Are we a line of compounding causal factors
that culminate in some important event,

or a series of reoccurring happenstances
that play out like an epileptic dance
of rapid synaptic chaos?

Do our minds play us, making madness
into predetermined patterns of a purposeful
existence,

or is there more meaning
to what we are seeing
like a lovely underlying cosmic equation
that unifies all that we spy
and all that our limited senses
cannot perceive?

Tis, an age of knightly lore,
of greasy and grizzled
wealthy nobles
that seem to signal
some sick cycle
of destruction
that they are
desirous for.

Battle born ballistic,
armament physics
of pain causing missions,
missing all mercy
because of their
Machiavelli
machinations;

Mud slickened and sweaty
armor wearing
super smelly
fellowship of fools,
discourteous tools
who ravage
and pillage
poor peasants.

Inflamed by such infractions
I chafe under the yoke
of violence and oppression,
whilst searching other actions
for the slightest scent or sight of
of human decency,

but hope is less then
a liminal sensation,
and there seems to be
no cessation of
humanity’s violent tendencies

I got thirty-nine,

thirty-nine years
of accumulating
and losing stuff,

of gaining
and dropping
muscle
and fat,
from eating
tons of
unhealthy crap
and trying to
get my good
health back,

of issues
remembered,
imagined,
and forgotten,

of ill gained
goods,
and
misbegotten
misfortune,

of frustration
to the point of
boiling eggs
on my forehead,

of losing
hopeful illusions
that I once acquired,

of letting go
of those desires
that inspire
stupidity,
while hopefully
stripping
the unwanted clay
and revealing the face
of someone
I have been
struggling
to become.

She sways
uncertain,
heavy with
that horror
that will
not fit
in her skin.

She grieves
with oceans
that dwell within,
a salt-water geyser
spewing lava fire
that reddens her eyes
and face
while she
is slowly stumbling
through her place,
hoping that
this is just
some nightmare
or mistake.

She shakes
like an
earthquake,
ten hours
too late
and she can
still feel
the after shocks
of what was lost.

She shudders
trying to catch
a breath that breaks
faster than lightning,
air that will not stay
where it is needed
ca, cau, cause…
cause, her little boy
just got shot
by some
off duty cop.

Not totally unexpected
after a lifetime
of being disrespected
and disregarded
by society,
by a culture
that devalues
her son’s humanity
because of
the tint of his skin
and where he
was currently living;

But this is a pain
that keeps on giving
more sorrow,
and then on
the day after
the day after
tomorrow,

she sees
this social disease
on her tv
where talking bobble heads
deny the cop’s complicity,
rewrite reality
whilst ignoring history,
and turn her young son
into a big bad ****.

Seeking,
the similar spirit
of a suffering soul-mate
who yearns to find
said compatible mind.

Seeking,
at least a part-time
companion
to be mine
without acknowledging
reciprocal ownership,
or ever really mentioning it.

Seeking,
a person with
a passionate
temperament,
who isn’t violent.

Seeking,
a sexually charged
person who likes
to be pleasured all night,
but must be prepared
to enjoy the foreplay
and preshow,
cause the main event
has a short stay.

Seeking,
a self-evolver
who will
help me feel
challenged,
as I challenge them.
cause in sharing
we will both
grow,
which is a total
win.

Jesus is
a tool of the system,
a pathetic work
of plagiarized fiction
with a ****** birth
and resurrection.

He is a perpetuator,
part player
in a trinity
that serves
the patriarchy
you claim to despise.

You say that
you are woke
to the lies
and oppression
but your obsession
with this
religious opioid addiction
leaves you open
to all kinds of
manipulation.

This Jesus justification
has got to stop,
take those bible glasses off
and see the truth
don’t be a recruit
and brainwash our youth
to serve the state
that exploits you
by claiming they serve
god’s point of view.

Join me
and be free
to see
the world differently.
Share your perceptions
freely
so, we can grow steadily
not seeking solace
in the stultifying scriptures
but painting our own pictures
that point us all
to better possibilities.

Red is the furious
results of parental frustration.
Flesh risen in the form of welts
while lava tears burn my face
leaving more streaks of strained skin,
and eyes reddened,
exhausted with the pain of living.

Blue is the transparent coolness,
soft reflection of turquoise style,
like the little painted baubles,
portraits of a pure azure sky,
with the streak of daytime fantasies
as superman flies by
high above the field of
blue flowers that I love.

Green is the scene,
not that money scheme,
but life growing
forest colors showing
broccoli tops
in the distance,
locked away
in my
nighttime existence
I miss this
shade of life.

White is an infinite void
of nothing.
Even though, I know
it is a culmination
of all the colors of
that beautiful rainbow.

Black is stunning
and dreadfully
seems to signal.
the end of all things.

The day is a burning desert
with no rain to ease the pain
or even soften our tension.

No animals out and about
but one broken bird
that can no longer chirp.
It just lays on the side
of our overheated highway
as it flutters and tries
to survive this
summertime drought.

Hot mud turns to dry dust
which I choke and cough up
while the black top parking lot
scorches my bare feet
cause I was trying to see
how tough I could be
but ended up blistered in defeat.

I am exhausted,
If I had the water to,
I would weep,
but this week has defeated
the better parts of my hopeful heart
that I once believed
I would always find a way to beat
this scorching summer heat.

Is there life out there
in the city where
ambition and despair
reign supreme,

where people keep
sacrificing
their time and body
on the altar of
success
not love?

Still, we spend ourselves
like coins in a fountain
wishing that we could
climb the molehill mountains
we made from preordained
plain daydreams
that are played out
on our electronic screens.

Such an exhausted existence
of dogged perseverance
pursuing our own undoing
whilst trying to prove
that we are good enough
to be viewed,

but we are just being used.
Till, we find our final fate
in a hole, held up in an urn,
or just dropped off
where we were lost.

The day fades
into night
where lights
burn bright
but like them
all the men
and women
will eventually
flicker out
in death
or in doubt.

Were you hungry
when you took
a big bite out of me?

My meet was uncooked
so, you must have been
seriously starving.

After carving
chunks of skin
to fix a perfect fillet
did it make you
feel really great
to see such pain.

Is this calamity,
social leprosy
as you pull
the tasty
flesh from me.

You broke and took
the arm I used,
saw soft flesh
fall from my face
and other areas
start to bruise
trending towards
rotting black and blue
deathly hues.

Raggedy man
all exposed
with tattered clothes
and no nose
that works.

You jerks
made this once
healthy body
into a zombie,
a nightmare movie
where I shamble
to find someone
to gnaw on.

Don’t be nice
to the river
cause it will take you
to the end of the road.

It will carry you
like a dark water load
causing saltwater
asphyxiation.

It will turn
light arms
to leaden weights
and cause your
chest to burn
as you struggle
to break free
and breathe.

One bad trip
and that dip
will drop you
in the deep
dark blue
that no one
gets to
come back from.

So please
walk
don’t run,
slow down son
cause it is no fun
when the river
catches you
by surprise.

My body is a warzone
flesh falling off the bone,
as I rot and wander alone.

Shedding my sick slick skin,
as death reveals all that I feel
within this decaying prison.

At first, I resisted the leprosy
as bit by gory bit was taken from me
by my twisted media obsessed society.

They stole my sole identity
and turned me into a zombie,
this horror show commodity
that people love to cringe at.

They made and gave me the black hat
set me up to behave like that
shambling corpse figure
as my body continued to wither.

Now, as the world leaves me
I see every inch of my inner being
slowly receding into the frenzy
of needing to feed on the humanity
I am now lacking.

There is a gentle tugging,
a small thread pulling,
forcing the flow of tears
that have not fallen
in many years.

Just a tinge,
that makes me twinge
as my ducts fill up
and spill out
on some nostalgic whim.

So, like him,
the me I used to be,
I am crying
cause something caught
my heart string,

and the distance between
all those years of hurting
seems to disappear,
I can see it in the mirror
as those tiny droplets
finally appear,
confusing the current me
with a past reflection
I did not want to see
or ever be again.

It is miles of negative
and perfectly positive
political perspectives
where people have self-selected
to remain ignorant
of ideals that challenge them
by following people
who are channeling
repeated talking points.

It is people projecting
a fake identity
that consists of parts
of the person
they would like to be.

It is others sharing
the beauty of their artistry
as they struggle
to connect to
those who view
the works of art
the artists seek to
give to all of you.

It is a bitter batch
of discontented
men and woman
complaining
and constantly trolling
posting painful venom
that burns the brightness
within women, children,
and even full-grown men.

While, somewhere in the distance
of this digital dissonance
there is someone who
needs just a little attention
to pull them from the edge of
the nightmare they have been
living in.

The city is more or less
a brick layered mess
of sleepy people
wandering depressed
and over stressed
in this chaotic mess
of concrete and metal chaos.

Like living in Las Vegas
it is a constant gamble
and the dealer plays us
as the fools for ambition we are.

It infects and wrecks
the spirit that I was
trying to save
for the one I
planned to love.

It cut and shaved
the parts that
long to play
till I conform
to the warm death of
a forty plus
work week.

I try to take a bite
out of this city life
but it bites back harder
pushing me towards a
self-inflicted slaughter,
a sick shift suicide
under the burning
billboard lights.

I would be better
if I left for
the forest greens
I long to explore.

But the city is a mob
that will never let me
leave peacefully,
healthy,
or alive.

I never leave but live to see
Life play out on a computer screen
All the beauty all the pain
Put on display
Brown wet sand
Then curvy lines of foam
Foot prints scattered across the beach
Part borrowed memory
Stirring the old ones left in me
Murky water
Small pool of cool non-sparkling
H two o
And tiny fish poke and nip
My family and friends
But never bite me

The night sky
settles in
as I sit dreading
the deep thoughts
that lurk beneath
the memories
that are pursuing me.

Fierce figures,
hungry, starving
like some monster
making mortal men
run away screaming.

My heartbeat bounces
like a bunch of black balloons
in a barely lit ballroom.

Heavy as a hammer.
I do not stammer,
just run much faster
trying to be a better planner,
and a well mannered
warrior.

I strip the flesh
from the beasts I know
trying to build
a better ego
cause I know
I am worthy,
even though
doubt still
hounds me.

Every single sentiment
you sent to them
was sediment,
evident deposits of
your oceanic scale of
intellectual love
that ran off from
the river it existed in
passing from
the predetermined pathways
of those intelligent waterways
and settling in a new sea
of salty perspectives.

There is a longing,
a deep-seated human instinct
that pushes us in to meet
strange people.

Strangely,
technology
has turned me
into a peeper,
legally voyeuristic
with strangers
I have never visited.

I have the delusion
of a connection
because of some
social media intrusion;
Which means
I don’t have to
have a friend
introduce me to them.

I can just chat them up
or watch them
from a cyber distance
with a binary connection
of ones and zeros.

So, this human need
to interact and meet
strangers who are
similar and unique
is satisfied
without any risk
of rejection.

But this is an illusion,
despite my intrusion
I do not know them,

and as this
tacky techiness
evolves
we will
stay secluded in
our sic soft shadows
without actually connecting…
to….to…
User----Offline.

What does the body remember
of the presence of pressures pushing against
in skin to skin contact,
the sweet exact acts
of parallel pleasuring?

Does it yearn to revisit those instances
in this arid existence
of apathetic individuals?

Do we need to see and greet
the people that we meet
with heartfelt hugs
that help us
feel at least a little loved
more than once a week?

Is the need for the contact we lack
unconscious, but so powerful that
living without it is emotionally crippling?

I have been struggling
with the confines
of my flesh driven mine
for thirty plus years
and in that time
sought the affection
that is as close as to the divine
as I believe possible.

A semi-spiritual relief of connectivity
to another human being,
sexually or with the passing pleasantries
of other platonic people.

I’ve got a bad case
of the human race,
rusted metal morons
rummaging on my
spinning grace.

This is my place
and I share it with
a lot of other animals
who are not equipped
to ravage or destroy it.

So, this pox of polluters
natural resource abusers
and horrible drug users
needs to be reined in.

Though, I tried to maintain
adequate equilibrium,
yes, I tried to sustain
all the creature living in
my local ecosystems,

mankind really did
a number on my ****,
****** up my climate
and the tools I used
to balance out the abuse,
like resource scarcity;

Well, humanity has
outpaced my ability
to hold them back
by creating
mass producing
assembly line
technologies,
and unhealthily
enhanced agriculture.

So, it is highly likely
all the other species
and human beings
will be exiting the scene
much earlier
then I previously
projected

I have been wrong many times,

and in them shaken to awaken
to some higher elevation.

I have been confused,

seen shadows stew
and my sense of understanding
require dismantling
and rebuilding
with scraps that I have
never even seen.

I have been growing

physically, emotionally,
and intellectually
expanding and receding
as if my existence
was captured in a cycle
of needing deep breathing,
of losing and replenishing,
Of seeing
then being blinded
just int time
to open my mind
and see once more.

Above all else
I have been changing,
everyday
into someone else.

Desire is
a pink
poisonous
prison,

a constant collision
with the better angels
that help me make
my decisions
and my urges
that up ends
them.

It is a hole
I keep digging
hoping
Mrs. Robinson
will take advantage
of my played out
innocence.

What a privilege
to be driven by
this day to day
desire that inspire
repugnant
thoughts and
behavior.

I would prefer
to live a life
of discipline
and logic
but passion
prevails,
and passing travels
pushes me on
to one more
mistake.

Attachments
make me weak,
and this biological urge
makes me feel
like a big freaking creep
when I would
like to be
is a nice guy.

I can’t wait
till I’m seventy-five
cause I won’t buy
a single blue pill.

It is a transaction
of passion
into kindness
an action
to define us
as the better parts
of a collective heart
made to start
pumping out
gallons of empathy.

If you can see
and share my
humanity
with humility
the possibility
of a better society
becomes the drum
beating thum, da thum,
da thum, I love
everyone.

Whats the point
of dwelling on
memories
when all they bring
is misery?

When we hit repeat
on our favorite
sad song
so we can
sing along
while we cry
reflecting on
what ifs
and why,
why, why.

Whats the point
in letting the pain
consume the better parts
of our rational brain,
do we have to explain
how we need to be
retrained?

Whats the point
on reflecting on
abstraction
in books and songs?

When I wake
to tears
with unknown
origins
what is the point
of this confusion?

This is a fairy tale,
a flash into the past
as green gasses swirl,
and purple ones
intermingle
just for fun
as I am spun
down a weird
rabbit hole.

Upside down
and sideways up,
though I try to stop it
my will is not enough
and I am devoured
by some sick chasm.

Soft esophagus
walls ascend
as I fall in
feeling its pulsing
presence
and air pressure
as it is breathing,

I am swallowed
by this giant
hungry heathen.

Thick drips
of slimy saliva
follow fast behind
as my mind
succumbs
to the terror
that I find.

How foolish of me
to fall asleep
in a fantasy.

I drop and plop
as my body stops
on some soft squishy spot.

Is it a lumbering giant,
some flying dragon,
or angry kraken
who took to snacking
on my human sized form?

I ponder this problem,
slip on a slimy warm spot,
then continue falling.

The hole tightens,
and my breathes
takes a break
from my body
as I am squeezed
down a smelly hole.

Then, right before
I am about
to pass out
it is all the way out
I go,
on my head
on a wet green
grassy bed,

while the
slick, stinking,
shimmering orifice
moves off
shrinking
in the distance.

Confused,

bruised,

and misused,

I wonder
“Was I someone’s
food, or sad solid poo?”

A ****** story
to say the least
and I cannot even
identify the beast
that ate and excreted me.

All I know is that,
I really need a bath.

My daydreams
are dark cities
that drift
amidst
the cosmic mists
of multicolored
variations,
of shiny secrets
that strangers miss
in looking down
at the black hole
of their cell phones.

These starship dreams
float precariously
just beyond the reach
of humanity,
in a hopeful memory
of some forgotten
childhood fancy.

Peace, and love,
compassion,
and understanding
expanding
in a
space faring collective.

My dreams become
the ash and after burn
of a creative mind spurned
and turned
towards more mundane
things.

Soft pink petals,
part unfolding
as the flower blooms
sweetly growing.

Arms around me
while I am moving
in a sloppy circle
cause we are two
who are grooving,
while her
soft flower arms
enfold me in their
springtime charms.

A tiny droplet
becomes percussion
as soft music moves us
to a percussive mood
in this wonderful interlude.

She clenches tighter
and I smile.
Her head rests
on my shoulder
and the world
gets less colder.

So, watch this weary
old romantic
start to tear up
as he imagines
a true love.

In the evening we are talking
while soft footprints
on the beach
finds us walking
sandals in hand
because we both
enjoy the feel of sand
on our bare feet.

In the morning
we wake together.
Her hazel eyes
and hair of fire,
her tender touch
does so inspire
that in this moment
I loose
a hundred pounds
of life’s abuses
and gain a shiny new
point of view.
  
I wake from wonder’s reverie
knowing this is but a fleeting dream
that will never be my reality.

I maybe a little upset,
obsessed
with what
this world
seeks to possess,
but I am not
depressed.

Things are going
pretty good,
I am not worried about
taking any direction
that people think I should
because this cosmos
does not give
one flit about my ****.

I am ok,
but sometime
my mind
catches an echo of
the me I use to be.

As I drive over
the lake outside
the city of Springfield
where I spend
most of my time,
I feel just a spark,
just a slight itch to
drive straight towards
the metal guards
and split my car
into two metal parts.

It wouldn’t be hard.
All it would take
is a twist of the wheel
and ignoring my brakes,
so the darkness
could overtake
my current consciousness;

But, I do not live
in that mental compartment
anymore.
This is just a scary echo
of the sad anxious man, I was
many years ago.

Firstly, all I saw
is long flaming locks,
as I locked my lazar sights
on a woman tonight.

Then I moved in
with such a lack
of confidence
that even I
don’t know why
I bothered to try.

Secondly,
I observed,
overhearing
a fascinating
conversation.

Then,
despite the delight
and amazement
I did not
cave in
and go back walking
to satisfy
my guy
urges.

Instead,
I went home
and imagined
a more satisfying
conclusion.

In my what if world
we had a deep
and intriguing
conversation,
as she weighed in
on current issues
and then listened
to my perspective,
as we discussed
art and empathy.

In my what if world
she was as fascinated by me
as I was she,

but alas reality
saw me to sleep
alone.

I sought her in the form
of a never was daughter
who will never be born
because she was just
a minor possibility.

I sought her
in the sick slaughter
of innocent
children, women,
and men.

I sought her
in the stories
I read
before I slipped
off to bed.

And when I
could not find her
I thought she was
dead.

But to pursue
my muse
is to confuse
the mind
I seek to use,

it is an abuse
of my mental faculties
to chase clarity
when I could
just as easily
find it in solitude
and simplicity
while simply
reflecting
silently
on all of reality
letting my poetry
come to me
naturally.

I want to be fit,
but ****
I love
chocolate.

I want to be ripped
but ****
that donut
is so delicious.

I want to be cut
but I love the
pizza hut.

I want to be ****
but the Chinese
buffet just gets me.

I want to be healthy
and if it wasn’t for
junk food
I would be.

I got the gym **** down
it is the food that hurts me.

She is made to speak
without words,
makes me weep
when she sweeps
her hands across
the wooden floor boards
raising them up
then dropping them
once more.
  
She is made to speak
with a well defined
unique physique,
strong and tiny
sparkling shoes
move as I lose
myself
and gain a muse.

A gazelle like
graceful rise
as she jumps
oh, so high
that I feel
angels will
drop from the sky
just to catch
her eyes
for a second.

She is made to speak,
with arms and feet
that move like
spiraling gas clouds
in the heaven,
a body that bends like
a sweet stream,
and she visits me discreetly
in my nighttime
and daydreams.

She is made to speak
and though I seek
to be near her,
I never get to hear her.
I only know her
from a distance
in the form of dance.

I got a list of long ago
mistakes I made
that I can’t let go,
and I know
they made me who
I am,
but *******

I could use a flash back.
I could use a rewrite.
I could use a do over.
Can I get one tonight?

Got a handful of
people that I loved
who will not
be coming back from
the other side
of that make believe
afterlife.

I could use a flash back.
I could use a rewrite.
I could use a do over.
Can I get one tonight?

Not enough fingers and toes
to count all of those
mistakes that take
and shake me from
my quiet repose.
I hate all of those
bad decisions,
but I am in
no position
to revisit
and fix them.

I could use a flash back.
I could use a rewrite.
I could use a do over.
Can I get one tonight?

I won’t get a flash back.
I won’t get a rewrite.
I won’t get a do over
tonight,
so, I need to just
get one with my
little life.

The bar is split in to two distinct moods.
One half is red bricks and well treated
water resistant wood
with soft lighting that aches for some
classical piano and violin instrumental.

The other half is a metal wall with
wonderful works of  
abstract art scattered on it,
small canvasses that explode in
strange color arrangements
perfect for the throaty blues muse
who pours her heart out
in a variety of well written tunes.

Lightly tanned hands
move in a slow dance
as long brown shimmering strands
are swung around to the sound
of the band’s soft collaborative movements.

Her fingers start snapping
while one entranced patron sits tapping
out similar rhythms.

An ear-piercing projection
of solid soulful vocalization
breaks the young man’s enchantment
as he is startled to the point of
almost falling out of his chair.

A couple of tunes later
she bends towards
more eclectic electric cords
blending in with
her family companions
as she finishes the night
with a sweet set of
awesome songs
the thinning crowd loves.

Around here
they drink
**** yellow beer
that foams
at the top,
and they
don’t know when
they should stop.
So, after
those drinks and
a few shots
they drop.

Head spinning
ready for vomiting
cause they weren’t using
any common sense.
  
Around here
the sports channel
is always playing,
and people
are always praying
for their team
to take
the next game
straight to
the finals
and win
whatever
championship
they are
playing for.

Around here
smart mouths
come on
the faces of
morons,
and they
run faster
then anyone
can catch on.

Around here
they are all impulse
pleasure seeking,
no deep thinking,
just pushing
straight to the edge
and barely
stepping back again,
or finally giving in
and falling
all the way down
into the brown mound
of ground
the dig graver
left for them.

Around here
I live in a desert
seeking wiser sages
who long to
paint prose
on all the web pages,
and spread compassion
all over the place,

but it all falls
on deaf ears
around here.

Passion is the torch dropped
in some familiar spot.
The one that incinerates
the things you hate,
while trying to light
other fires of desire
just to motivate
you to create
something great;

But when that fury
simmers to
a soft boiled
version of you
then on to
the cold corpses
set for a passing few
to finally view,

when you
no longer
burn inside
of that steaming cauldron
of creatives juices,
and all of the energy
that this mortal frame uses
flickers out
like a little candle in the wind,

when windbags spew
passing platitudes
and clichés
like the lazy
writing
I am showing you,

who will ever remember
the flames that fell to embers
and floating ash in December
as a cold January
takes all this fantastic fury
and turns it to dull grey nothingness?

Imagine
a world of compassion,
led by the well fed
not those with a passion
for keeping up with the
current Kardashian fashions.

Imagine,
a society
driven by empathy,
that would not stand by
while observing
certain tragedies,
would not let
curable maladies
fester for the
faintest profit.

Imagine
a reality
were science
and artistry
work with a
symbiotic
chemistry,
where
instead of
reality tv
presidencies
we have
well-informed
people who lead.

Imagine,
a place
where the human race
is not driven by greed,
but has all that it needs,
like more modern-day Medici’s
who support
the values we need to be
a better batch of humanity

Dear daughters of Eve,
sweet children who bleed
because god perceived
that he was betrayed
when your sire ate
the fruit we believe seeded
the knowledge that we needed,

and the punishment given
was the ability to conceive
in a woman’s womb,
the greatest boon
from said fertility,

oddly,
something
that a man can
never achieve
despite his raw virility.

So, the punishment
for gaining knowledge
is really a gift on both ends,
cause the fruit of your bodies
is where each successive
generation begins.

I pick apart
the scraps
and shards
of shattered hearts.

I clean the
bleached bones,
sweep the
stained sidewalks
that ragged strangers
call home,
where they
sleep alone
or together
in whatever
good or bad
weather
they are
dealing with.

I read the words
till my red eyes
dry up and burn
with the tension
of spending
too much time
on this
disjointing
internet
system,
this connected
form of
isolation.

I fight
a lazy battle
to find the
right way
to say
something
meaningful.

It is just
spurts of dust
to connect us.
Not much
of the junk
I write
at night
is viable
or will hold up
to the light
of space and time.

But, still I write.

Orange lines
interrupted
by gray road
charge forth
falling under
my crimson car
as I drive on.

Rusted metal parts
change color
then flake off.

The struts shudder
as they bounce over
decent sized bumps.

Like an old man
the grassland
changes color
from vibrant
to dry and dying.

Still I keep driving,
keep trying
to get to the same place
that I went to
yesterday
at the same pace.

I need a night long nap.
I need two more days of sleep.
I need a little more rest
to bring out the best of me.

My body doesn’t move
like it used to,
except for the jiggly parts
that burst through,
like a mushroom
overflowing
from my jeans.

My minds doesn’t work
like it used to,
all these words
do not flow freely
all these verbs,
they elude me.

I may be acting goofy
but it is because
I am super sleepy,
please give me
at least three more
hours before
I have to be awake.

It is a lonely god
who counts the ticks
on eternity’s
broken clock,

as time’s terrible
tidal forces
force him on
in a world
where all other
old gods
are long gone.

What a horrible place
where the last
of his race
lay in the waste
of human destruction.

The lone survivor,
late in life light shiner,
bruised body
who tried to
teach humanity.

His shadow sees
as much as he,
yet rests coolly,
while that immortal body
burns with sorrow.

Mushroom clouds
of bitter smoke
that choke the broke
cord of hope,

temperatures rising
as he is realizing
there will be
no great fantasy
or redemption
of humanity,
just a worried wanderer
who walks
on wavy ground
where no
joys are found.

Hope is the last lost lover,
a seed sinking in
the times we live in,

a once sparkling
body of bountiful water
where the seas bring
life overflowing.

Hope is the opposite
of the cryptic
countdown
passing present sorrows
in favor of
the savoring of love.

Hope is the face of
a departed friend,
even in knowing
we will not
see them again,
we still feel
the shimmering
in the distance
of their solar
compassion
remembered.

Hope is a tragedy
for its passing
and lacking
its lovely illumination,
the void of it
is devastation.

Hope is a prayer
in the name of love
for the betterment
of all of us,
till death takes
its final toll.

Sometimes,
we pick the scabs
of old scars,
pushdown
on the brown
and bluish bruise
that brands us
just to get in touch
with what
made us
who we are.

Sometimes,
we go too far
or stop just short of
where we were sort of
supposed to go
to show those who know
similar scars.

Sometimes,
we break ourselves,
crack our backs
on a torture rack
that we brought back
from the dirt an ash
of burnt out sorrows.

Why,
behave that way,
shaving days of pain
away
just to bring them
back in again?

I cannot say for certain.
I am only working
with what I got,
cutting the edges
taking bets on
what I lost
in exchange for
the chance to be
a boon to humanity,
king soother
with a little blasphemy,
witty repeater
of past artistry
as I string together
the broken chords
that still tether
struggling hearts
to the similar parts
of each other.

In deeply disturbing dreams,
Heavy metals thunder
striking lightning quality
violence,
inciting tension,
inducing exhausting levels
of stress.
Till, fatigue and anxiety
snaps a fragile mind.

Thud, thud, thud,

“God, please no more.”

Thud, thud, thud,

“Make it stop, I just need
thirty minutes of sleep.”

Thud.

A single trigger sounds.
The breath of brothers in arms
stops.

A softer bounce, rattle, and throp.
as one tired body finally drops
of its own accord.

Thud, thud, thud.

Other adult children move forward,
while the self-inflicted sorrow
stains the hollow fox hole.

Thud, thud, thud.

My life is lived in small syllable increments.
little lovely vowels, daring darling delinquents,
that I play each day in this weird word game.

I sit still to feel the thin threads
that I borrowed for the finer verb vestments
that I might wear and share out there
on some sad shady morrow.

But for now, I bow under the wonder of the waterfall
letting the water rid me of the nasty sweat,
and sooth my harsh summer regret
of having achieved nothing notable at all.

I play this weird word tournament
with the last scrabble vestments
of my weak will and testaments
wondering if the waterfall
will let me get soaking wet,
cooling this confused form that has been
constantly suffering from a state of
severely deep dehydration,
whilst waiting for some fall confession
to ease the coughing wheezing
springtime cornfield sneezing
antihistamine needing
allergy affliction.

The nightmare,
the place where
she kept me
in deep despair,

I do not go there
anymore.

The sharp shark shadows
that used to follow,
the cold hollow
shallow hallways
where I felt no hope,

do not remain.

I still feel
a tinge
of past pains,

but I do not
have to live
in that same space.

I know where
I come from,
the storm of
a raging mom
who is not capable
of growing,

so I am moving on.

There will be
no healthy
reconciliation,
no fantasy
family
reunion
and forgiving,
no grand
finale
happy ending.

There will
only be me
living.

For a long time,
my mind
lived in
a very thin
black cloud
that kept
pursuing me
and seldom allowed
any rest or peace,

and I believed
that I deserved
this dark disease
of shady self-hurt.

For a long time,
I believed
that doubting me
was the surest form
of safe sanity,
that confidence
and vanity
would damage me
to grand degrees,
making me
dangerous,
and a detriment
to what others need.

For the longest time,
I thought to be good
I would have to
sacrifice my safety
and sanity.
That maintaining
my financial security
and avoiding poverty
made me
a selfish *****.

For a long time,
I have been
the smartest
dumb ****
I have ever met,
but I am working on
getting over that.