I am too tired to stop.
It’s too late at night.
I am not scared.
I do care
but I just got off work
and I want to get home.
I pass you by
while you struggle.
I do not see
if you cry.
I do not know
if you lived or died,
and I only feel
a little bit bad,
because six out of ten times
I stop for strangers on
the roadside.

Nature is weighed down by winter’s solid white water.
Cold winds break across the burial ground,
soft mounds where their family history is found.
Mother, father, brother, and daughter stand
struggling to hold onto each other’s hands
while the black clad tools of this corporate land
prepare to eviscerate the safe drinking water
with metal pipes of pure crude destruction.

Et Tu
Brutae,
its two
I say
as you jab
and stab
my flesh
and blood away

Does heaven have a place
for this pock marked
rebel angel’s face?

She is a pretty woman
with a delightful mind
strong and intriguing.
I’d like the time
to absorb the wisdom
that I might find
behind those dangerous eyes.

Under the immensity of time’s tidal forces
man’s collective achievements are like
the rotations of one electron in one atom
in one molecule in one cell.

You are resentful of the essential
growth of knowledge and wisdom.
You treat good men
like garbage
and bad guys
like heroes.
Your poets
and scientists
are forgotten
and in exchange for that
your leaders give you this ****.
The **** you miss
is replaced by a face
of pure contempt
and you praise him
for a *****’s definition
of greatness.

If you support the troops
then support them dude.
Don’t give me an excuse
while the rich dudes
exploit the troops and you to.

Such a brutal braggart once brandished blade
cutting core through knave and slave
in power mongering machinations
through acts of war and devastation.

I can only be an activist in words
because my heart refuses to part
with the beauty of art.
I no longer have the will
to struggle in a field
already full of fallen friends.
I do not think we can mend
the walls that crumble and bend
under the unbridled influence of
greedy and already wealthy men.
I do not think anyone cares to hear
how what I feared is already here
and now I am certain we will find
we can only slow this dangerous decline
other ages we’re able to cycle from
dark to enlightenment then back in
and around again.
However, with the damage to our environment
I am afraid this dark age will be permanent.
My brothers have turned my will to fight
into an ill-suited straight jacket
that I rage against but still put on each night.
What I am saying is we are not alright.
We are men, women, and children
already marked for death
because we condemned ourselves
to outdated projections
and ancient prophecies,
instead of studying what it means to be human.
I wonder if you realized you can’t beat the patriarchy
or topple the autocratic institutions
when they are built on the foundation of
the church you go to and the god who owns you
and even though this is supposed to
be a poem that wrote to tell you the truth
I know you won’t listen or believe me.
Thus, I leave thee to thy pointless struggle
so that I can play the fiddle in the middle of
this world that I love
the one you keep on ******* up.

Flicked by one frantic finger
The sting still lingers
The tiny fleck of a red mark
Left its’ spark bruised his heart
How easily a child is hurt
And yet only seconds after tears had fell
He was back outside merrily playing with himself
But not actually playing with himself ;)

Stressed and tense
the young man
twitches and jumps
at any instance
at school.

But at home
he works in
a light tee
soaked with sweat,
as he
pushes the mower
listening to
his favorite songs
on a Sony Walkman
cd player.

Sprays of stray grass
blow back fast
sticking and staining
his straining calves
and ankles.

Even the torn blue jeans
start smearing shades of green
while he continues moving
and sweating profusely.

Small squirrelly animals
scamper away
afraid
of the loud machine
pushed by this
oblivious human being.

His hair is soaked in sweat,
the sweet relief
of strenuous labor
won’t pay off later,
but for a good hour
or more
he is completely absorbed
in the music and work.

The world ceases to be
any problem for him
and he has no tension.

No lie can live forever
Cause liars always die
Leaving the next generation
To waddle slowly to the truth
Letting honest hearts free to fly high

Seven cameras on,
six are fine
but the other
presents strange
blurred colors.
Gray roads are
light blue.
Green trees
have parts
that glow orange
with red outlines.
The grass seems
to be the same shade
as if all the colors changed
were from
an alien landscape,
but I like it both ways.
The straight and the strange
are equally beautiful to me.

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?

Two fish
swim in
their own
aquarium
prison.

The flowers blossom
In fleeting spring
Succeeding in
Seeding friends
With beauty’s
Loving imprint

To love is to live
risking darkness,
searching for light
in the face of madness.

The words are my gift.
Like water skins
of wine
I drink them in,
drunken
with their delight.
Intoxicated,
I stumble.
Inebriated
until I am woozy
with their wonder.

They lift me up
on wax wings
whipping me wildly
around the world
in a whirlwind.
A tornado
of fury
felt,
a furnace
unleashed
in literature
and speech.

Oh, how I love them.
Though they
dally
with other lovers,
who are more gifted
then me,
I do not cheat.

I sing
in poetry,
and like a drunkard
fall with broken wings
swept away
in the melancholia
of knowing
no one will ever love me
like I love this language
you read.

Ignorance and apathy are plagues that promote human suffering.

More often than not
I am the bird that
the walls of the aviary forgot,
left behind to rot
as I swallow the nectar of
a handful of broken flowers.

I am rage reborn
for seeing pain
reformed from
the darkest corners,
that I thought we had
softly sanded for
sanity and safety’s sake.
Instead, we turn them from
smooth circle tables of
accepting love
where all are equal
to jagged edges of destruction,

Today has born
this ****** sequel
from these filthy forms
of violence.
Look at that child,
that refugee
who was turned away.
Look at that broken person
who looks to you for hope.

Look at the drone.
See the money made
by wealthy fools
playing foolish war games.
Their turn is done,
the cards they play
are the joker’s cap
red running stain.

Look at the child
who was once so lovely.
Now he rots under
the rubble of his city.
Now his sister is *****.
His mother is incinerated.
His father is decapitated,
and the progenitor of
his suffering is celebrated
and elevated by the masses.
I rage in pain
and yell to you
shame, shame, shame,
though I know the truth.
You have no use
for such introspective things
cause you’d rather play
the consumer game
then give a **** about
other human beings.

I spend a lot of time trying to understand perspective different than mine whether they are religious or political. Being open an unashamed of being wrong, so I can grow.

The coat is coal black and twice as heavy
compressing me
but I will not turn into a diamond.
The early winters white waves of crystalline water
are like deserts sands,
A barren wasteland,
leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The cold wind whips
my very bones,
strikes the skin
to bend
me to nature’s will.
She whispers
with a melodious tone
“Sleep my child
for tomorrow
will never come

Time is a construct.
Lives measured by a clock,

but eternity does not
see or need seconds or minutes
it does not believe in
Mondays or Tuesdays.

We see, feel, and define
false ideals in our mind
but reality does not mind
or care a bit about how we fit
into the span of eternity

Flash forward
Flash flooding
Fast waters rising
People lying
About the coming storm
Say cold is warm
Break the frozen
Shattering like
Already broken
Mirrors,
Let them
break again
I am not
A soft statue
I am marble
Worn and sanded
Smooth sides branded
With age lines
With life’s weariness
I am furious
Ready to snap
But I am already cracked
And the flood waters
Run over me
Around and in me
Slowly eroding
Everything I am

The heart is a lonely hunter
But the souls is a silent savage
Designed to steal and plunder
While our spirits and minds are ravaged

In loneliness
I long to lock lips
Spread your legs
Slip into your hips
And drink infinity
From your body

I’m a dead poet
Ya’ dig
I don’t have to makes sense
The academics
Just have to think I did

Think of me as a love to song to the world
Possibly poorly written
But deeply felt

I write a red heart of love. Feel glass viens shattering. Then take those blood shards and give them to the world.

The sun begins
to descend
and I reach
to touch
that distant glow,
a dwindling fury
that falls,
to allow
the cold moon light’s
lovely ascension.

I wait,
longing to rush
that rapturous fire,
to devour
such radiance,
to feast upon
the atoms
that explode.

I am ravenous,
and jealous,
angry at
the otherside
that soon
will come to life
while I am
drenched
in night.

Begging,
I beseech thee
sun please don’t
leave me,

but the gaseous orb
ignores me
as I implore,
cajoling
with strange
disintegration fantasies.

The sun leaves me.
So, I start courting the moon,
because I do not wish
to live so lonely.

The drums sound
The pitter patter
Of shattered
Nations facing
Other nations
Splitting humanity
For sinister ambitions
For political position
People push
War for
Financial gain
Waving symbols
And lies in our face
While they race to the bank
Children race to face
Starvation and death
The pigs can’t seem
To help themselves
And refuse to help anyone else
So we wallow in their sty
Sit, cry, and watched loved ones die
While they take their swollen bellies
To the bank to collect our jelly

The poor fool
longs to sell
his septic soul
to the sorrowful
sparrow
who walks
with broken wings
transforming
from a bird to
a womanly form.

It is a game of hate.
Heavy metal rages
move those iron plates.
My rep’s pace matches
the beats and rhythms
that my phone is playing.
I’m not displaying
anything.
It’s just fun
and self-improvement.

Her skin is a secret scripture
written in love’s affection.

It is strange to observe people from a distance. I watch  those whom I knew as a child, and find myself wondering how they became so removed from their imagination. They stumble through the daily grind embittered by the struggle to make ends meet and consumed by a desire for more things. Yet they have some how forgotten the joy of running around, playing tag, or reading stories that take them away. What a tragedy.

I’ve been looking for years
searching the streets
seeing the strangers
that I meet
keep being incomplete
while I am trying to
find the piece
that puts us all back together
how we never ever were;

Still striving to be better
not to be bitter but more clever
then ever,
I became the watchful walker,
the people stalker,
observing all in silence
absorbing all the
horror and violence
just for a chance
that I might find this
fantastic formula.

Many times I have come close,
seen the kindness that I know
starting to expand,
but something stops its growth.

Till, I realized
this quest was lie
I told myself.
The thing I was looking for
the dreams I longed to know
were only there
in the hopeful words
of my fellow poets.

I spent all my life looking.
Until I stopped,
cupped my chest,
felt my heart,
and realized
to my surprise
that humanity
was in my mind.

I do what I do for me first
To calm the crazy hurt
To still the raging waves
Of constant pain
Foaming water frothing mouth
Softens the harsh blows
That beat upon the shores of my mind

I am grateful that was not the one to find
The cold hard husk of flesh that you left behind
Because even now after all of these years
A simple song or memory brings on the tears
I am grateful for the time we had though it faded fast
All the summers spring and seasons that could never last I
It has almost been nine years to this very date
And it still hurts when I try to elaborate
This constant nagging feeling that I am the one to blame
I was so certain that everything would change
But every one went on with their life while I was not the same

The ocean ebbed from
her saltwater sea green eyes.
Shuddering breaths sounded
strangely inconsistent patterns.

The moon’s glow pushed her
porcelain face to
loveliness’s limit.
Anguish lit
all that was curved.
Soft lips pursed in pain.
Her long hair was locked in
a lazy perm.

I only looked once, ashamed
to embarrass to ask,
I let her sorrow pass
as she walked away,

Ephemeral beauty shivering
two days away from
an even colder form.

If I had a soul to sell
or a blade to impel myself
for the betterment of man,
and the movement towards,
the eloquent and grand,
I would wear those scars
with envied pride.
I would ride deep down
into the abyss of time
leaving a better world behind
for the small part I played
in this minor existence
we have all made.

You saw a man in trouble
and went on your merry way.
Then  found yourself
in a similar position
that very next day.
No one stopped to help you
isn't that strange?

Why were cops and robbers
Cowboys and Indians
Soldiers and soldiers
Super Heroes and villains
So entertaining
For the remaining
Of our childhood

Rush rush till the last blush
Of life dissipates
When stress no longer waits
When time abates
And you cannot delay any longer
Cause death is all that awaits

Such vehemence
For immigrants
Border patrol
Vigilance
I never knew
A human being
Could be illegal

He was
unmovable
as the mighty mountains
that mourned
the melted caps,
sitting six feet away
from six feet under,
refusing to yield to
the unforgivable weather,
unwilling to leave,
unable to cry
because all that was
buried within
had withered and died.

You could be a great book,
not the scriptures
that you do not read
but listen to too receive
imaginary blessings
Of abstract relief,

but in that time worn skin
under those arched eyebrows
there is a story brewing
written by doing
explored in the living
moment to moment.

The text is irrelevant
cause it will never stay in print
only be impressed
upon the breathes
of the ones you know.

It may
change and fade,
or change and grow.

The truth of flesh,

The warmth of touch,

The smell of sweat,

The sound of wet grass
shuffling beneath
cold wet feet,

The poetry of fun

The prose of those
whom we embrace
and others we fail to face,

The grief of loss,

Tendered to experience
So all can appreciate
the wisdom gained
from your mistakes

You can pass it down
in fragments
in whispers
out order
in facts or partial truths.
Because the best story is
you.

Just know
in the name of greed
as business’s
influence grows
you become
less than a cog.

You are interchangeable
in any job.
You can be discarded
no matter how hard
you worked.

Integrity,
Honesty,
Loyalty,
are just
shiny
but
empty
words.

That is what it means
when the free market
rules the world.