
red balloon.
as she spoke
about
that raging buffoon.

Shadows circling
each bag under her eyes,
she cried
surprised
at the violence.

Then in a contortionist’s
sick fashion,
I watched her
twist herself
up in knots of
confusion
and weird love,
as she tried to
justify
our own abuse.

That little boy blue
who wore his bruises
under his aching skin
will not come back here again.

Tonight the light sky
Is a pink and orange desert
Sandy cloud waves to glowing
Looking like the beginning
Of dunes forming in June
While the baby-faced moon
Swoons with affection
For her solar partner

That I should be so bold
And hope
true stories be told
living longer than I
not eternal
but spanning
some time
as their value allows;
A generation or more
a hundred or four,
it matters not
for I am inconsequential.
It is only the stories
That really matter.

I will not succeed
and knowing such
sets me free to be me,
let’s my sails open
to solar winds.

Wings are ready to rise,
because I am ready to fall
ready to be drowned
in it all.
I can fly for now.

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

It must be nice
in your neon colored
smooth four wheeled
driving life,
that law and order
kind of world
you exist in;
But I lived in
an age of uncertainty.
Authority to me
was unpredictably
violent.
I was the *******
bent over to be
busted by
belts, pots, brushes,
brooms, mops,
ping pong paddles,
and any other
implements
that could be scavenged.
So, you can have
your invisible pervert
who sits and observes us
from up above
to judge,
but for me and anyone
who has felt the lashes
or seen loved ones
abused by those in power
we’ll take the truth of now
not your rose-tinted glasses
of an overarching order
in the universe
driven by loving father figure.

One has only to open their eye and look above than close there eyes and look within to see what a strange and wonderful universe we live in.

I have never loved a truth
only partial lily lips
blushed with life,
a life that was projected
from previous experiences
tid bits of passing familiarities
extrapolated, fragmented,
then placed into an impossible puzzle.

That is the tragedy.
Though I love humanity
I have never loved the truth of her
only the illusion that she can never be
plastered in poetry
dedicated to me.
The lie fits perfectly into my dreams
so I sleep with
the hopeful heart of humanity
because that is the only love
that is true to me.

As we age
we subtract
false fantasies
from scientific facts
and reality becomes
smaller.

As we get wiser,
and acquire
a deeper understanding,
we expand our minds
to incorporate
what is newly unknown
to us.

Then the universe
explodes
with
a multitude
unforeseeable
depths
and dimensions.

I know that you are tired
that they work you too hard,
and you never get far.

I know that you are afraid
of losing your car,
of losing your job,
of losing your way.

I know that there are
daily concerns of
your children getting hurt
or your spouse leaving you
for some sexier ****.

but don’t let your lovely light
flicker out,
don’t let your laughter die
because I need
your good humor in my life.

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………

It is the truth that breaks a poets heart. To know such violence lies in the eyes of the so called protector. Everyday I find myself more heartbroken even though I see the violence coming. Cause for every stride we make for justice their is another ******* hiding behind authority trying to take it away.

It is another work day.
Cold curling winds
cover my exposed skin
dulling but not destroying
the rage that dwells within.

It is a dollar less than
the clichéd inkling
but still a little beast
stirs inside of me
spouting the lie
called jealousy.

As if such a love
could ever belong to me
as if the world
could ever appreciate
what I give each day.

The suitcase cracks
and little folds of red
slip between the two
holes in my head
bleeding out into the world that
spawned those stained shirts.

The solar flare
surges here
and subsides over there.
The anger fades
as does the day
becoming a lonely and cool
nights remembrance
barely imprinted
upon my once again
preoccupied brain.

There is a slight heartache
but not as bad as it could be
because it is so familiar to me.
It came when and where
I was expecting it be,
like a gut shot
when I tensed my stomach.
I wasn’t flummoxed,
just a little ******,
and annoyed
cause I am tired of
the girls I like
putting up with so much
from the bad boys
while I toil to cultivate
and perfect
this nice guy shtick.
Till the person I want to be
is the person I have become;
Kinder, gentler, compassionate,
stronger, and faster
with more endurance,
but the man I want to be
seems to be a hindrance.
So, it comes to this
must I sacrifice
the person I strive to be
or suffer alone for eternity?

On the muddy Mooreland
The madness came
As naked warriors
Came rushing in
Blades in hand
Slashing man
After ****** man
Blood and guts
Gore for glory
Price paid
To play king maker stories
Daggers, and bows
Blow after blow
Barbaric and tragic

Some find magic
In these tales
Some find honor
Like mental *******
They imagine facing
Such odds with grace

Not knowing how
Their face would whiten
How their bowls would lighten
How courage would
Sink deep into the dark recesses
And the primal urge
Would be to run away

These battles did not make men heroes
Did not take ordinary to legendary status
They damaged victor and loser alike
Those who died
And those who survive
Where both broken

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 am nothing
but negative space
that can easily
be replaced
or erased.

I am a body
that cannot escape
my man made
manacles.

I am shackled
to a dying breath,
to flesh bereft
of sacred meaning.

I am swimming
in a soft oily sea
of ****** candy
that either drowns
or infects me
with cavities
and stinky
seaweed.

I am a crumpled lotus
before you notice,
before I allow
you to know this
poetic truth,
as death subdues
all that I ever was.

Take note
Of the knife
At your throat
It is not the apostate
Whom you hate
That threatens you
With a ****** blade
But the brothers you slayed
For your fanatical ways
Who bring to bare
The same violence
You brought them there

She has the face
of a blonde-haired angel
with spectacles.
Tears slide down her cheeks
as she sits and speaks
trying to work out
if this is her own fault.

He has the face
of a tired war hero,
wakes up at night
when no one is near
with too many tears.

One old man stands
on the corner
with a cardboard sign.
Another one
has a heart attack
before its closing time.

You may think
that you are fine
but you’re just standing in line
waiting for your turn
to wear the mortar
and the earth.

We all get a foundation of hurt
but can we build compassion
up from that dirt.

The Devil’s in the details
which is how we lose
as the preachers picks our pockets
from the upstairs pews.

Politicians keep bragging
about the lines they drew
to obstruct democracy
and steal our money
like their rich friends
wanted them to do.

We write our regrets in stone
Monuments meant to recognize
Those who will no longer
Be in our lives
Tears of heartache mark
These harsh days
The cruelest and only real fate

Why do we not raise our voice
in the exaltations
of eloquent speeches
that elevate
human beings
search for the true meaning
of this mean existence?

Why do we elevate
false cloth symbols
while celebrating
the sacrifices
of the subjected
and suckered
masses?

Why does
the angry incoherent cries
of a madman
overshadow
the million more
who struggle for
a better world?

Why do I bother
writing these words
knowing they
will not be heard
by many
and of those few
who
even deign to notice
most will ignore
in favor of
more interesting diversion?

I am stalled.
Fatigue
enfeebles me,
and I believe
I will lose
the ability
to perceive
and achieve
the full potential
of my inspiration.
  
There is a slight pain
from eyestrain.
Thus, I complain
in such a mundane way
about how my eyeballs
sound like sponges
when I rub them.

The winter is not normal.
A spectral fog fills the horizon
making all dreams of
what lies beyond
seem exotic.
Meanwhile
skeletal trees,
whose leaves
have been reaped
with time’s sharp sickle,
sleep silently
unyielding
to any breezes
just a part of
the season’s
sick cycle
of birth and decay,

My eyes still strain
in a light pain,
but at least the fatigue
did not prevent me
from writing again.

The cross stich of humanity
Is too complicated to be comfortable
Complexity and uncertainty
Unimaginably inevitable
Unless one is blind with fear
Or merely comfortably ignorant