I sit in the dark
and puncture my heart
play poet to start
balancing all of those
uneven evening stars.
Till all of our scars blink at
the same twinkling beat that
blows me away like
an old-school gangster’s gat.

Now, I bleed
and I can’t get that red shirt back
this isn’t Star trek
but I use to figure that
we would be better than that.
Instead, we are worse.

So I curse this curious soul,
drop off to sleep and lose control.
I let my sub conscious go,
shrink my hope and let sorrow grow,
write it down so you will know
that we are not getting better.
We’re getting way worse.

I measure my life
in the richness of my experiences
not the artificial yard stick of economic success.

It is a writer’s rage
That inks and turns
Each bright white page
Into a thing of calligraphic chaos
Weird words are woven
Into some coherent pattern
For the reader to readily discern
Some hopeful aspiration
That denies or confirms
The appreciation the poet
Hopes to earn
Before time turns
His words to ashes

You speak of morality
but have no mercy
deserve no forgiveness
when you do not repent this.
Your actions
are etched on our skin,
that flesh camera
that keeps photos within,
as you cut, bomb, and burn them.
Thus, each mark matches
each dark spot of splotches
as your corruption
devours humans and lands alike.

You scream in the darkness,
looking for light
to let people see
that you exist.

Ripples in a pond,
echoes in the heavens,
whispers in the shadows,
we look and you are…

gone.

It is a grassy green wasteland
that rises from the highway
at a strange angle.
The verdant plains rush away
in a darker shaded wave,
that used to be a sea of dry brown
but now it flushed full of life.

Being creatures of
pattern recognition
and love
we conceive of
a universe that feels
just as much
as we do,

but the universe
has never given
any sign
of an emerging or actively
conscious mind.

Though, if it did
do you really think
it would give a ****
for human beings
when it is such
an immense thing?

At first I thought they were beautiful
a thousand tiny blinking eyes
flickering in the back
like Christmas lights
blinking at uneven intervals.

An hour or so in
I imagine the blinking lights
are red messages
coming from the outer edges
of some other solar system.

Then as fatigue sets in
they shift
same shade of red,
still blinking,
but now appearing hungry.

Seventeen hours later
and severely exhausted
my mind teases
the tip of madness
as the red blinking lights
seem like
a thousand spider eyes
ready to devour me.

I find that many times in my life
there has been too much fear
where fascination would have served me better.

Dusty Deadbolt eyes never open again

I was angry at god.
Even though,
he does not exist
because I knew
if I had the power
I would never
let anyone
abuse a kid,
but I saw
that ****
and I let it
happen again and again.
I am such a big
******* hypocrite.

Stuck in Springfield alone,
all my friends are back home,
nothing to do but sleep,
but that's not me,
so off the gym I go
to workout all the pain and anger
in my soul.

It is not red hot,
but a beautiful
ink blot
on the white spot
where I let my words
write themselves
and reveal how much
of a fool I really am.

I am probably the most prolific poet that paces the pavement at the prestigious place of academic play. Though I do not pander to the people that pay a hefty price I still politely have parley. Even though their precarious positions cause me pain, I still try to speak plain while avoiding the profane.

2011

There ain’t no such thing
as love.
So, I sing
in poetry
about the cynic
I don’t want to be,
while looking longingly
with loving eyes
at a human being
who will probably
never realize
how entranced
I am by her presence.

I return to some young summer.
It’s just a memory on a breeze
a warm day I had forgotten,
but it makes me smile.

He was flawed.
Tooth chipped.
Back ends
rotting.
Dark brown
moving in
from the rear
where it was
rotten and thick
then thinning a bit
as that ****
slowly worked its way
stench and all
to the front of
his infected jaw.

I have weathered so many storms that tempestuous tempests seem to be my home.

Step right up
to test your luck
pull a lever,
or pick a card.
If you’re clever
you’ll get a red lettered
queen of hearts,
but if you are
down on your luck
you’ll get a generic joker
who doesn’t give a single
****.

How fitting, that I own alone.
Worked and saved for it.
Bought and paid for it.
Became a slave to it.
Lived it graciously
Even when I hated it.
Dreamed about cheating on it
With some true love
But my truths weren’t
True enough to break its orbit,
Now, I am so close to mastering it.
The final stage will be
To see me
Die alone

You play with such pathetic
Little bitty ****** pretty boys
Who plagiarized my heart’s
Purpose and deep content
Saw you sleep and laughed
Wrote you clichéd love songs
But did not know the real words
Till I gave them the light
They Could not shine half as bright
Because they did not have
My tremendous might

While they were praying
Still staying out late
Drinking and playing
I was out dragon slaying
In the name of true love
Not *** and ***** stuff
But appreciation, admiration
And millennia’s worth of wisdom
In our shared written history

But my truth is not enough
You wear another man’s touch
Dream of the poison he brings
How he breaks you in two
Shades of silky ribbon grey
Ties you down to archaic ways
Like you are some thing

Where he bought you
Black roses ready to wilt
I bought you a world of fields
Full of an infinite variety
of flowers to see
each one named after you
Shining barely half as beautifully

Where he gave you
Rotten sewage and sludge
I gave you an ocean’s worth
Of dolphin filled sparkling love

Where he gave you
Noxious fumes
Spiraling up to the moon
I gave you kind clouds
That could look like anything
And a radiant sun
Guarding you from
Darkness’s invasion

Where he gave you a diamond
I wanted to give you the universe
But he bought you an expensive purse
Walked you straight up to your hearse
Before my verses of love
Could ever pierce the madness
Proving once more
That the true heart of a poet
Is meant to beat alone

You get to go to sleep at night
Hold your child and kiss your wife
While someone else’s child dies
While someone else’s mother cries
Warm water hot food
The freedom to do what you want to
Without a bomb dropping on you
Well isn’t that so nice

The night may be young my son
But my soul is much to world weary
To dank and dreary
Heavy with heartbreak
And that heartache may take
The last bits of strength I have
To even stay awake

Give me one more word
just a little more time
to wrap you in my arms
in a hug so tight.

Give me one day
from sun up
to sun down
one more conversation
before we lay you
in the ground.

For a scarred heart like mine
Love is a sucker’s bet.
Russian roulette
with bullets that won’t
quite **** me yet
just make me forget
how to feel hope for real.

It does no take a knife to find
the dark sharks that swim
inside your mind
could easily be mine.

The pain you hoard
as your birthright
the jagged sob filled breaths
that wake you at night
could be mine.

Your pain is only a day away
from the shadows that play puppet master
to my pains.

Your anguish may stay miles away
may play with stars that fade
in tragic comparison
to the fields of sorrow
you burn in,

but when you turn in
for sleep
just know that my dreams
still search humanity’s black seas
for our human connection
while knowing that I am easily one
bad day away from your pain.

How I long for the eyes
Of love’s lusting affection
To become a servant of desire
Sweet and sensual proclivities
Though I am afflicted
With such conflicted
Inclination,
Wanting rationality
And hungering for passion
That make the crescent moon
Smile and swoon
More then anything
I long for a partner
More of the mind
Then of the body

I am stupider when i know but smarter when i think.

Nature was the dress she wore
Grass skirt and flowery shirt
Brown sleeves of mud
And ocean blue shoes

She was a cloud of smoke.
She was ecstasy.
She was DMT,
such a sweet trip
for me.
She was the golden apple,
ambrosia’s kiss,
and all those other drugs
that I never did.
She was a shot of *****
with an orange juice chaser.
Over all she was one hell of
a hangover.

I hear the hurting heartbeat
Stomped beneath
The bare ****** feet
Moving on in throngs
Of pulsing people
Pushing past
The blast of hopeful
The heated flesh
Dripping beads
Struggling to breath
Wearing weights
Drowning in a lake
Of fake fate
Sinking in the simmering
Pool of blood
Red painted streets
Children crying
The industrious lying
While trying
To keep up with
This brutal American dream

I am a humbled beggar
pleading with the cosmos
that cool beneath
chaos in my unconscious.

I plead for the need
of words to be
refilled
until hearts observations
are fulfilled.

Let word cut across
the blank pages
that I thought I lost.
Let pure white snow
become polluted
by the words I know.
Let me see ink streaks
stretch across
the blank canvass.

I entreat
the inner lining
of my softly churning
mind
to chime,
let the bells of inspiration
finally find
their home.

But if they do not come today
let me mull over
what I have been
working on
until I find
the buzz of words
slipping in a stream
freeing me
from the fear
that I will
never write again.

A blur sharpens.
Vision returns.
Retina burns
as pain
takes its turn
to remind you
that dry eyes
might
blind you.
Headaches
make me
super cranky,
so I need
caffeine
to stay sharp,
with a gallon
of water,
and eye drops.
Until,
my mind is
still,
and I can sleep.

I carry a little notepad with me
to jot down my deepest thoughts
or take note of what I see.

A shadow cloaked in darkness can not escape its fate to fade as light shines upon its pained and embittered face. Their whispered words of wicked intent curve and cut what was never meant to be damaged or destroyed but explored and employed to make the world a little better. Now those dreams of good intentions are lost forever.

They are
petty parents
parroting
previous
patterns
of poor
behavior.

******* up
on a rocket ship,
send me fast
on my final
fatal trip,
skip this ****,
tip your waitress,
and let me leave this
graceless existence.

There is no warmth
despite the
sweltering heat.
It is winter
in the middle
of summer.

Strangers are all stiff
with a frigid
temperament.
They wear cold shoulders
and give off
icy stares.

Every action that is taken is shaded with bias and intent which is spread from friend to friend.

The Earth is art. A production of natural forces projected to projects beyond our basic comprehension.

the stars spewed
swirling waves
of raging fire,
bleeding light
that finds us
inspired to
reach higher
then our predecessors
were want to do.

Dear reader

I am wet with red death
wed to time’s inevitability
and all that is left of the true me
is here for you to read.

So, you should know
my beloved book lover
this weary word smith
must admit
that I love you.

I love you who
are here now
working with me
or against me
the sad, angry,
bitter, and lonely.

And I love you
who have yet to come,
the newly young,
the unborn babies,
the teenager
who will feel
so alone
but might find a home,
and solace from my verses.

And I love all those
who will never know
my words.

Am I
the self-styled
selfish child
who was wild,
or have I gone
beyond
that person?

Little ****** baby brother,
tiny younger sister
ravaged by war,

Oh, mother earth
what have we done.

Oh, father time
when will this
madness be done.

Our Cities sit
on crumbling foundations.
States become
little failing nations
moved by hate
and I can’t wait
for the day
things change.

Oh, mother earth
what have we done.

Oh, father time
when will this
madness be done.

Until the clouds
of grey, white, and black smoke
no longer choke
the pristine blue skies,

until the oil spilled
no longer fills
the oceans with death,

until we fulfill
our potential
and become better
humans
who help each other.

I hope we do.

I am alone,
and it seems
I will always be
so eternally.

The only love
for me
will be ghostly,
a deathly bride
who claims me
for eternity
taking me to
the doors
to nowhere
and loving me
enough
to let
my body rot,

a gruesome
affection,
indeed.

The cycle of my mood shifts
From high to low to slow
Soul scabs over
The things I love
Become mundane
No shame
Because I cannot
Drive my mind and body so hard
And expect to maintain
Such creative highs

It is barely twenty degrees.
I shiver as I drag my feet
across the cold concrete
walking the parking lot,
but I’d rather be
crossing the street
heading down the road
and farther down the road.
Till, I find the Springfield library
that hall of books beckons me,
but I have to stand resolutely
staring at the children who pass me
some laughing, some chatting
some shivering and cursing friendly.
My eyes look beyond them
staring hungrily at an undiscovered country.
A CVS and Walgreens to the right of me,
a school behind me,
a brick building with white lightning cracks
in their orange rectangles
and around the corner
several two-story homes.
One with fire damage,
one with a front porch caving in,
and another just plain dilapidated.
Trees stand lonely
scattered across this urban sprawl
each one solitary
holding out its limbs
like the stranger
who stands on the side of the road
begging with cardboard pleas
for something to eat or a dollar.
I stand, drained by the cold
bored, wishing for something to happen
instead of appreciating the richness
of this weird little world around me.

Let it bleed
like the red ink
that colors me,
make tiny tributaries
parting with the pain
I used to drain my veins.

Let it bleed
and plant a wet seed
so all stranger can
come and see
the painful reality
that swells
and leaks out of me.

Let it bleed,
so I don’t have to
doubt the truths
I held on to,
so the fierce reflection
that was so **** vexing
does not get
the chance to ****** me
because I am already bleeding.

Let it bleed,
let it all out,
so all the horrors
that confound me
the tragedies
of humanity
can become
another poet’s problem.

Since, I know
I cannot solve them
absolve me of
this painful empathy
set me free
please just let me be.
Let me bleed.

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 but I was not the same

The heart knows how to work,
even when its angry.
Even when its hurt,
the beat goes on
like an angel’s song.
The trumpet is strong.
Faith is hope,
lies aren’t always wrong.
Sometimes my brothers need
to be deceived
so they can carry on.