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.

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

Fast music makes
my mettle burn
in  mercury
melted silver liquid
drips.

I slip
into the knot of it
facing the full fury
of the furnace
that boils
the insides of me.

I am unleashed
temporarily
the darker parts
that tend the spark
of my violently
beating heart
are set free.

Till, like my emotions
the music subsides.
The rage does not die,
merely simmers
to a soft boil
waiting for its turn
to burn baby burn.

It was never me though I wanted it to be
The red head girl had other guys to see
The blond hair girl had better dreams
The dark haired girl had better things to be
The brown haired girl turned out to be
Just the other side of dull
Not enough freak for me
So this is the cost of the poetry
The loss of love and certain strands of sanity
Inspired the better perhaps bitter verses
Which turned out to be a perfect fit for me

A sparse field of clouds
circled a splendid moon.
Thin vapors curved around
the moons glorious rainbow aura.

I tried to capture
this spectacular scene
with my phone.
Unfortunately,
that bit of technology
did not detect
and collect
the quality
I was enamored by.

Then I tried to use
a camera that had
been sitting in my car
for over a year.
The first attempt found
that the batteries were dead.
I replaced them
but the camera
still could not capture
the rapture
of this fabulous
lunar sight.

With only two minutes
until I had to clock on
I gave up on
this moon I had
set my sights upon
and disappointedly
clocked in at
ten fifty-three.

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

How I enjoy these lost late nights playing poet under moonlight.
Each word a celebration of my wit and confusion. I am blessed by the fathers and mothers of my youth whom all knew as poets to, from Dickenson on to Poe that shaped my love and helped me grow. This is as it always was a written remembrance in love. To every poem and every story thank you for your radiant glory.

-2011

I wasn’t there
but I can recall
all of those
wonderful tunes,
sharp melodies of pain,
songs that ranged
from fruits that would hang
beautiful and strange
to “A Change is Gonna Come.”

Now we back that *** up
and we gotta go get some,
No more “Seasons in the Sun,”
no more “Peace Train.”
For the people who get ready
we got cheap celebrities
like the Kardashians.

I can’t find the bards
Or lyrical philosophers.
Where are the strangers
holding each other’s hands
and singing we shall overcome?
No more street pounding struggling
to make people see the inhumanity
because the music paints
separate realities for everyone
who want to get theirs,
like life is a zero-sum gain
were for someone to win
someone else has to lose the game.

Right now, I am dealing with
all of my insignificance,
the pittance that this peasant
employs to avoid
complete depression.

I'm not Patroitic. Patriotism breeds a sense of arrogance and causes people to succomb to hate propaganda. Its a tool the government uses to stir people up and condem those who think for themselves. 9/11 was tragic, but it gave us an oppurtunity to unite for a noble cause. Instead people turned their fear, and anger on their fellow man. Instead of furthering the cause of harmony. Polliticians have promoted racism.

Give me those hazel Egyptian eyes
The soft sparkle that blinks in and out at night
Pierced pursed lips punctuating my personal space
Your face is a ten page epic poem
That I rewrite every night in my mind
The black blooming eyebrows flowering just above
Those piercing pupils that dilate in the presence of those you love
Closed eyelids that I wish to press my lips against
Softly kissing you to sleep in the safety of my world of love
Your lunar skin which glows alive burning n the night
Even in its pale snow white pallor you reflect such fierce power
Your ears and nose as beautiful as mercury
Sweet kiss as poisonous as that same silver named liquid
Enliven the dying soul of me with her necromancy
The angel I see stirs the deepest devil in me

Random waves of wind
ripple across the water,
while wild birds shiver
and it is not even winter.

You may drink
To obscure your pain
Play videos games
Chat on Facebook
Immerse yourself
In other social media
Watch movies, TV
And YouTube videos
Chasing novelty

Going after
That consumer high
From the merchandise
You buy

But in time
The silence will find you
And the anguish you were blind to
Will consume you to

Till, the pharmaceutical companies own you
Because you have to
Take so many anti-depressants
Just to get through
One more day

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.

My howl is a whimper
Blade winding the windy city
Streets cut corners through daffodil dreams

The wolf becomes the lamb
Kicked and sheared till bleached bones
Break and disappear

Not even leaving a wasteland of corpses
Just a frosty landscape
Painted with black tar
And tread marks

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

The night is violated
With the vowels of anguish
Lamenters denouncing
God given horrors
No man made honor
In carrying out death’s decree
Across the sea
Children going to see
What it means to be
A killer
Now wounded
Now cut down
Now see their tragedy
Slipping in the gore
And insanity
Of our society
They say it is just
A noble cause
I say it is vile
And founded on fraud
The fields now reap
The bloodiest of crops
Now the green sleeps
Beneath the crimson cloths
And the cost
Becomes a mystery
Accounts in history
Debts never truly paid
And the citizens
Get played

There is nothing like
the first time.

Mother to son,
when the violence is done
no blood on his cheeks.
No one hears him speak.
The fear makes him weak
afraid he may repeat
the same horrors
she did.

There is nothing like
the first time.

Rigid body,
cold flesh,
hand reaches
to its chest
to its mouth
to feel its breath
but nothing is there.

There is nothing like
the first time

Clumsy lovers
find each other
under the covers
laughing,
licking,
and in that moment
certain
that they are in love.

There is nothing like
the first time.

Which is always the last time,
you are past time,
past mind,
past breath,
last heartbeat,
first, and only death.

Can you see beyond
What you believe is a sea
Though in reality
Is a tiny trickle
Expanded only
In the minds
Of those who were fooled

Cross that tiny gap
Break the barriers
Of the past
And find the truth
Of our human connection

We are not a small
Band of ****** brothers
Or a class of kin
Classified by our borders
And the color of our skin

We are a collective
Cut from the same cloth
Of history
The same chain
Of DNA

We are human
To be loved and accepted
Not feared or rejected

We are children
Living within
The limited life span

We are not one clan
Against a million
But one tribe
That counts seven billion
plus

It’s not good.
It can’t be healthy
to find the things
that hurt me
and watch them
repeatedly.

But it is the only path
I know how to follow
to learn their truths,
to see how you
hurt them
and how they hurt you,
to find the point of
convergence,
to find a point
of forgiveness.

So, I sacrifice
my small horizon of light
to descend into
the pits of night,
to sip sorrow’s
poisonous brew.
Cause even though
you need to
I know you wont
face what deceives you.
That shiny ****
that pleases you
also blocks the truth.

So, I walk into
that which will
disintegrate me,
to set you free.

I got cold feet from poor circulation,
so, frequently I have to rub heat
back into my frigid feet.

Sometimes, I get this tingling sensation.
Plus, there is a slight tight pain
that starts in my upper right
center chest.

It seems to be an expression
of a once latent
but now blooming anxiety,
inching ever closer to
that heart attack variety
of human suffering.

It used to be a rarity
now it seems, at least
a weekly event for me.

Ironically, when I worry
it gets worse
and of course
I worry when it hurts
so, it hurts more often
as the week progresses.

Now it has spread to the left
side of my chest.

They yell.

One father figure
far from
being young,
is a tired
diabetic,
with poor circulation,
thinning hair,
with missing
and rotting teeth,
he is a constantly
frustrated human being.

His roommate,
the other
middle aged
just turned
thirty-eight
who works
almost every day,
hair starting
to gray
just a little
teeth following
his father’s lead,
is also tired
and frustrated.

The old man is lonely
not only because
many friends
have passed
but because
his son
has to drive
fifty miles
each way
almost everyday
to work.
So, they only speak
in small spurts.

The middle-aged son
is tired because
his father always wants
to chat at the early a.m.
when he is still sleeping,
and barely even
able to open his eyes.

There are always
other little issues
like ***** dishes,
or some minor
cleaning concern.

But the son is always on the run
and the old man is always snapping
so, there is friction,

and a slight fear
that one day
when he is not here
the old man
with his health problems
will finally succumb to them,
and the son
will come
home to find
his father dead
or dying.

So, even after arguing
the middle aged-man
manages to remind his dad,
that he loves him,
even when
he is seriously considering
strangling him.

How come two fo the most important topics are taboo? Talking candidly about religion can lead to resentment just as quickly as talking about politics. However, these two things are the most powerful forces in our modern culture. Sharing insight and learning from each other , should be the most logical thing. While Remaining ignorant of these topic or avoiding themseams kind of dangerous.

It is a certain sadness,
an empty sorrow
for something I never had
but still miss.
I ache for any scent,
for any nasal experience
cause I have never known
the sweet smell of anything,
but if I consider it a blessing
I have never known the stench.
of anything.

It is a bloated beast
That slurps the sick
Slick stew of stupidity
In the form of certainty
Admittedly being me
Shortly
But recently
Certainty
Was abandoned
The vines
And times
That tied me to
The things
All fools do
Has snapped
Mostly
And I am free
Sort of
Of my certainty

Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold.
A frigid wind blows
with indifference
as strangers
pass each other.

A soulful voice
accompanied by
a beautiful keyboard
sings hope
from a street corner,
while nursing
a small plastic cup
of transparent
brown liquid.

Such a sweet
street performer,
I drop him
two dollars,
as he shivers
and smiles.

Such a sweet
street performer,
but the night
is a promiscuous lover
leaving him behind
in time
looking to find
tomorrow’s mind.

Not quite winter
but the bare sidewalks
are already cold.
A frigid wind blows
with indifference
as strangers
pass each other.

A soulful voice
accompanied by
a beautiful keyboard
sings hope
from a street corner,
while nursing
a small plastic cup
of transparent
brown liquid.

Such a sweet
street performer,
I drop him
two dollars,
as he shivers
and smiles.

Such a sweet
street performer,
but the night
is a promiscuous lover
leaving him behind
in time
looking to find
tomorrow’s mind.

Too tired to write
but I still
bring these words.

Too sad to think
but I still sing
until I am heard.

Tears soak through
my human costume.
Turning skin to redder shades,
making my shirt collar
a little wetter,
leaving me
a voice of congestion.
I am open to suggestions
on how to not forget her
but not let the memories
of loss be something
I regret later.

Caffeine to breaks the cycle,
nighttime quiet makes me
more susceptible,
more easily corruptible  
as I succumb
by not letting myself
be numbed
to all the pain and beauty
this life has to offer.

Let my sorrow drown me for now
I can always bring back
the sad clown
to make myself laugh
and smile again.

Deep are the eyes that devour my soul
Soft onyx surrounded by emerald lightning
Hypnotic expressions of ****** obsessions
Lips grasp, mouth slurps, tongue sends shivers
But the eyes cause quivers of climatic fury
I gush with lust’s completion
Moving with unparalleled muscle memory
I toss her fair form roughly against the bed
Rip the last barrier from her body
And lap up desires sweet juices
Till she to finds completions
Then I make her come again

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 was not winter ready
but weary and worn,
sights set meant to carry
this heavy burden
that I have born,
the season slowly
finds its demise,
and green things
find their roots
and start to rise.

Spring is on its
mating high,
buzzing with
all that nature loving.
Until the heat becomes
too much
and pulsing passions
push to pains
of heated lust.

Summer strikes
quicker then
a ninja’s throwing star
or some other
adolescent fantasy metaphor,
aggressive expansion
of heated frustrations
scolding the core
of the southern
parts of our nations.
Till the lights recede.

Then I fall
like orange
autumnal leaves
coming back
so close
to those bitter cold
beginnings,
sleeves extend
with their own
warming intent
and sweat stains
no longer plague
my once
wet and darkened pits.

Then the frosty fear
returns here
and
I must write
a new winter poem.

I was starving when
Hades kidnapped
and imprisoned me.
It doesn’t seem godly
when Zeus fondled me,
when Poseidon ***** me,
and Athena turned me
into a snake beast.
Gods are not saintly.
They are violent
and degrading.

A thousand years later
the new great creator
is just as misogynistic.
He is really scary
cause he put his abstract ****
in the ****** Mary’s hairy *****
to plant the seeds of himself.
That’s **** your *****!

So, either accept that this ****
is stranger than pulp fan fiction,
or admit that you submit
to vile and violent villain.

It saddens me deeply
to stare out at the breadth
of human beauty
and know that no
fairytale dreams
wait to for the right
musical keys.

There is no soul mate
singing under
the same star strewn
sky that blooms
with planets and moons.

There is no one out there
who feels what I feel,
who seeks to think,
and be thrilled by
the knowledge that I
gathered for all.

There is no one
who would burn
with the same cosmic fury
that causes other fools
to flee in a hurry
but enraptures me
in knowledge’s ecstasy.

It is very sad to be
the smartest sub atomic particle
in a reality that eludes me
because I cannot see
beyond my proton and electrons
and all the other sub atomic morons
do not even know
that universe is just a part of an atom
in a molecule in much bigger
universe.

My pen cries wax tears
dripping on the floor
from the bedroom
to the bathroom door.

While you lay sipping
sweet intoxicants
I walk, partly slipping
trying to reach your side
trying to believe the lie
that love exists somewhere.

But someone else sings for you,
while my heart bleeds the truth.

The white crow flies
laughing in the night,
“Never was and never will be
you will never ever catch me.”

I wish to speak with the elegance of a poet, the wisdom of a philosopher, and the intelligence of a scientist.

You don’t need to tempt me
I am your creature
Stallion dalliance
With subservient features
Submissive master
To the master submissive
Dismissive of other affections
All the soul I have
Is yours to steal
Drink at will
Absorbing my essence
Or discarding it as you want

I don’t have the time
to memorize
or get stuck on
old lines.

Not because
of new rhymes
but because
my hyper mind
has already
super sonically
jetted to
the next horizon.

Everyone
has there
earbuds in.
So, no one
is talking
or listening.
They are
just walking
and missing
any human
connection.

I am tired, so tired
Of ancient relics
Stark statues
That mark
Old attitudes
Bad ideals  
Enshrined in
The sacred skin
Of spiritual devotion

I am tired
Of blind faith
Celebrating hate
Bathing those
Who wait
In the blood of
Ignorance and violence

I am tired
Of the unreading masses
Thinking that they are
Taking me to task
For my bad ideas
Smart mouths
With no solid stance
To back up
Their empty chants

I am tired
Of the primed populations
Bending to the will of
Wealthy preachers
Who give less then
A particle for the truth
And make a fool
Out of all those who
Pay them
To play them

One feather is folded back.
Wings flutter black,
not pumping fast,
but floating in a circle
seemingly relaxed
while the wind
blows him up
and around
like a kite.
Being slightly damaged
I wonder how
this bird flies
with a broken wing.