There is no time
that I can recall
the feeling of
maternal security
or motherly love.

But I can still feel
that fierce tug
and elastic snapping
while her other hand
was slapping,
smacking me
straight in my
stunned face.

I can still feel
the tension of hair pulled,
but never ripped from
my skull,
or torn to the point
of a ****** scalp.

I can still see,
on certain days
that twisted face
of her hateful rage,
that vengeful snarl
with jaw and brow
contorted into
a blank eyed
monstrous scowl.

I can still feel
each righteous blow
as she repaid
all slights
from that day
to the wrong account.

Better yet
I can still feel
that magic thrill
on the day
I stopped her strike mid air
like a bad *** ninja,
in that instant
knowing
she could never again lay
her random fits of rage
upon me
unless I allowed
them to be.

There is devotion,
action driving from
the deriving forms
of flesh collapsing
in upon
as two become
a more completed one.

Skin as thin
as pink parchment
as lips of ink
write their desire,
circling and returning to
the points of exclamation.

Beauty to beast,
the savage feasts,
tongue easing in
and teasing,
showing what it can do
to summon
the body’s
humming
explosion.

Till, white springs
drip from the lips
of the interconnected,

flesh merging
where limb and cavern
**** converging
in a sweet sensation
of multiple fireworks.

Hope regenerates,
revives the lives
obscured and decimated
by the fear and hate
that others propagated.

It is the struggle
to not be swallowed
or let oneself
be hollowed
by harrowing
and narrowing
experiences.

It is brave beyond
the storms
that were never calmed
as children waited
whilst winds rattled
and eroded
the foundations
of nations
founded on
lies and illusions.

It weeps for
the millions
and millions more
who never got
to live and explore
the unscored
foreign shores,
while longing to share
what it finds there,
helping strangers grow
and know mercy.

In quiet nights,
in silent eves
when all the light
just up and leaves
and all that I
have left to see
are silver sparkles
in the blackness
of infinity.

When no one talks,
and strangers walk
just passing on
until they are gone;

Long,
before the dawn
when I’m alone
so far from home,

the face I wear
loses its grin.
The joy I share
dims from within
as I am left realizing
that once again
there is no one else,
there is no true friend
cause all we are
are fading water skins.

Though, I go on
most cannot maintain.
They lose the pace,
then fade away.

Though I survive
all the shades I face,
all I see is dark black
coming right back
to take the grey
and watch
the falling flesh
start to decay.

Though, I love these
cold moon lit eves
sometimes I need
the light of day
and a goodnight’s sleep
to wash away the grief
of things that were
and things I know
are yet to be.

We all long to be heard,
have them listen to our
well-intentioned words,
as we rewrite our world
turning in favor of
savoring the love
instead, of simmering in
the big batch of boiling
hatred and stupidity.

I wrote you a sweet song,
a melancholy tune to pass on,
some lyrics and a rhythm
that were only mine
but now I give them.

I gave you the best part,
of this farewell I kept to myself.
A streak of tears
drops that no one hears.

I kept you in my mind
slightly shaded and distorted
by the passage of time.

I know you are not rocking
safe in some heavenly embrace,
and all that is left is a rotting face.

If I could turn back time
for just a few moments
I’d give you a day with
all of my loving hugs and kisses.

Instead, you pass on in proses
and passages in these poems
I wrote.
Each line written
was once hidden
but came when bidden.

A weeping melody,
for transient beings
whose life is over
but still it sings.

So, here are my tithings.
It is better than nothing,
noting my sorrow
and gratitude
that I lost,
but at least I had the chance
to know you.

It’s not nineteen eighty-four
anymore but we are still
waging a non-aging
information war.

Still pushing mixed metaphors
in a malformed mob mentality
that leads us to this brutality.

This not Mortal Kombat
but war mongers keep bringing back
uncountable atrocities and fatalities
too numerous to count
as we drown in blood and sorrow.

We got the worst case
of a full human race
ground hog’s day
where no one learns
that we need to change our ways.

The pressure is building up
the boiling tops
of racist *******
just looking for
the perfect chance to explode
and drop their lava like load
of violence and destruction.

It wouldn’t take much
just a little more love
for all of us
even the lonely street people.

But it seems to me
that these hopeful dreams
are just coins in an empty fountain,
like I am the last one
up this fractured mountain
where compassion got dropped off
at the tippy top
and now it is just a blood smear
on the city sidewalk.

What a lovely red pen
that inks it way beneath
the parchment skin.
Till, all markings become
oh so, permanent.

Pointed penetrator
that writes precise
but terrible delights,
as delicious desires
obscure the facts
with flights of
fanciful abstract
creative acts.

With these
written confessions
I call back
to my past
and ask
where did I acquire
this brush
that paints with fire,
burning with bristling fibers
setting sunrises ablaze
as I begin each day
pursuing the same.

I deliberate
as others wait,
and use my time
to compensate
for this transient state
by trying to create
something that will
live just a little bit longer
then me.

All things change.
The pen becomes
the special brush.
Then in time
like all that I find
the things I use
to write my story
disintegrate,
to the waste of fate.

He’s tired,
body aching,

feels the shivers
roll down his spine.

All the pain
is breathtaking.

All his limbs are shaking.

Eyes barely open,
lays his head back
to relax,
but sleep will not come.

He feels older than his age
with wrinkle he hasn’t earned.
Soft tissue and arthritic issues
are a burden
he was not ready to own.

He yells,
see tears sear
his reddening eyes.

He fell,
and he will never rise.

They put his body in a coffin
and laid him down to rest
but this isn’t a sleep
he’ll wake from.

There is no more pain for him.

Busted lip,
broken socket
shoulder slips
out of it,
bleeding
and bruised
crusty scabs
will form soon.

I hope the
swelling
will recede
so when
I awake
from this sleep
I will be able to see.

Anger is all spent.
I purchased peace
with punching fists
and taking too many hits.

I walk out head held up,
at least until tomorrow
when all the adrenaline fades

The other guy
walks by
limping while
hanging on his
girlfriend's shoulder.

Once in a December
when the bodies we remember
grow colder
while living loving ones
grow older.

Skin folds with time passing.
Memories fade far away,
unless we ask our parents about the past.

I use verses and flows
to go where we know
these shadows still exist.

Flickering images
faltering under the weight of
all the loved one
we have lost,
barely lit by the candlestick
that drip and drips
losing itself
like little flecks of sand
falling out of a broken
hourglass.

I know all this will pass.
My memories
and the ones of me
will fall and fade to ash
as the world we know
is incinerated
by the fires of time.

We will not be
the red phoenix
of which children dreamed.

No resurrection
of rebirth
on this blue orb we call earth.

All that was, is dust,
and all that will be
will return there shortly.

One day ago
rays of gold
strayed from the fold
falling and following
paths unknown,
exposing things
unshown,
nourishing plant
ungrown.

Sometime
in the past
I sat back
and basked
in that
brand new light,
felt the rush
and blush
of new warmth
rising from within
ready for the sharing,
nurturing and caring
to conquer previous
shades of despairing.

Now, I am replenished.
My spirit once diminished
stands elevated and nourished
by the cherished light,
even though that glorious ray
has given way to the end of the day
and now I lay in evening shade,
I still sing its sweet praise.

Many years ago,
I believed
death would be
a sweet reprieve;

That she was the lover
waiting for me
at the end of the lane.

I dreamed I would
no longer need to explain
in vain the pain
that invaded my brain,

and when I was wrapped in her arms
I would be safe from all harms.

With her cold clench and soft kiss
time for me would cease to exist
and I would dissolve into the mist
of being less than missed,
no longer noticed
in this miserable existence.

Sterile and disinfected
ready to be inspected
when my lover came to claim,

but I no longer deign
to daydream that darkly.
Death is not dressed so sharply.
Now it is more terror and barking
jaws snapping when I am napping
so, I awake in a start
with rapid beats from my frightened heart.

I used to be awed to the point of deafness
and though I finally express and confess this
I no longer long for or miss my mistress.

Death can take a number,
because for now I got this.

It had been a long week.
The news said several children
had gone missing,
and this had parents
and kids all *******
themselves in fear.

Some moved away
but I managed to stay.

Though, I was alone
a stranger came lurking
creeping in my home.

Shadows swayed
as he came my way,
curtains danced
in a wind that I never let in.

Unoiled hinges cringed
and boards creaked
where this being sneaked.

Shadows wavered
like dancing marionettes,
and I felt the return
of a feeling I had
struggled to forget.

A cold hand pressed
upon my bare chest,
and I smelled
his stinking devil breath.

Glowing eyes
took me by surprise.
I tried to rise
but his hand slowly descended
as my flesh caved folding in,
I could feel him shivering
with anticipatory glee.

I asked him “why me?”
He smiled and said
“I’ve been dead
for a long while,
but I felt a string pulling me
and stumbled for over a mile.
When I first saw you
I suspected
that somehow
we were connected.”

His arm disappeared
up to the elbow.

But I knew something
that he didn’t know.
The anxiousness
I was feeling
had slowly subsided,
and now I was becoming
super excited.

He lost his eerie grin.
His sharped teeth chattered
and eyes shifted quickly
to my chest then my face.

His elbow disappeared,
and soon he feared
the rest would follow
collapsing into me
as if I was hollow.

He struggled in vain
to reclaim control.
and I laugh at that.

“It is funny” I said,

“but how could you know.
Sometimes better predators
stalk their prey
out there in the cold
and sometime
they lure other monsters
with their favorite fresh flesh bait.”

I burped as I digested
what I just ate.
Smiling because now
it was very late.
I was full and tired,
ready to retire,
safe and sound
cause I had found
the monster out there
and he was in here
where a lot of other
monsters
ended up.

Watch as the water
boils up from the center
till the wooden steps splinter
shatter and explode
sinking my steamboat
dream load.

See me rise
with dilating
bloodshot eyes
as nightmares take
my sleep away.

I’ll sip a sic brew
of blackish crap
to stay awake after that
bad batch of mean dreams.

I won’t go back to bed.
Instead, I’ll let those things
scratch and crawl
through my head.

Till the tides
pull me from the shores
then drag me father
than my nightmare
took me before.

Till the shadows
pierce my tired eyelids
and force me to give in
and go back to dreaming
deep deathly shades.

He lived in it,
thrived in the
full fledge
ecstasy of violence;

Submitted to
the purification
of punches
and kicks,
taking shots,
blocking hits,
feeling as if
he was a soldier
of righteousness,
the power of certainty
knowing he
was doing god’s *****
work.

All blood and guts,
all violence and viscera,
destruction,
self-immolation
when facing
less worthy
men than him.

All anger,
furnace stuck on full blast
way pass fully gassed
as he lit the flame
that he burned in.

Always warring,
and that is how they got him
in the end.

Well, me and my guys
are tired and it’s no surprise.
We got to work all day
and never get enough sleep at night.
So, we drive exhausted
and work till our brains are fried.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

With overtime here
and weekend work there,
if I ever see my kids again
they’ll probably be scared
cause I’ve become a stranger
to my kin.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

I got high blood pressure
and now I am in danger
of a coronary event.
Man, I am so ill spent
with this fast food temperament,
cause I have been eating
junk due to its convenience.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

That’s how I die at thirty-nine.

Its been a strange life
and there’s hole in my memory,
but when I die, I hope
you will remember me.

The scars on my body
were from the fight
to not visit this cemetery,
cause life is hard
but dying is ******* scary.

As I was working
I was always a little wary,
people are messed up
and it gets really hairy.

But I tried to be the kind of guy
who went out of his way
to be kind and nice.
I wasn’t looking for
a great big reward
but I hope people realize
no one is perfect
and sometimes it took work
to not be a great big ****.

So, as I pass this last slapshot,
push forward with my best
sports metaphor
cause I always admired
the struggle it took
to strive higher
and inspire the fighter
in this lonely writer.

I guess what I meant by this mess
of poetic rambling and internal distress
is remember me
when I am deceased.

So, I guess
I committed
to a friendship
with a ghost.

We used to
talk and text
for most
of the day,
play word games
and engage
in deep thought
connections.

Maybe there was
subtext on your end
but I was certain
we were just friends.

Even if
I wanted more
than friendship
from this
long distance
it was worth
a little hurt.

So, I did not suspect
that it would be you
who up and left.

I had no clue
that you would vanish
and my heart would be
permanently unglued.

What an idiot,
such a fool
and even now
I still try to
reach out to you.

All I get
is echoes in
an empty canyon
from a one time
internet companion.

It was me
who longed to be
your budding love,
flowing flower
fast unfolding
to express the beauty
that was made for showing,

but you were
a wild one
wielding words
like weapons
slicing syllables,
with no eloquence.

More than anything
it was
the degrees
of indifference
that did the most
damage,

being ignored while
you pursued
other dudes
who abused you.

Instead of dragons,
you slew
the knight who
wanted to rescue you.

Now I long to
forget you,
the one who
murdered
my loving heart.

You spent your cash
but sold out
and gave them what
they wanted.

You can bet your ***
it’s cold no doubt
and my soul is haunted.

Dear mother and father listen.
These government stooges
came to get them.
They blamed and hit her,
while they shot my little
baby brother;

But you do fine.
You stay in line,
work your shift.
You do your time.

Now your ends
are barely meeting,
while the strangers
you left seething
are hungry and screaming,
are crying and bleeding.

They were all needing
your assistance,
but you wouldn’t give them
a single glance or instance
of the compassion
they were missing.

So, now I cry
cause you won’t try
to improve this life.

It’s just a game to you.
The tv says get more stuff
so that is what you do.

If you wrote a poem,
but your life feels grey,

your tired and frustrated
sitting here dismayed,

if you feel that you
are not that great,

just remember there are other writers
who didn’t write a single line today.

If you fed your dog and walked him
but right now, you are feeling lonesome,

if you’re here you probably know someone
that is lonely to
without a pet that loves them
like your pets do.

If your tired and need some rest
from the day’s work to achieve your best,

if you’re frustrated with your lack of success
and can’t find your drive and focus,

just remember tomorrow can be better.

It is the end of ages
that seizes me
here in dreams
bringing out
stark screams
of pain and doubt.

I wake in terror,
knowing there is
no where
safe to go.

White light eyes
punctuate
the parking space
where I park
at work.

A walking wreck
and I suspect
more than imperfect,
but still a decent
specimen
for the nightmare men
to come collecting.

Caffeine and confusion,
with sleep deprived
anxiety that I
cannot escape.

Tension in my tense chest.
My breath is hard
there is a heaviness
to this oxygen
I keep trying to breath in.

**** it must be poison.
Are there hitmen
out there hidden
in the shadows.
I get home
and grasp my pillow,
place my panic stricken
head that is sweating
face down.

A scream swells
but comes out
a muffled sound.
I don’t like this
creepy nighttime town.

Maybe a little rest,
to cease this
anxious
consciousness
and feel refreshed.

Maybe, just a nap
and I will get back
to my saner self.

But, If I fall asleep
something might get me.
Can paranoia **** you?
Most definitely.

Maybe a drive
will calm my nerves?
Is that a creak
or broken clutch I heard
as my sleepy driving self
tries to swerve
and miss hitting
a black shadow?

In the news
emergency crews
cruise
away from the crash scene
where some dumb human being
ran off the road
and wrecked his car.
The vehicle was totaled
and the driver turned out
far worse than that.

Techno distractions
stifles purposeful actions
creating dopamine addicts
who insist,
they cannot miss
a single instance,

that they cannot
disengage and face
a silent moment
with the human race.

Mental fog
flowing in
fast following
a fear of missing
by giving in
to the regeneration
of sleeping.

So, the population slows
their potential growth
and becomes a
herd of heavily
caffeinated, but sedated
children who evacuated
the star trek seat
of hopeful dreams
and scientific schemes.

The hurting heart does not decide
which piercing pain lights their life,
does not contend, but sits and pretends
by doing barely more than living
even though they are seriously struggling,
they are surely winning this sixth early inning.
Till, thinning scabs and fetid breath
gives way to blooming fresh rosy flesh.

The spiral rises to brighter skies
then begins to weave and descend
returning the burning heart
to familiar shadows, of snow
cold groves.

My eyes overflow
with her natural
glow that grows,
the beauty of youthful
innocence
perceived in this
pleasant instance,

a chaos of undisclosed
secrets that
only she knows
and a body that flows
brilliantly beneath
her soft clothes,

a poetic mind,
a delicate find
who graces me
with a brief evening’s
meeting,

a friend
just this side
of this dreamer’s life.

I wonder what
it would be like
to touch those
soft cheeks,
to cherish and guard
her sweet artistry
when in hidden
fantasies
wonderful words
are gifted to me;

So lovely,
lonely,
and melancholy
as all dreams
that are never
meant to be
become.

What can you say
to a rogue road
word warrior
who fight’s a
new dragon each day.

Tilting windmills
that really are
fat cat monsters
in red sports cars.

Gentlemen protectors,
consummate failures
that succumb to the thumb
of corporate jailors
in this capitalistic
prison system.

Self-directed learner,
midnight oil burner
whose biography
would barely be
a once a day
page turner.

What can you tell
a man who sees hell
in beauty
and pulls
psychedelics
from cow ****.

When reality has been
subjected by
profitable trends
and the world’s end
is only a minor irritation
to their united nation
of bank supporters.

What do you ask
a dreamer
before he passes
knowing that
dead men’s dreams
cannot outlast
greed driven schemes.

I got years of fears
haunting me.

I am scared.
Can’t eat
or sleep
cause the demons
I hide keep
hounding me.

There’s gonna be
a reckoning
eventually.

Someday,
that pain
will overcome
my reasoning.

There will be
a seasoning
of spiced depression
and old suicidal tendencies
may finally catch up to me
and I’ll have to face
the cutting board of reality.

Then in death
I might rest
peacefully,

or maybe
I’ll just go on
far too long
and live to see
all those I love
pass away
permanently.

I give kindness freely
as if I had an eternity
of time to share my
gentlemanly disposition.

But trust is reserved
and given only in
minor increments.
It is mostly
non-existent.

Gentle as I am
I resist the urge
to trust a stranger.
Given kind words
even the familiar
seldom earn
my highest esteem.

For what I have seen,
honesty is less enticing
the travesty of finding
fellow friends lying
and vying
for their own interest
has left me introverted.

Even love is held back,
because I do not want
to give anyone that
which could mortally
wound me.

Where will I be
when I turn sixty-three?

Will summertime
come to find
me sitting on
a chair in my
back lawn,
as a stray cat
stretches out
and yawns
to the setting
of the evening sun.

Or will dawn fine me
rising old and lonely
with more regret
for what I have not
done yet
and never will.

Will I be
the patriarch
of a late start
family,
with grandchildren
swarming me.

Or will death find me
several years to early
making sixty-three
this millennial’s
never will be
late night fantasy.

No time to judge
when you are in pain,
I just bring you
open arms again.

Hug you up
into the air,
till you can
barely hear
all the anguish
that has been
beating on you
like a drummer’s
stick.

Squeeze you
so tight
that all that darkness
just pours out
and all the
light I have
is yours to absorb,

and as an added bonus
I open both ears up
to hear all that stuff
you need to unload.

Swiftly,
I soared with
Tarzan level
agility.

Up in the air
only a couple of
feet,
barefoot flying
in my grandparents
garage
out in
a town so small
it should just be called
country.

A leap
imagining I am
flying fiercely,
daydreaming
then landing.

A piercing
pain pressing
through
the first foot
I landed on.

I looked down
shocked to see
a pointed top
of a rusted *****
staring up at me
right through
my foot
without a shoe.

Thus, the adventure
ended with
a wounded warrior
under ten
stumbling back in
to my grandparents’ house
after pulling that
pain in my foot
out.

It is a marvelous magic trick
when half the moon is gone
and the other half
just hangs up there
while I stare at it.

Just a couple of inches
till I am almost there,
just a couple seconds
and someone might care.

But right now, no one
is asking how I feel.
I just keep checking in
on everyone and that’s
how I manage to deal.

No ghosts in the attic
but I am haunted.
No Mary Shelley
Or Lord Byron
but this is gothic.

A tingling sensation
like it’s my spider sense
cause I know what horrors
are cooking in the cauldron,
those bad vibes are a boiling.

Its a long day on my street
the wrong way to go and see
all this city tragedy,
worn sleeping bags
and tattered rags,
all those suffering
lonely roaming people,
and those immigrants
yearning to breathe free.

We didn’t start the fire.
We didn’t light the match.
We didn’t burn the city
down to the tent towns
where homeless hearts
wander wearily around.

But this is the mess
that I am living in,
this is the swap
that politicians have given men
women and innocent children.

All working but still starving
while trying to make a living.

Welcome to my American nightmare.

The fear is that I will disappear,
and no one will even notice
that I am no longer here.

The concern is I can’t stop this
pointless
rhyming scheme,
which has become
sickening.

Between these two things
I know there is so much
that I am certainly missing.

Maybe the deeper fear is
in focusing on what is clearest
I am really missing a
whole world of connections.

I’ve built my life
on a body of bruises,
on singing with
a cringing grin
and never letting
anyone in,
really.

I’ve done my time
with plastered smiles
that hide my shame
and mask a pain
I still can’t truly
give a name.

I’ve given mercy
to every person
except for two.
If you need it
I’d offer it to you
before I ever granted it
to the mirror man
or the motherly beast
who beat him down.

I’ve walked a lot
and ridden fast,
been driven hard,
Still, I can’t escape
what’s in my past.

But I could really
use a win right now.

I touch the pillow and breath in,
the waning scent of your leaving.
I whisper to the gray wisps of
crying clouds that are grieving.
I clutch the cross of mysteries,
the token you left for remembering,
the metal ornament that cut
scratches in our spiritual love,
refreshing each gaping wound
that you gave me.

Your eyes are like red wine
to a drowning alcoholic,
with lips and skin like ******
to this addled brained addict.

So, I put your portraits up
in my old musty attic.
I took down your paintings
cause the heart of the art
was always so paining.
I placed all of your clothes
in a black glad trash bag
in the back of my shed
where no one else goes;

So, the next time someone
comes looking for a door,
they won’t find any.
All the entrances to my heart
will be securely locked
and no one will get in there
anymore.

We are just little vessels,
precious porcelain angels
or rounded rebel devils
driven by what is inside
and how it interacts
with our outer facts
or our minor perspectives
distorted by different aspects
of our faulty flesh perceiver,
that super stimulus receiver.

We are many ecosystems
not singular structures
but a collective composed of
cellular and atomic dimensions,
too many to calculate or to mention
that are beyond our comprehension.

Conscious and unconscious
neural highways
or the many limbs on a tree
that have no leaves
but branch out and leave
as we learn new things
whilst pruning unused circuitry.

Therein lay a space
where poets dream and play,
a multiplicity
of connected
and disconnected
multiverses.

So complicated.

I don’t know how to hunt,
and I am less then adept at fishing.

I cannot fix mechanical stuff
but I’ve mastered the art of *******.

I got a gift for creating laughter.
I’m an awesome singer,
but a sub-par social actor.
I’m an ok artist,
and a masterful writer,
a decent observer,
of human behavior,
and an above average fighter.

So, if this is the end of the world
and you are looking for useful survivors,
I would not pick me first.
Even though, I can keep the mood lighter.

This is an
ego boosting
brag poem,

made to dazzle
others and show’em
how clever I am.

Cause the depths
I swim in
leave other men
dribbling, drooling,
and drowning.

The waters dark
that I chart
still chill the
bravest hearts,

and the horizon
I rise in
like the phoenix,
though burnt
flies and fries
the clouded skies.

I see sullen fools
flee frightened
from the fiery light.
They despise me
for my wit
and geniality,
for the talents
I have nurtured
and the artistry
I have sired,

drawing universes
from the fires
in which
they smolder
and expire.

A streak of flames
chases me
down familiar
family streets,

pass memories,
those sweet vagaries
of yester year,

and in their wake
the fires take
all that I was,

incinerate
all I hated
and what I loved.

Smiles and friends,
fun weekends
turn to ash.

Faces of
my loved one
blur and
fade too
freaking fast.

Childhood homes
and adult apartments
crumble under
the burning fury
of all the rage that was lit.

School playground
and the campground
where grandpa worked,

like all of us
turn to black dust
and disappear.

Then all the stars
that I once watched
blink out of
existence,

the last thing
that I feel
is my consciousness
disintegrating,
as tingling bits of me
are being rended from
my dying reality.

This techno toxification
has overridden
the better parts
of my younger heart,

stealing my idealism
and replacing it with
toxic digital *******,

multi-window
varied speed
hi-rez videos
that don’t offer
anything
I really need.

They spike my brain
disrupting it with
excessive hits
of unexpected
dopamine.

Still, I go on
living life in
thirty second
increments.

My attention span
is diminished
while life’s demands
are like poorly planned
skirmishes.

But what this
age of wonders
offers is
access to unlimited
connections
and information.
A way to override
the overlords
of state and business
and connect to people
that we may not know
but could grow with us
and learn to love
compassionately.

When strangers sit together
they still exist alone.

When they wander in
the wet weather
without their friends
there is silence,

the same silence
that stares sullenly
at a tablet, or phone screen
without reacting
to any human being
in the general area.

There are always a few
who long to
break through
the silence
and speak with
others who have
no business
other then
sitting and waiting.

Spirits waning
from some
strange rejection,
not outright
but at daylight
when strangers
look right
at each other
then turn away
nervously
refusing
to speak.

Its been a hard time.
Your anxiety is high
and on the rise.
You’re on the verge of
being hot headed enough
to burn all your bridges
and fail all those missions
you’ve been working on.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

Between a rock
and two harder places,
living in crowed spaces
while tensions are growing
patience is going
the way of the dodo.
You and I both know
these smokes stacks
could easily blow.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

Coins in a fountain
won’t get you any wishes.
These mole hills are vicious
and may really be
the jagged edges
of mountains
ready to come crashing down
and smash the ground
you built your
foundations on.

Slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

You may want a little
sugary snack
with a side of
captain jack
and a couple of packs
to smoke
before your heart attacks.
There may still be
some time for all
of that,
sweet surrender
to the tender
pleasures
unhealthy activities render.

But maybe instead
you should turn your head
take a breath,

and slow your roll,
know your soul,
take some self-control,
let it all go,
so you can grow.

They got you
struggling and sweating
but never ever getting,
what you’re working for,
just regretting
the wasted work weekends
that you could have spent
with family and friends.

Busting your ***
while your boss
busts your chops,

piles of work so high
that even nine nights
of nine hours overtime
can’t catch you up.

So, another day late
while your family waits.
The sunlight is gone before
you even hit the door
to go home again around ten p.m.,
and you came in when
it was still dark and raining
in the very early a.m.

Food and clothes,
restaurants, and shows
vehicle repairs,
health, home,
and car insurance,
college tuition,
then loan repayment,
mortgage, medical debt,
and the bills aren’t done yet.
No money left,
for your late retirement;

What’s the point of
being crushed
under all of that
work stuff
when the pay
doesn’t add up
to enough
to get by
late in life?

There may be
some grief
calling me
back to my
strange history.

Some inner aching
pulling the strings
of old memories.

With leaves that leave
a cold fall tree,
I see spring colors
transitioning
to summer shades,
then autumnal tints,
till they crumble
under my humble
feet, fading before
the coming winter wars.

Like sweet pets
who have passed,
like the few fallen
life companions,
and family members
who fell to embers
then to the smoking ash
of time’s eternal flame.

I am pulled back there
for just a second,
take stock and own
all those precious moments
I have known
recalling all that I can
with a nostalgic appreciation.

Then let it go,
if I am able to,
and move on.

I know
its time to go,
even though
I wish time
would slow.

I know
that seasons
change,
and summer’s
elations
will be
winter’s bane
as I recall
them
in the heat
of a cold fire
pain.

I know
that you are gone
bone thin
goblin
elderly
grandma,

and the guilt
I feel
is still
a very real
***** deal.

I know this
is a cheap verse
but I only got
a few minutes
to jot it down.

I guess that is just
the gist of all of this
amidst all I know
I am certain
I have lost a bit
of bliss
in aging.

So, now I know
I miss the past
and feel like
replaying
the memory footage
of old days,

But I know
that this is
lazy writing,
and I won’t
get back that way
anytime soon.

It is a sea
of insincere
smiles living here.

Shades of
shady intent,
false compliments
and hidden
under them
bitter lashes.

It is anxiety,
and a lifetime
of learning
that everyone
else maybe fine

but because
those I love
hurt me
I will never
trust easily.

Thus,
I reflect
on the pain
of a suspicious mind,

hoping that
my past’s
bitter heart
has lost
the painful edge,
and I can
make a new start.

My devil is in a spire,
of desires climbing higher,
of passions that inspires
strands of humanity
too burn in the same fire
that is my ever-loving ire.

My angel resides
on the other side
of my dreaming demon mind,
passed parallel dimensions
as specters whisper
their spiritual intentions
to haunt me from
kingdom come
and back again.

Vipers spitting poison,
while lesser men
are poised to win,
but I take pleasure in
always struggling
to gain a single inch,
always crawling,
and scrawling
little bits of brilliance.

Sitting in some strange setting,  
but I am not a man for betting,
the books are closed,
the dice predisposed
to poorer roles,
and all the polls
are filled with ill-intent.

Here I am
somnambulant
sleeping, but moving
in minor increments,
so I can grasp the dreams
that stir within
my weary mind,
jot them down before
they fade like autumn leaves
crumbling in the breeze
and exiting.

In this writing you may find
a treasure chest or a pile of ****,
a bowel of bananas or more excrement
it all depends on how you look at it.