The lesson is
we are not less then
other men
but different
in our radiance.

Some may shine bright
while others wear a light
that is on another spectrum
one that most humans
are not even looking for.

Make it quick.
You are already
killing me slowly
dragging me
through the snowy
thorn covered field,
making my flesh bruise
changing it from pink
to blackish blues
as you spread the abuse.

Just make it fast.
slip the blade past
my ribs and up into
the heart you broke
as you choked
the land I loved
as you grabbed
children by the throat,
while you demonized them
with shaded lies.

Your corruption is poison
and I am tired
of writing the same poem,
so just **** me now.

He wants peace and tranquility,
but without rage he has no vitality,
there is no reason for him to keep moving,
if he isn’t struggling against the fear of losing.

As a rule
I was never good
at turning away
ignoring another’s pain
even when they tried to
make it a rule.

Perhaps, I was a peasant in love,
a partly pleasant player
in the prose and poetry
that I present to thee
my cherished queen
of love laden dreams.

Perhaps, I was
the curious cockroach
crawling across
the curators
favorite canvass,
the portrait of our
beloved queen,
to be crushed
carelessly by
the callous king,
becoming a small stain
on the otherwise
unblemished
painting.

Perhaps,
before we past
parting ways,
pondering
old playdates
when we played,
I was your partner
in strange adventures
before my feelings
became too complicated,
before I became
the crestfallen fool,
the King’s favorite jester
who made you laugh
while I tore myself in half
for the sake of your wellbeing.

Now my twin wanders somewhere
out there
unburdened by the broken heart
and if you see him
send him back
so, I can be him
once again.

Anger is not a
sustainable source of fuel.
It is far too combustible,
and dangerously volatile.
It will either burnout
or blowup in your face.

It was long ago
when I wept
with the wind swept
children of
human wreckage,

When bare feet
felt soft soil
and muddy pools
squished themselves
between my toes,

When dark dreams
danced dangerously
inside of me
pushing
death tolls
and grim reaper schemes,

When family
was something imagined
and love was a desert,
or a half empty silver flagon
with dragon’s flames,
fiery liquid burning my
already parched lips,

When the church
claimed my soul
until I finally said
hell no,

When in vain
I tried to explain
a stranger’s pain
to another stranger,

When I slept
and woke in tears
or sat in the dark hallways
because I had no home,

Though many years
have proceeded old pains
the child of humanity
still remains
with red veins
ready to be ripped
to bleed out our shared pain,
stored in the library of my brain
and written
upon these crimson
stained poetry pages.

Desire is the thief of
a pleasant present moment.

What a beautiful bottle of
black haired poison she was,
a perfect shade of night.

I slipped in beneath her skin
plunging deeper and deeper inside;
Until her mind consumed mine,
till her needs became mine.

She ripped her wings
and I bled from my shoulder blades.

She scratched her eyes out
and I wept long thin lines
of pungent red wine.

Without any hesitation
She performed a trepanation
so she could shed
the glass that scraped
the insides of her head
and I died instead,

so when her phoenix fire
threatened to consume the world
I flew like a ****** angel
raining wet red roses into her ashes

It is a rough day.
Two homeless men
stand guarding
opposite sides
of a busy street.
Our eyes do not meet
because I do not
want to see
humans in need
right now.

My eyelids fight
to stay closed
while I try to
stay awake.

Stranger strategically stray
in a sauntering way
from one street corner
to the local liquor store.

Cars rustle up
clouds of dust.
With rust on their buts
they pitter putter
out uneven percussion;
Their weird music
makes me think
I have fallen asleep
and started to dream
about a world were
old west and modern tech
are starting to blend.

I down three energy drinks.
Then my shift ends.
I drive far enough away
to find a safe place to park
and catch a quick catnap
so I can make it home safely.

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

The feet of time
trudge on
on infinity’s dime.

Beneath its nimble steps
the cement sidewalk crumbles.

Time liberates
the land,
freeing it from
the bonds
we placed upon
its muddy back,
erasing imagined borders.

States crumble.
Nations deteriorate.
Man’s footprint
will eventually be erased.

Except for climate change.

Though I wish it was
like the long-lost love
that I still miss,
or the sweet mist
of soft citrus
squished fruit
that squirted in my mouth
in my youth.

Time is a snake
devouring itself,
scouring souring seconds,
and removing buildings.
Till, thirty years later
I cannot recognize
any of the lost landmarks
from my long-ago life.

I could not find the words
To fulfill the fullness of this thought.
I could not bare to forgo
The wonders we both know
If such a thought was lost
So while you went on
I waited in this song
Searched for the precise way
To express what I wanted to say
Now you to are gone
And I might have been wrong
Lollygagging around
Looking for the perfect sound
While everyone else
Has moved on

You birth is an invitation
Few received from quintillion plus
Possible people
A gift to exist
A choice given
The variables
A ticket to the freak show
Or to the joy ride
Of expanding life
And human consciousness
It was not stamped for approval
Nor is it dependent on the permission
From those in power
Who required you
To live by their patterns
Why would you
When you can build a better loom

There was a time
when the Beltane fires
blasted, the massive
crowds face
with orange heat,

when women danced,
swirling and singing
in an orgiastic fury.
When a poet’s tongue
could raise a lover’s skirt,
and with passions
unparalleled part
a ******’s legs,

when well written words
would stir adventurous hearts
to grand feats,
and the poets would be seen
and remembered.

Now black hole brains
and shallow stares
sink solemnly
onto their blinking screens.
The poets are not seen.
Their truths are no longer gleaned.
Their words are not heard.
Dull faces are lit
by other people’s
facebook, twitter,
and instagram *******.
The fools have forgotten
the former passions
of this existence.

Thus, the poets dies,
unmourned
by the unmoved masses.

In words
she works
her dangerous tongue
shaping the
desires that were,
are, and yet to ***.

Viper eyes
of Egyptian fire
surge towards me
purging any urge
I have to resist
the demon’s lips
that ache to kiss
my tired flesh
to death.

It has been far too long.
Rain never looming.
My eyes always averted,
hands working out
****** frustration,
but when I face her
I yearn to bend
to her whims.

She commands me
to crawl
and I do.
She demands
that I beg
and I do.
Then she tells me
to devour her flesh
as she devours me
and my tongue
whips viciously
savaging
her moist lips.

Legs parting,
heart thumping,
she demands
all that I am
as a man.
I become hers
and give in
pumping
with a passionate fury.

We howl,
growl,
and nip.

The wet sounds
of desire’s fulfillment
fills the room.
We are consumed
in such a sweet
****** tempest.

Till we part,
only temporarily satisfied
animals waiting to refresh
so, we can feed the lust
again, and again.

There was rowdiness.
There was disobedience,
non-compliance,
but not any directly
dispositional disorders
of defiance.
There was violence
but not his doing.
There was a troubled child
bright, buoyant, but wild
There was me growing.
In my personal experience,
it felt as if they would rather medicate
and make their life easier
then deal with a complicated situation.

We do the right thing for the right reasons
Struggling with moral questions
Questing for truth beyond misconceptions
The poet, philosopher, heart seeker
The speaker, social worker, Teacher
Without weapons and violence
Our hearts bleed as much as our bodies
Locked in love marching on
To be better, to be an example
Even when they trample us
Beneath their steel toed injustice
Pushed by pulpit pedophiles
and political predators
When they say fear and hate
We say hope and love

He is a frequent fellow traveler
Dancing on the fallow gallows
Till the slick blood drips make him trip
and slip to the tip of the crimson soaked ledge
falling off that slippery edge

I am still strange,
haven’t managed
to change
enough
to fit in.

I still enjoy
the comic books
I collected
when I was
a young boy.

I still like
the sci-fi
fantasy
movies,
and tv shows.

I am still
as curious
as the little kid
who hid
and watched
robins
walk
with their
heads
bobbin.

I am still reading
searching,
and pleading,
longing
with aching sincerity
for a world
that will appreciate me,
but I think
that I am too strange
for this reality.

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.