I gave up all my summers
Left my springs
Abandoned my winters
To my wandering ways
To my lonely days
Leaving was easy
Failing was harder
Giving up so much
And all I had left was
My autumnal nights

There are smiles in the past
That bleed through to the present

Hugs and tickles
Running and laughing
A wooden swing
Puppy dog love

Journeys
Began and ended
Pathways merging
And parting
More than once

They play in my memory
Treasures
Better than a golden ring

Perhaps they are the parts
That make me
A decent human being
Because I hope that I am
A good man

Words cannot describe everything so we use numbers to break the noun barrier.

Keep it sweet and succinct
as your heart starts to sink
I will sit here and think
about my feeling.

As I dream about your lips,
long to hold you as we kiss,
then whisper an ocean
of loving truths to you.

But our eyes do not meet
and you do not see
how much I am willing
to sacrifice.

So, we go our separate ways
like our lives are tragic plays
lost in a bittersweet melancholia.

Still, there’s a small spark of hope
that keeps me
from swinging on the hangman’s rope.
So, I write it down as a poet.

I distort the story just enough
so that if you look close
you will know how much you are loved
but if you don’t
no one else will notice.

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.

Three pages behind,
so I look to find
any observation
that will stir
a poetic line;

Like white flowers
on a metal wire
that look like
a metallic vine.

Three pages I seek,
so I listen to
whatever will speak
to my poetic sense,

I hear lots of clicks
as I drive by on
the highway,
then a musical beat
that I cannot place
because it is muffled
and lacks any base.
I pop the top
of my center console
to see a strange glow
as my cellphone
tries to wake me up.

Three pages that I yearn to complete
but I have no comprehension
of what strangers smell,
so I am only left to write about
what I feel.

I slide my hand up and down
searching soft sore spots,
looking to see if they
are too cold or hot
and flinching when
I come across a bruise.

Three pages to complete
it’s the deadline I set for me
every month I try to write
thirty pages of poetry.
Now I only need two
to get up to what is due
this far in the month.

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.

It is the ocean that divides us
as celestial stream that hides
deep inside
a treasured light
that we only confide
in those nearby.

It is a temple of dragons,
fates burning fury
that scorches us
to the core
and even more
before
we rise
from the ashes
of old lies.

It is the night sky,
sparkling
but temperamental
reminding us
we are ephemeral
less than insects
in the scheme
of infinite things.

It is daydreams,
dark and bright fantasies
about spaceships
traversing
distances beyond
current capability,
with artificial intelligence
to guide and inform me.

It is a story
in the form of poetry,
a multi-faced
multifaceted
exploration
of my unknown identities
that I explore,
remaining untitled
because I do not know
for certain what it
is certainly for.

We are all
improbable,
impossible people,
preceding
all the things
we needed
to exist,
our ingredients,
our history.

We are
a culmination
of struggles
beyond
our imagination,
wasting
the faith
we place in
religion
and politicians.

We are
crazy,
lazy,
stupid,
violent,
destructive,
devastated,
prostrate­d
to the things
that should be hated,
fools
that fly
so high
on the shoulder
of older giants.

We are
beautiful
creative,
a spark
that made it
this far.

We are
born to fall.

The grey road is a field
of young and old
metal plants
that are grown
in big buildings
where business men
take the workman’s
daily sacraments
and exhausting sacrifices
and turn them into
automated schemes.
Till this artificial industry
falls crumbling
to the rise of the profit machines.

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.

Once proud this waterless rock
Now sings with all her being
Humming winds
Swirling in space
Touching the face
Of eternity
While lusting after infinity

Split infatuations
Sick with desire
She spews fire-like mud
Splitting herself
In anticipation

Her core churns
Her soul burns
Coldness creeps
Into corners where
Her strange affliction
Bares itself.

In love she is cracked
Shaking off the last bits of history
Till space and time
Consume what is left to find
And only radiated crumbs remain behind

I got the worst human deformity, a kind heart and extremely sharp mind.

I hope when the stage lights soften
And my body chills
As the energy eases out
Of my old man frame
That I am with the people I love
Joking, and smiling
Till I am unable to do anything
At all

The window wears
My ghostly reflection
Transparent eyes
More meaningful
Than mine
Brown hair becomes
Black as the night
Age lines
Make strange shadows
A face I hate
But the glass window
Is still better than
That twisted bathroom mirror

Why do you hate nihilist? Do they impose those fancy lack of beliefs upon you? Are you afraid to let go of the meaning many cling so dangerously to. Must you have a certain order in order to sustain your own existence?

We are displaced
by pain’s past,
a place where
black roses bloomed.

Where sorrow was groomed,
but between
the waxing moons
there were small smiles,
light laughter
hugs, love, and
stories.

Though shadows came
soft kindnesses
kept madness at bay
with bright interludes
breaking through
shaking the core of who
we thought we were
and who we want to be.

Presently, I visit shade
to see the sun above the leaves,
to see the light shimmering
in small rain puddles that pool
in the streets by my old school
in the cool springtime afternoons.

The pain is a permanent companion
but through those tinted mirrors
of bruises and verbal assaults,
I see a sunny side of sanity
the goodness inside of me,

and in time
even the shadows become a pleasant
memory.

Well we sit until it stops
Can’t hear the ticking of the clocks
The clicking of the locks
As we lose all notions of control
Time sweeps us up
Space beats us up
Fill it up with stuff
But the stuff is not enough
Man this life can be rough

In my sleep they murdered me
Burning flags of liberty
Flaming crosses
Soil destroyed
No testaments left
That is how
The truth is avoided
That is how
Reason is voided

What a weird wonderland
as Alice comes so close to see
the strange curiosity that is me,
an inverted reflection,
while I see negative space
filled by her body, face,
and the thoughts she traces
out for me.

It is quiet,
secret seconds
seeking distractions
from overthinking,
and reacting.

Obsessive behavior
becomes
redundant checking,
and occasionally
checking again
unnecessarily.

It is observing
emotional signals
and decoding them
to the best of
one’s ability,
consciously,
and unconsciously.
Till, their anxiety,
anger, and sadness
is distorted
and reflected
in your feelings.

It is only alleviated
in engaging with
informative
and educational information,
fitness and exercise,
entertainment,
or sleeping.

I’m just a fading echo
of my younger self,
an empty shadow
who performs
a preordained
ballet
with a broken leg
red and inflamed.

I’m just a broken
ceramic figurine
that is beautiful
but barely seen
and seldom
appreciated
for the quality
I bring.

I’m just a Poe
and Van Gogh
tragic
romantic
poet
longing to connect
to world
that forgets
its humanity
constantly.

I’m just tired.

I am so sick
of this
thick ****
that split lip
from some
dumb *****.

Macho
man
with a
quick fist
who likes to
call women
*******
and chicks
while he hits
them.

Big bad
bro boy,
confident
with no
reason to be
and I am
jealous cause he
gets more
love then me.

I’m not
looking for
****** gratification,
just deep
conversation
and a little
appreciation.

But isolation
is what I am facing
while a sub-par
sports car
*******
never goes
home alone.

Face flushed
I taste dust,
cause she’s livid
with a vivid
imagination.

I move up
one bar
then back down
to the clown car.

Light signal changes
to the wrong color
giving me
a signal to see
that is a
confusing
communique.

I am enraptured
by the next chapter
she used to capture
my heart.

The past is the spark
where she parked
her poetic heart,
as I asked to see
whatever she
would grant me
freely,
in her poetry.

I long for
a great dialogue,
but she
doesn’t
long for me.
So, I am left to see
the slow decline
of my sanity.

At first I was a lover,
adherent adorer
of the ultimate
father figure
to whom
I sublimated
all that I was.

Then when
faced with
the pain
of existence
I became
a questioner
of the almighty.

In studying
the sorrows of history,
I saw the stain
of human tragedy
perpetuated
on the forms
that people hated,
how they mutilated
men, women,
and children.
Then I became
an accuser
judging
the behavior
or lack there of
of this
omnipotent being.

Till, I saw the truth
and the abstraction
shrank from something
to nothing.
The light of a creator
that subdued my mind
and enslaved my spirit
blinked out into the nothingness
that it always was.

The night
is a torn tapestry
where celestial bodies
burn beautifully
incinerating
the cosmic stitching
that bind us,

quantum energy
unraveling
all of reality,
as I stare
stupidly enthralled
by the awesome
complexity.

Silvers spheres
of gaseous spirals
spew atomic fury.

Other poets
and painters
have presented it better,
such a sweet
starry starry night
made to delight
all of us,

but this time
I return
my reflections
with the love
and devotion
born of
a dreamer’s
dark predilection
to romanticize
every aspect
of our lives.

I break my devil
with heavy metal
and hard plates.

Take my pain
and step up,
down
then up
again
in reps.

Tight T
as wet
as me
soaking in
stinking sweat
as I struggle
to catch my breath.

This is
self-punishment
for my lack of
food discipline,
for my lack of strength
in pursuing
all the things
that make me
a better human being.

All the doubts,
all the rejections,
all the frustration,
I work them out
with a workout.

Which might mean
the only thing
I accomplish is
a better physique,
while never addressing
the underlying
issues,

but I feel sharper
after
the workout.

I feel calmer to.

So, I will push,
pull, press, step,
squat, bend,
row, jump,
run, lift
till others
sigh and try
to quit.

I will continue
with all of it,
and maybe get
to the other ****
later in the day.

Nice to get your dreams
see ambitions fulfilled
be thrilled
by what you achieved.

So, you're finally
respected and
recognized,
literary dreams
realized
because
you inspire
the masses.
They talk about you
in college classes,
and strangers
ask you to sign
the books you write.

So, success
could be defined
by wealth acquired
by the things you desired
finally becoming
stationary place holders
in your household.

So, your health
and physique
finally match
the muscle mass
and bodyfat
percent that
you wanted.

All the hours
you put in
to getting
the great win,
and as you
look around
you will see
friends and family
growing old
and becoming deceased.

Was it worth it?

Witness
the witless
swimming in
the driest
wetness.

sinking in
solid ground,
making the loudest
silent sound,

master of mundane
wearing hats
to make hate
great again,

artists who perform
the opposite of
the art form
attempting to reform
that which needs
no rebirth
just the freedom to grow
in whatever direction
the art has earned,

metaphors
of madness
thinning
to fatness,
as I slurp up
all the sick stuff
humanity
has been brewing.

There are sharp bits
of salted bitterness
bleeding,
knees scraped from
pleading
for someone to see
and believe
in the value
of what they’re are reading,
words which I wrote
with love,
the art I permitted
to be exhibited.

I want to be seen,
have my heart heard
in each word
I project,
open the wounds
I protect
and bleed art,
gift freely
that which
is the essence of me.

I know it is needy
to want to reach you
so, you can see me,

and here is
the Greek tragedy,
like Cassandra
the prophetess
I am doomed
to have no one
believe me.

Even though
I know
the value
of what I give freely
with love.

We live in comparison,

When I compare my self
to wealthy men,
I find my fortunes
sadly lacking.

But if I look back
at the shadows closing in
all that human suffering
all those souls living
without compassion,
the dark nights passing
every sad circumstance
every tragic dance
of death and gore
that came before;

If I am keeping score
of the ratio
of smiles to terrible tears,
of poor to prosperous years,
of those gone
and those family and friends
who are still here.

It is very clear
that I am doing **** fine.

The winter wood
is cold and wet
stacked in the back
waiting for the day
we need to burn it.

The bare branches
are heavy with
white outlines,
those cold snow
brushstrokes.

Smoke stacks
cough up that
fire and ash.

No birds or squirrels
for weeks on end,
and I haven't
seen a single friend
for a couple of weeks
maybe this weekend
I'll head in
to town
to touch base with
all those I miss.

For now
I stare out
at this
frozen wasteland
and wonder how man
ever managed to make it
during colonial winters.

It is not my blood
that wets the tattered rags,
soft skin
slowly paling,
mother loudly wailing
waking anyone near
to the agony
that other mothers
come to fear.

It is not my family
shattered,
blood splattered
buried under
tons of rubble,
and lost to
man-made devastation.

It is not my neighborhood,
my hood is real good,
safe and clean
no one hears a scream
cause there are no
military bombings
breaking down everything.

But these are my tears,
this is my fear
to hear clear
the horrible pain
of those that
my leaders claim
deserve to be hurt.

It is not my country,
but they are all my people
and if I am a decent human being
then I must share these things
bare these thoughts
bring these words
so, all can see the cost
of inhumanity.

Can you feel the piercing pull
as the projectile runs you through
spitting splatter art
across the stone hearth?

Can you see the shattered hearts,
wounds wrapped in cloth
unable to stem
the tides of blood
that won't stay within?

Can you dream of the darkness
that others endured,
the struggles they pushed through
as they interred
the ones they love?

Can you look a stranger
right in the eyes
and without lies
tell him or her
that you care
and that they are heard?

Can you be kind
one time,
then another,
then another
till compassion
becomes
the path
that you run
around and around
in an almost infinite
circle of intent
till you are buried
in the ground?

Can you be
a decent
human being,
please?

You do not know me
the child who waited
patiently,
for you to see
our share humanity.

Little circumspect
floating speck
swirling in
the chaos.

I proffered
the words of prophets,
not a religious sect
but the heart set
in seeing
all the souls
who were pleading
for a better world.

You do not know me,
and as I slowly
recede
into infinity
you still will not
realize
my true divinity.

Not your ancient
or brand new
Muslim or Hindu,
gods,
not Christianity,
but the soul
in service
of humanity.

Driving I see
a slow descending
road of concrete
settle into
an enclosed
docking thing.
Only a brief glance
but I capture it
in my memory.
A handful of human beings
with all of their things,
including bags for sleeping
scattered in the back.
I imagine that
they are ***** and homeless,
partially hopeless
but I do not know this
for certain.
Like all other people
I make too many assumptions.
If I had the gumption
and time
I would walk down and find
the truths they hold
in their unique minds.

Less then
three hundred miles
and three years away,

but I can still feel
the sunlight
streaming in
from the fifth floor
window.

I can still see
the long
multi-laned streets
cluttered with cars,
trucks, and billboards.

I can still taste
the hot wings
dipped in ranch
that I ate for dinner,
and the small omelets
in cheese streaked
plastic wrap
along with
the gravy soaked
biscuits.

I can still feel
the cool blankets
that saw me safely
to sleep
after I would eat
the free breakfast.

I can still hear
the sound of
strangers
speaking in
muffled tones,
blocked by
thin walls.
I can even recall
the sound of rainfall,

and though I am
almost content
with this moment
in my life,
part of me
would like to see
that memory
in real time.

Humanity
is a wisp of tail
that fools follow
tripping on the trail
of stupidity.

I tried to capture something,
a sliver of my silver
unconscious stream
that is always running
underneath
and gathering
observations,
then making
strange poetic
declarations.

I use to play
slow soft songs
to fall asleep
because anxiety
wouldn't let me
rest peacefully.

But now I
don't need
the music to sleep.

I just roll in
coming back
after eight hours
of working,
an hour and a half
of working out,
and two hours
driving.

Eyes ready to
roll up and retreat
as my feet
lose
socks and
black work shoes.

Everything
weighing
heavily
cause I am
exhausted
from fighting
life’s and gravity.

So, I let
the rest
take me
in silence.

Metal spirits,
sparkling sprites,
the glowing fae
light up the night.

Dancing twinkles
of fireflies
and pixie dust,
collect in the throat
of those who
get to close to
these magical beings.

An elder treeant
with sturdy wood,
watches elves dance
cause those ears
wiggle real good.

Heavy dragons’ scales
unbalance all
as werewolves
jump from a cliff
to free fall,
and vampires
turn to smoke
and float
off.

Skin-walkers,
and zombie dudes
keep on migrating
out of our view
cause though they
like brains
they know humans
are far more dangerous
then their dwindling crews.

It isn't a monster mash
more like
a mythic
mix up,
that gets up
to whatever it wants
in the magical forest
that it haunts.

A soft song
distracts.

The window fogs,
as white lights
fall away
running fast
as can be
on into
a sea
of infinity.

She yawns,
then fingers
a circle
into the glass
trying to
make time pass,
make her hours
move faster
then those
minute *******
that just drag on.

Dullness settles in.
Her mind wanders
slipping beyond
normal constraints.

A pew, pew, pew
of imaginary lasers
escape her
small lips
as she races
to escape this
boring moment.

Little blue eyes close,
and all those stars above
move light years closer,
as she sits
in the cockpit
of a little weaponless
space junker.

Two bogeys,
circle her ship,
but she ducks
and twirls
through the gap,
allowing the blasts
to blow up
passing meteorites
which shred the
metal plating
and pulsating
engines of her
impatient pursuers.

Now she is free
to explore infinity
with her
Soft body settled
deeply into
the comfort
of the old couch.

Eyes still closed.
Her mom
comes home,
kisses her
brave space traveler
on the forehead,
then carries
the tired wayfarer
off to bed.
A space where
dreams take
the young explorer
farther into
the star sparkling unknown.

I got a heart made for breaking,
viewing all that is breathtaking
with a thin smile
as my dream girl drives me wild.

Leather jacket bad ***
but not really as bad as
she claims.

Smoke in the wind
lips curving
till she is laughing
cause she likes
my joking disposition.

I got a heart for a stranger,
puts the whole ***** in danger
for a fantasy
that will never be.

For a dream,
I live dangerously.
Till my passions make me
try to break free
from my history
of bad endings.

When I have time to think,
when the dark thoughts
are hailing me
like Starfleet academy
across the universe
of my undermine;

In the dark regions
of my dreams
where legions
of thought demons
come rumbling in,
there is a red wave,
a reservoir of pain
reserved for the perturbed
parts of my overactive brain.

When the melancholia music plays,
switch flipped to repeat
as I listen to the beat
of my heart’s history,

I remember all that
was given to me,
the bits I took for granite
chipped rocks eroded
connections no longer
able to be loaded
because they are just
echoes of binary encoded
in my overloaded
grief molded
dual lobed
computing *****.

Unconsciously
I write to me.

Ironically
the poetry
I give
to make others think
truly reflects
my deeper needs.

As I speak
eloquently
with grief,
recording
my own history
asking others,
to learn from
what they read,

I forget to
learn those
lessons to.

Until,
ghosts
emerge
as symbols
in my dreams,
lost figures
reaching out for me,
allowing me
to remember
what I forgot to
tell myself
as I was
reprimanding
all of you.

I am such a goof,
and it would be so funny
if it wasn’t such
an epic tragedy.

The room is
thick with
darkness,
black shadows
and less
blackness
permeate
everything.

Then the
fog falters
a little light
enters,
and I can see
two reclining chairs
shoulder to shoulder
with my sitting form.

I see the fuzzy floor
and barely perceptible
dresser doors
with a small tv
sitting strangely,
familiarity
edging me onto
anxiety.

I know this place.
In dread I turn to see
the shadowy ghost face
of someone I love
reaching out to touch me.

Her grip is fierce,
and I fall back
in fear and
an aching sorrow.

I wake to the morrow,
as morning tears
slip in drips
down to my
dry lips.
Facing the grief
and the shame
of seeing someone
I left alone in pain
who died
years ago.

We are a chorus
of chaotic consumers
of materialistic addicts,
of capitalistic users.

We are violently virulent,
cashing checks
that are already spent.

We devour and destroy
to acquire
the new toy
or gadget we desire
to employ
for temporary amusement.

Then when someone
explains this,
claims it
can be better
we become bitter,
and break them
on the wheel of
social separation.

We consume and excrete
all the metal and plastic
crap that was manufactured
to satisfy this corporately
fractured life.

Daylight shades
paint the frames
and Instagram pages
with beautiful smiles
and short blond locks
that look out at
the world with
a certain
curiousness.
Snapshot moments
of social projections
pushed out onto
the internet
so strangers
can view
those small lies,
because
these pictures
do not know
or show
a quarter of
the truth.

Behind the
staged displays
of fun and cosplay
there are
dark shadows
with deep corners
where broken hearts
bleed clutching
their bruised wrists
and split lips.
Where blood drips
on the cracked tip
of the kitchen
counter top.

There are
repeated rapes,
cruelty and denial,
honesty rejected,
and despairing.
There is
a sense of
resignation
to not let this
invasion
define her life.

There is abandonment
from those who should have
safe guarded
her pulsar heart,
there is
injustice,
and while
the darkness
has not swallowed
her soul whole
yet,
she still finds time
to give light  
to a friend
who was trying to lend
a compassionate ear
to her.

These photos
do not dare
to chart the depths
seldom shared,
or explore more
then mere outward
pleasantries.

There is so much
left to see, hear,
and hold dear,
deep conversation,
neuroscience
and psychology
discussion
that are enlightening,

so much more
then mere flesh,
or hastened breathed
burnt by
desirous men
and their
unwanted intrusions.

There is dark art
and a heart yearning
for the burning
of an honest
and caring love,
one that runs
from safe fields
searching desperately
for the person they need
to protect
because to do otherwise
would destroy their life.

These photographs
are little lies
that we put out in the world,
smiles that hide
possible fast
or very slow
suicides,
especially if
there is
no one
ever around
to ask
“Are you ok?”
and if not
then to ask
“why?”

I have a heart
made to adore
juvenile fantasies,
despite modern tragedies.

In moments of madness
when modern photography
presents to me
the horrors of humanity
I can engage for a minute
and escape the insanity
in the comics
that carry super hero forms.

When I see bombs
that blister skin
till flesh bursts
revealing red disfigurement
I can travel in
my own mental
compartment
to escape this.
I can revisit
Winnie the pooh
or review the crew
of “Star Trek
The Next Generation.”

When mind numbing poverty
rears its sad faces at me,
with stranger’s eyes
and thin lips quivering
in lonely desperation,
despite my empathy
I have a gift for escaping
the irrationality
of human suffering.

I just sip the soft brew
of nostalgia for old cartoons
recalling a slightly saner time,
when all the sorrows
were only mine,
when I ached
with a mother’s fury
but tv shows saw me distracted
the fact is
I have been escaping
my whole life,

and I don’t see
that changing.