I come to my perspective
from a position
of privilege
with more power to express
points of view
that are oppressed
or ignored.

The grave was wet
with well water,
sinking flesh
fell farther down
into the brown ground
as it all rotted.

But, if I could
I would
pull you up
and out of that
cold black
and damp
death spot.

I would
warm you with
a loving kiss
and a tender hug
as I massaged
life back in to
your cold skin.

I would
bring you back
into a bright new day,
see your flesh
refresh
returning from
your withered
rotting form,
not a zombie,
but the warm body
that I remember.

So, I could have
one more day
to hear you tell
all the stories
you might have kept
to yourself.

Though I try not to be,
I am an arrogant ***.
It is a superior mind
that resides inside
the skull behind
my hazel eyes
camouflaged by
my mediocre life.

I subscribe to simplicity
for the sake if my sanity.
I project my intellect
for the sake of my vanity;
Invisible observer,
unloved lover
watching the world
under the cover of obscurity.

But the purity of my purpose
Is a self-serving illusion,
and though I am
extremely intelligent
I know that the belief
in my supposed superiority
is a self-insulating delusion.

When she came to school but never smiled, she was asking for help. When her eyes were swollen red with tears and she could barely breathe she was asking for help. When she was startled and flinched at the slightest touch she was asking for help. When there were bruises on her arm, and blood on her lip, she was asking for help. When she could not say the words because she did not know or was to scared she was asking for help, and when she slit her wrist in shame, or was beaten to death it was too late you stupid *******.

The strange old house
with gray crumbling
tiles that were
exchanged for
off yellow siding

A place where
I spent so many years
laughing and playing,
personal history making

A place where
the stone sidewalk
was placed unevenly
from the screen door
and the gravel street

A place where
we buried
a lot of pets

A placed where family
would come to meet,
and speak
of important things,
where we would convene
for delicious meals

A happy place
that I sorely miss
as I write this
to sadly state
I no longer
go back to
that special place

I’m Tired of people faking tears
Making fears
While they disappear
With all of our earnings
Grief lights the night like
Stars scarring the midnight sky
Sparse space specters
Screaming why
Teaming life
Has to die
Talking to gravestones
Where nobody stays home
And hearts turn to grey stone

It is a painful boil
that we must burst,
lancing the tip
even though
it hurts,
see the center
bubble
and drizzle
up and out
of its
volcanic center,
so, the swelling
may cease
and we may begin
to heal again.

There’s blood in the sky
fits the tears I cry.
I walk the streets
each and every night.

There’s strangers here
but they don’t’ have to be.
I could fully engage
our shared humanity.

A smile to go,
in a big mac bag,
I’m working on
my mcdonald heart attack.
Its just that
the big breakfast
is the one thing
I look forward to.

Its an empty life
It’s a lonely place
but I never let them see
the ****** tears on my face.

Its three to eleven
or eleven to seven.
It’s a gym membership
that gets me fit.

It’s a caffeine addiction
with a video game problem,
But all I work for
it isn’t love
its just enough money
to get me by.

Barely beyond January
half-way into February
winter should still be cold.
Instead, it is vexing me
fluctuating between
fifty to sixty degrees.

Now the weather confusion
unleashes the wanderlust in me.
My car comes rumbling
stumbling over loose gravel.

Still daylight,
but there is no sun in the sky
just cool blue, and grey clouds
with unknown animals
hooting and howling
out their own natural melodies.

I park to play
a video game
on my cellphone
then write down a couple of notes
while intermittently reading
two different books
of poetry.

The old empty elm tree
waves drunkenly at me.
Sparse spindly fingers ascend,
empty but imagining
that spring will bring back
the soft living green.

All this observed
in under an hour.
Until, my impatience
drives me back home
to all of my distracting
technology.

life is an exercise
of humility,
and I am hemorrhaging
my sanity
waking walker
stumbling in futility
knowing my existence
is less than a pittance
knowing that
in the cosmic swirl
of heavenly bodies
constantly moving
I am not even a speck.
My power is limited
as is my comprehension.
I am settled on
shifting sands
and this position
is even more precarious
then I can imagine it to be
because this planet is spinning
while rotating around a star
that is the heart of a
moving galaxy
in a rapidly expanding universe.

Human beings have been scammed into thinking
that barely keeping
their heads above water
and acting like everyone else
on a hamster wheel
is the height of human achievement

These digits,
fingers flexing
are made for grasping,
and manipulating
man made
devices.

These five things
have moved
to master
random rhythms
that I tried to tap.

Flaccid while I sleep
although I do not know
for certain,
perhaps they twitch
when I hit
REM.

They have pulled and pinched
plucked, and poked,

but my favorite thing
I have ever done
with my fingers,
is ****** and caress
feminine flesh,
and plunge deep into
a woman’s
moist desire
while stimulating
her *******
with circular motions,
bringing my partner
to the height of an
******.

I seldom solicit
your consent
when I try to
penetrate
the mind you
hide behind.

I went to the local store
but that’s a lie,
like all the lies before.
I saw her sitting
under soft lamp lights.
That’s another ******* lie.
I loved her deeper
than the ocean tides.
That is such a pathetic lie.
I appreciated her
while she was alive.
Man, I got so many lies.

He told her that
she was the one
but he was lying to
both of them.
Said he’d be there
until the end.
The lies get so deep
you can drown in them.

She said their signs matched
and they were soul mates.
That’s a lie that I really hate.
She shut out other options
better men that she could date.
Humans lie so ******* much.

You know the worst lies
are the ones
we tell ourselves
because we are to scared
to know ourselves.

Sometimes I build a nest
of nice lies
and sit in the bird ****
getting ready to die.

Her Aura was an empty illusion,
a cloud of lies
to fool herself.
Like her astrology sign
and her numerology
she needed said mythology
to find a narrative in her life
and follow it through
like a puppet on a string
who does what the
puppeteer wants her to do.

Water flows
falling on
our flesh.
Little rivulets
slide down
and cool
our skin.
In that way
water’s life is fulfilled
being set upon the road
of falling.
Each drop taking the path
of least resistance.

Given each variable,
each level of knowledge,
each objective,
we to take the path
of least resistance
to fulfill
what we will
not what fate wills.

No misery no poetry
I got this stupid fear in me
That if we healed our society
There would be nothing
Left to inspire me
All I have is all that pain
And if it left me
Would I ever be able to write again

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

As a member of this limited species I am a bigger idiot than most. My heart yearns for a better world even though I know it is on a sad slow but rapidly hastening decline. So I spit weird verses out into the void hoping humanity will hear it and listen. Yep I am a huge *******. Most people are to egotistical to admit their idiocy. however, I believe that accepting our stupidity opens us up to learn more and not be trapped in the old style of thinking. Peace, love, and props to you all

She has tip toed
Straight to the edge
No railing to hold her back
Just a drop
Dull thuds
Sound
Her body breaks with exhaustion
She will fall
Collapsing into nothingness

Its all ok.
Till, it isn’t.
Till, my howling beast
comes to swallow me
as I drown in the hollow
corridors of humanity.

The wails of the hungry,
the horrid screams of agony,
the shelters shattered
in mind numbing madness
made by modern
technology.

Mostly, this doesn’t
even touch me.
I wipe it off,
flap that flak jacket
that is dusty
with the flakes of
the fallen and burnt.

Our history returns,
but I am tired
of playing
the soothsayer
to those who go on
behaving like raving
children slayers.

My spirit becomes
comfortably numb
as I succumb
to my own complacency,
cause to struggle
drains me
immensely,
saps what’s left
of my sanity.

But even in the cluttered corners
the poet philosopher,
lover of literature,
student of history,
cries out to me,
yelling “do not surrender
your kind-hearted wonder,
and sense of empathy.
If you do there will be
nothing left of me
and our withering
humanity.”

It does not matter
But I made us
A flowered mattress
Of shimmering star dust
You know
All the
Dead space stuff
As a poet
That is about as romantic
As I can get

She sheathed her sword
inside my chest
from the middle
slightly to my left
and left heavy metal
to mar my fragile flesh.

An aching bubble,
broken spot of blood
puddled from my *******
into the mud.

This was the death
of my love.
For such a violent
reaction
was more than enough
to prove to me
I could never be
humanity’s
favorite ****.

Eight to whatever shift
it all feels so endless
as he works the grill.

Poor sore foot,
swollen in pain.
Blisters bubbles up
from the soul.

So, he goes
to the place
were the food
is kept frozen,
slips
his black crew
pair of shoes
off,
and then removes
his black socks.

A patch of ice
feels so nice
that he holds
his hurting feet
on that cold spot
till the pain stops
and then
again until
he can’t take
the frozen ache.

Then he goes
back out
to work some more,
repeating as he needs
when his feet
become sore.

It is a nice lie.
They told to me
how nice guys
can find love
in our society
and they most definitely
don’t finish last.
But patterns repeat,
I recognize the facts.
I have been here before
and felt the fury
of the faulty furnace’s
fiery blast.
There is heartbreak.
There is anger.
There is self-hatred.
There is danger.
Then I begin
to lie to myself again.
I proclaim
that in my pain and rage
I can be a bad boy to.
But he is never
who I ever really wanted to be.
I planted the seeds
and cultivated a being
of generous disposition,
intelligence and compassion.
To bad that it so happens
these are the traits
that girls like
when they are in transition
from the **** poor position
of heartbreak and frustration
then going through you
to get the guy
that they choose
because he is better than you.

How many tears
can a parent give
filling the seas
with all of their grief?

For those who know
such sorrowful horrors
there can be no reprieve;

And for fellow human beings
whose nightmares
parallel those horrible waking scenes
how can they not weep as well?

How can they not fill a well,
knowing that their growing
children could be
suffering
and/or
dying?

They built a brick wall
out of all their pain,
locked themselves up
in their own chains,
to never let go
of the grief they know.

They are so loud,
soft figures that crowd
crying out loud,
and sometimes
sobbing softly.

I can see them.
I can almost feel them.
Edging me away
with their powerful
feelings.

Sorrow splits my being.

A sign pleads
for something to eat.

A woman blames
herself
for the pain
inflicted
by someone else.

A child scratches
deep stiches
into her heart
and her arm.

A friend feels
like a failure.

An old lady
sits waiting
for people
who won’t
come to see her.

A mother still cries
at nights
after someone shot her
teenage daughter.

They intrude
exuding all of their pain,
and push me back
into my square room
were I am safely
sequestered away
from the shame of
failing to save
everyone.

It’s an arms race in America
Cops only stop to armor up
Bringing out their bigger guns
Not admitting but doubling down
On the violence in this town
That they created

I will never be wealthy
but I can help you see
clearly to our shared humanity
in print and polished prose
that represent those
who are not close to me
but in poverty are me,
a part of this universal family.

I found a journal from a homeless man
and his words worked within
my previous position,
words with the same pain
I was once burdened with
when I was homeless.
I had a journal to
though this one
is a little different.

I came at a different angle
but this person is not a stranger
this is just one aspect
of our singular story
that should unite us in our humanity.

I have spent years
Fighting your fear
Of complexity
And I am tired

Uncertain if my struggle
Has made a difference
Wondering if my existence
Is worth the flesh that made it

I guess I will have to wait and see
And if I find it wasn’t
Well then my folly will be
Trying to believe
In a world where
We can be better human beings

Dark is the insight of love
Not light that devours each night
Spawning the play of day
But evening shades
Layers of grey
Turning to black
It’s cool and welcoming
Quiet and beautiful
It’s expansive
Frightening
A vexing void
And every variation in between
These two similar things

A random thought;
If we absorb
the stimuli
that surrounds us,
then everything
around us
becomes part of us.
So, by running
from the world
are we really
trying to escape
ourselves?

There is no one crueler to me than me.
No one who makes me watch
all those horrors that break my heart.
I split the tip of my lip to let the words drip,
sliding down my chin like saliva;
Then drain the main wrist vein to paint my pain
on a cracked sidewalk that is already covered
in everyone else’s suffering.

They cast me out
into the open ocean
to float alone.

The choppy waters
rippled randomly
all around me.

As I sought to swim
I found a tree limb
adrift in this infinity
of water that was
trying hard
to drown me.

While I hugged the
thick brown wood,
my skin was
scraped and shredded
from the rough bark
and other protrusions.

After an unknown
quantity of hours,
daylight was devoured,
and the once bright sky
gave way to starlight.

Above me lay
an infinite expanse of space
which was reflected
in the water
where I struggled
to remain
afloat.

Then in an instant of fatigue
one wave captured me
and I screamed silently
as oxygen was replaced
by saltwater,
and I was swallowed
by eternity.

At first it was intriguing
a diversity of deranged
and severely distorted experiences
to write about in my poetry.

But after a while it got to me.
There was nothing gratifying
or even entertaining.
The lying and scheming
was straining.
The days of distrust
were spent hoping
that he would get busted
or just get busted up
and never come back.

An argument,
then weeks were spent
in cool calmness.

But he would always
come back again
act like he was a friend
use my water and electricity,
eat my food,
ask to borrow money from me
and when I insist,
refuse to leave.

Once I had a curiosity,
then I had compassion,
but all that is drained from me.
Now, all I see is me tense and angry.

I want that ******* ******
to stay the hell away from me
but my roommate
keeps letting him back in
cause he is family

The streets are empty.
Yellow lines
run from
the horizon
as I ride them
to the end.

The houses
are boarded up.
Hordes of home maker
won’t wake up.
Soccer moms
won’t be
driving on,
because its all gone.

Glass windows
are shattered
with strange webbed cracks.
There are no spiders
to climb them
just long lines
of silence.

I can find this
lack of violence
everywhere I look,
because all roads
lead to a state of
nothing hood.

Nothing is good,
but it isn’t bad either.

I used to be scared
of big fat spiders
but right now
I would be happy
to see
any non-plant living thing.

There aren’t even any dogs
left barking at me
while I move.

Its just miles
of mind numbing
loneliness
and an eternity
of time
to be consumed
by many mad
states of
my fragile mind.

I got tired
of trying to debate fanatics
so, I tried the Socratic method
but ended up having to
crack my skull open
on Plato’s Cave.
Then apologize before
I drank up
a big cup
of hemlock.

Memories are harsh specters,
and white vapor prisons
where family members revisit
the past to avoid the present.

Like friendly spirits
memories cannot touch us
but phase through us
until grief and regret
force us out into a dark fugue.

Wet grass weeps green
beneath the feet that run
in our remembering dreams.

Soft, thin, and wrinkled hands
pass plates around
preparing food
that even today
finds their taste
elicits to many  
confusing emotions and memories.

A small beagle mutt type dog
growls distrustfully
at strangers it sees,
saving all of its salt wet
affections for me.

Old man in a metal reclining lawn chair
still waits somewhere
back there
in a small-town memory,
tickling a smaller version of me
when I try to hug him.

These specter scratch at my skull.
pushing past my mental guard
and get under my skin,
because I still miss them.

The crooked trees
are bare of leaves
because Hermes
the crafty wind thief
has taken them,
Small brown and cartwheeling,
they cut across the empty street
as I watch enamored
but discreetly,
till, they finish crumbling.

Looking back
is like biting my tongue
till the blood
trickles just a bit.

It is like picking
a painful scab
and letting all that
little red
slowly slide
down the side
of your itchy arm.

It is like a melody
of soft melancholia,
a deep and dangerous
cavern full of
things that crawl
but never **** you.

It is all ages past,
all broken moons,
all crescent shapes,
that come closer,
to cut you.

It is one thousand
self-inflicted wounds
pursued for the sake
of some unknown goal.

They want me to believe
that cemeteries
are not delusions
were we seed
the flesh that bleeds
not back to the brown spot
but back to a black box
to let the spirits soar
to the heavenly hosts
right up to meet
that holy ghost.

But if that were true
why would I have to
sit through
this horror show
with no real preview
or proof of the heaven
you claim to know?

Why should I be
forced to wait patiently
while you demand
that I bury my body
in a box that blocks
all that glory
from going back to
the beautiful earth
that birthed
me and you?

I don’t buy it;
Why should I let tyrants
woo me
with words
that don’t match
our true history?

They’ve been doing this
for centuries,
but they are not
fooling me.
Don’t let them
fool you.

I wonder if
I’m an ill fit,
ill-equipped
action figure
who can’t figure
out this ****.

One day I’m
just too skinny
with too much hair,
but I’m working in
the opposite direction
so, I leave alone
with heartbroken
*******.

Years later
the pounds are
finally coming off
I’m finally feeling
a little hot,
but according to her
I still am not
good enough
to be her lover
or even be
her comfort ****.

I’m funny
and good enough
to be the gay best friend
but I am not
actually in to men.

I doesn’t matter
cause I never make it
to the Goldilocks
zone of love.
I’m either too big in the ****
or not confident enough.

It’s funny
cause no matter
how many times
I lose
I can always seem
to lose again,
parting ways
with the friends
who betray
the hopes that
they will stay,
but they
just ghost away.

Maybe this time
I will be the specter
who spirits himself
swiftly and safely away.

I did not
go quietly
into the
dark night,

but willfully
astonishing
all who ever
looked inside.

Bigger and better
built within,
well intentioned
and well written,

I moved among
you,
talked
and learned from you,
begged and pleaded
for more decency.

So, when time
finally came for me
I did not go quietly.
I went lonely.

I am being silly
flexing
while wearing
a black coat
but under these
long black sleeves
I got arms
like young
Hercules

Whether I am weary
or not
I wrap myself up
in the cold
winter cloth
to shiver
and shake
this dust of snow off.

I go to work out,
then go to work,
whether I am wide awake
or barely alert,

But, my once feather light feet
now are like lead weights
that burden me,

Caffeine doesn’t seem
to be working,
even in excessive
doses,

My left eye closes
sealed shut
with sleep dust,
so I pull it up
and out
like a little scab,
thank goodness
it doesn’t bleed
like that.

Even though
I try to trick
my tired mind,
I know
that I am slow
because
I don’t even want to
finish this…….

Like a mole
she has dug
into my soul,
Now she is in so deep
hidden in between
my synaptic gaps
and she comes out
in unconscious scenes
of fantastic dreams
when I am asleep.

The candle
cannot burn eternal
the flame
will surely
flicker out
and no one
who comes after
will ever know
or care
what it was all about.

In emotional agony
one or many more times
I melted my own flesh,
pressed glowing orange thin
lit cigarette tips down on my skin
to prove I was
strong enough
to bare the pain,
but ended up
really proving
how weak I was.
Outer dermis mutilated.
Hot ashes flicked away
after the self-inflicted pain game
and adding to this strangeness is
that I didn’t even smoke cigarettes.

To tell the stories
I have to run,
have to move,
partly for fun,
and partly to view
the world through
a traveler’s lens.

Cause if I stay
I’ll die
of old age,
and barely
make any change.

So,
I have to
run
to grow,
and share what I know
with all of you.

The end of the world
will not need me.
The grief I see
will depart swiftly
when my consciousness
cease to be anything.
Death will release
the anguish I breath.

All the books that I read
will crumble like
dry brown autumn leaves.
All those man-made things
will rot, rust, or tumble.

Even our shared history
will recede into obscurity,
then further into
nothingness,
allowing space and time
to completely
forget us.