Grief sees grief,

sorrow spoken
in tear drops
and swollen
red eyes.

Grief speaks to grief,

in holding hands,
hugs and
heartfelt conversations.

Grief cannot cure grief,

or see sorrows removed,
flesh unbruised,
and the abused
reborn.

Grief can ease grief,

tension softened
in the presence
of those
who share the essence
of similar
experiences.

Jealous roads
of gray gravel,
cut across
the black tops
bringing back
the dirt and dust
that we track
from the tread
of our black
dead tires.

Gingerly
travelers like me
work
the waves of
winds that
bluster
and brag about
the voices
of the past.

Daylight shifts
to nighttime bliss,
as the melody
of madness and poetry
consumes me.

I know
that it is
time to move on.
Still, I strive to hold on
to hope,

but hope is
the same torn
and tired rope
that I use
to wrap around my neck,
till all consciousness forgets
I ever bothered to exists.

Bereft of depth
the cattle calls
a chattering clutter
of noises that bothers
saner minds
and their ****** daughters.

When fools ferment
deep discord
from a good temperament
turning sweet wine
into a bitter product
wilting from some
rotten vine,

and honest hearts
no longer entreat
the wisdom of fools
they once deigned
to share
humanity’s goodwill
and ever shrinking grace with.

Let them loose their tongues
and see drool dripping
like a sea of diarrhea.

For these things are
matters of darker dreams,
past times parting
partial truths
to the cruel schemes
of the obtuse
and greedy hearts
who abuse
all those
who challenge their views.

I am battle fatigued
from all the crap I’ve seen,
so tired that I have to retreat
from almost everything

So, imagine how fed up
all of these
protesters and families
must feel,
seeing the same ****,
watching people get killed
while they are marching,
while they are starting
a revolution that should be
super easy.

I tired and the tragedies
barely even reach me.

Those people must be
on the verge of weeping
while they are sleeping,
barely able to keep breathing
while they are grieving
cause this **** keeps
happening.

Our problems are
frequently creations
of our own social
and mental stagnation.

So, can you see a scenario
where the people that you
love and know
are dying fast and slow,
from a virus that we
could and should
have under control?

Can you comprehend
how helping your
fellow man
from different lands,
how communicating divergent
perspectives
can helps us solve
emerging problems
as they evolve?

Can you understand
how not learning
from a stranger,
reduces the likely hood
that your neighborhood
will thrive or even get by.

As this tragedy’s grip tightens,
as your children are frighten
by the horror you were not
properly fighting,
how will it feel
when you realize
you once had the resources
to survive
but chose fear and hate,
instead of choosing
to save your own life?

I'm trying to find different ways
to bridge the gaps that cause so much hate and pain.
I’m trying to learn how to sweeten soured hearts,
defeat the shadows that have cowered
all those I know who used to want to grow
but not just go with the flow.

The world has taken all the notes I used to love
and jumbled them up, creating discord,
but I am trying to find the right cord,
write the right line in a new chorus,
to help humans explore what makes us
something more than just flesh that becomes dust.

I am trying to not die before I
have done something decent with this one life.

The past is
ashes,
burns as it
ask us
to do
what we must
to get by enough,
till time picks us
off.

It confuses
as it uses
all our truths
and illusions
to deludes us.

Nostalgic
daydreams
of never where
***** things,

fiercely fueled
solar flares
of incinerating despair,
with a gravity
that draws us
back to a path
that no longer exists,
to closest and corners
where we no longer fit.

The familiarity of all of it,
beating out the uncertainty
of a future we have yet see,
is so strangely appealing.

But I have a feeling
we should be living in
the here and now.

It’s not rocket science,
and should be obvious.
Life is constantly changing,
bringing with it new forms of adversity.

So obviously we should meet
all of these new challenges
by embracing diversity,
learning how to see things differently
and growing into better
brighter human beings.

In your heart,
can you sit with the grieving,
see what they are feeling,
and grow some compassion?

Tears from a stranger,
a mother’s exhaustion,
wearing the body language
of those who’ve been broken.

No hugs allowed,
no warm faces to comfort,
no one to hold,
no matter how much we want it.

In your mind can you comprehend
what all this pain is doing to them.

Bad morning,

I say that it’s okay
to bare all the pain
grievously.

The sun is not
shining brightly
but smites me,
with harsh rays.

Dull day,

I sour and curdle
fall over the hurdles
I was trying to bound.

Dark present,

dreary moment,
I should own it
but my disposition
makes me hate
all the things
I once thought were great;

Except for the nighttime,

a sweet release,
as I go to sleep,
and don’t have to think,
until tomorrow
when I awaken refreshed,
with more optimistic words.

She is the north star,

a precocious lie
I tell myself to get by,
but I wonder why
I feminize hope.

Is it that she intrigues
with what I think I need
to fulfill my basic being?

Is it because love
seems to be the highest thing
a poet can aspire to,
and desiring one of the few
who might be a little like me
and understand my artistry
gives me a modicum
of extra creative energy?

Or is it because
I am deeply in love
with death,
and being enraptured,
totally captured
by another
would smother
my identity
freeing me
from all suffering
by ending all I ever was
in favor of the new person
I might become in love.

He was old when I was young.
Now I’m old, and he’s long gone.

Owner of a small-town store.
Plier of all those knick knacks
and delicious snacks that
a young boy desires and adores,
tiny fifty cent to a dollar toys,
a handful of penny tootsie rolls
and five cent laffy taffy,
with silly jokes on the wrapper
that brought a little lighthearted laughter.

Small brick building
and in the back was
his home.

Now the burnt red bricks
have lightened and cracked a bit,
like the memories of him,
fuzzing up while slowly fading,

till he is the foggiest of impressions.

I try to recapture any ****** expressions
but only recall vagaries.

The building falls behind the sun,
but his family has not yet moved on.

Soon the night will descend
consuming me as it has devoured
my memories of him.

Everyone’s a poet in their own fluid motions.
Everyone’s a planet with their own private oceans,
deep saltwater life, underwater caverns that take us to
unknown depth that we need an open mind to view.
Everyone’s a fish just swimming in the sea
floating, falling, rising, uncertain who they should be.

Sincere hearts
no longer entreat
the love of fools
they once deigned
to desire and share
affection’s grace.

Instead, they
behold the tender blush
of a red-light passion
passing faithfully
unto the dust
that scatters itself
in eternity.

I watched her pick
particular flowers,
not the prickly thorned type
but the purple poesies
of innocent delight.

I adored her visage
whilst making petal plucking wishes
“of she loves me,
or “she loves me not.”

I watched her go
and all that I got
was the sweet afterglow
of a beautiful show.

He gave years to his rage,
wanted to spit in her face,
and **** on her grave
while he danced and celebrated.

A slave to his pain,
drank his own poison
let it burn and ulcerate,
edging him further in
a constant caustic states.

Fists into metal
hating himself.
She taught him
how to hurt
and he learned
those lessons well.

Till, the day she went gray.
Her mental faculties faded away,
and he couldn’t yell at her
cause she didn’t even
remember his name.

He spent his whole life
in a state of strife,
but when she died
he wasn’t satisfied
cause all that anger
didn’t buy him pride,
give him any smiles,
or take back the times
he was tired and wasted.

A pointless existence
bitterly spent
with no way to repent
and get those lost moments
back again.

The accursed cur doth incur
my waking wrath,
in seeing his swelling belly
bursting full of bile and fat.

That sick disgusting orange rat,
who took fools under his
blood red maga hats.

No grace or gentlemanly disposition,
no eloquent diction, or composition.
He is the disease not the physician
and this reaper of sick souls
needs get sent to a federal prison.

Karma does not hold sway
over these ever-darkening days.
Justice falls, as my government betrays
all that could have made us great
in favor of an unevolved cheeseburger loving ape.

What is there left to say,
all I am able to do is
write away my simmering rage
cause I doubt that anything will really change.

Been watching the world drowning,
and hollering for help
while red hatted men say
go **** yourself.

Ain’t no way I can pull us out of this
cause the cruelest men are leading
the cult of greed while misleading
clueless sheep, preventing them from seeing
those aren’t forests of hope they are seeding,
but a hellscape of hate and climate disasters.

American ingenuity has receded,
retreated from the American monster
who was supposed to be defeated,
the man who could not build a wall
on the border of Mexico
but has managed to build one
around the white house and refuses to let go
of being America’s most powerful *******.

The sand is quicker, and I am sinking,
so tired of dreaming and thinking
of different ways to try and say
the same **** thing,
and make people see other individuals
as equal and beautiful human beings.

Lately,
hope only
seems to exist for me
in fictional realities.

It seems like
people being
kind and nice
isn’t real life.

I know there are
heroes inside
of us all,
and we
don’t need
bright colored
tight shirts and jeans,
or capes flowing
to save the day.

Star Trek
isn’t what makes us great.
It’s just a finger
pointing in the general direction
to help us get on our way.

But over one third of
the country I am expected to love,
cause we were meant to be a melting ***
that incorporates what others got
to fill in the missing parts
and reinforce our ramparts
against the weakness
of divisiveness,
have decided
that they don’t like it
and placed a con man on high
as their ***** god like
****** greasy cheeseburger guy.

I’ve been tired,
been raging
against the machine
made for making
people hate everything.

I’ve been writing,
fighting back the tears,
cause I don’t want
anyone near to hear
how much of my pain
hides behind my fear.

Especially when,
I know my suffering
is not that unique,
and there are millions more
hurting worse than me.

I got it pretty good,
but I am alone,
reading and thinking.
I’m not a stone.
I’m just breathing,
bleeding and needing
a little love you see.

Won’t you meet me
in the land of sleepy dreams,
a place where children
no longer sit and scream,
where I am not looking
cause my dear you are
right here beside me.

Despite the chaos
that haunts us
in waking hours,
in this temporary reprieve,
my love, it is you,
whoever you may be
that I want to see
when I go to sleep.

I’d like to be celebrated,
for what I wrote,
what I stated,
how I used words
to debate hate
and help others
change places
with alien faces
so, they could feel
just a fraction of
the pain they instill
in those they should love.

I’d like people to recall
how I helped others,
a hand for those who fell
kind words to wish
those dealing with grief well,
an ear for people in pain,
and a joke to spring them
back up again bringing in
the remnant of past smiles.

I just want to be remembered;
Don’t you?

He walks,
pine trails,
and high hills,
and partly feels
as if he is still here.

A young man’s energy,
a child’s idealism;
Hope is real in him.

Passing poet’s
parting pleasant memories,
imprinting kind words
on those who were
lucky enough to hear.

So, many years,
distance
between the loss
and those precious
instances,
such goodness.

Like the grandfather
who is lost farther
in my memory,
who spent time
helping families
in disaster areas,
another traveler,
another example of
what kindness
and love
can bring
into to being.

To two hearts of my past
goodnight
Ken Sibley,
and
Hugh Amos Graff.

I hang on to
childish memories and dreams,
but they don’t seem
to want to hold on to me.

I lost the leaf laden road
with the overhanging oaks,
soft swaying leaves,
and blinding sunlight
that flickered as we
drove underneath.

I’ve misplaced the place
where I would sit and read
with my bare feet
dangling out in front of me.

I cannot locate the field
where we picked strawberries,
or the local grocery store
that has been closed for more
than ten years.

The old wooden swing
that hung from the branch
of a sturdy front yard tree,
the one with a fraying rope
that I would further fray
when I twisted myself up
and spun back and away.

The little baby boy,
with his soft little head,
tiny fast chubby legs
and pink teddy bear
has managed to grow up
and no longer lives here.

The space faring
cape wearing
wonder kid
who dreamed of doing
such amazing ****,
no longer exists.

I miss all of it.

Half asleep the creep
takes a back seat.

Eyes ahead I drive instead
of acknowledging anything,
but something is nagging,
some question is blinking,
like a bright red turn signal.

He sits silent, but present
all stillness in my presence,
while the sound of rain
pelts this metal carriage.

No words, but I know
where I am supposed to go.
No time but I still stall,
try not to move at all,
cause I am not ready
for what waits at
the end of the road.

The engine hums some
endless tune,
rattling on like a sad song,
with skies that are so clouded
that I can’t see the heavenly crescent
that should be right above me.

I panic, crying and frantic
tell my passenger that “it’s too soon.
Give me till next June,
cause there is so much
I still want see and do.”

He leans in, breathing
and I can’t believe
what I am seeing
in my rearview mirror.
Eyes like mine,
lips that match,
same hair of black.

He says in a voice
I am sure is mine,
“don’t look back.
You’re driving to **** fast.”

The rain subsides.
The night finds beautiful moonlight
and I drive.

I turn on the radio,
let my stress go,
and move with the
Billy Joel flow.

Somehow, I can tell
my passenger is grooving as well.

In the distance I can see
carousal like lights
swirling in front of me,
glorious shades and hues
of reds, greens, and blues.

The highway is slick,
and for a millisecond I can feel
my tires lose their grip.
I let the pedal up and turn the wheel
into the spin before it begins
and keep on driving.

Memories follow.
My friend is still riding.
Night turns to dawn
and I keep on driving.

Towns come and I go out.
I see a lot and learn to doubt,
questioning what this questing
is all about.

Not a word from the dude in the back,
and I am okay with that.
The road never ends
and I don’t remember
where this journey began.

I am just driving on man,
just driving on.

Oh, how it makes me smile.
How my mouth widens
like little tropical islands
spread on for miles
in continental drift.
How with one quip
I find my wit
the perfect fit
for the intelligent
philosophers and artists.
It is the heart of solace
so, please know this
your unique presence
makes me very happy.

I write as well,
tell myself
I’m not made
to perform on stage.

The blank page
is the place
where my grace
is the greatest.

I display this
humanness
by touching depths
I haven’t even
swam in yet.

I drown in
the sound of men
woman and children
moaning,
begging
for a living,
when no help is given
by those in power
who have been
taking without returning
a single cent
of human decency.

I can write clearly,
because I have time
to edit each line,
the same ones
which I hide behind
and pretend that I
am helping
when I am just
doing enough
to not be
the enemy,
less of an ally
and more of a lubricant
that helps
my own guilt
slide off
the walls I built.

I have tried
to understand
how those
who were denied
a helping hand felt
and mirror it
in my poetics.

But I am pathetic,
self-indulgent
pain appropriating
social movement
inactive student.

Taking out loans
I never plan
to payback,
other than
in writing
human events.

Some say,
I am a good man,
but I feel unworthy,
uncomfortable
because even though
they heard me
I don’t think
they were listening.

Life is a prison,
and I am self-convicting,
admitting that in my laziness,
I might as well be complicit.
I write so later on I can ignore it.

Work hard to explore,
then exploit what I didn’t earn,
take all that I have learned
and try to make a better world,

but no matter what I do
I feel like a poser.
Even when I am trying to help you,
I feel like a cheap magician trick exposer.

Though, I am trying to foster,
a compassion movement,
I am just an empathetic
poem writing imposter.

George Carlin
warned you,
Jon Stewart
and Bill Hicks
did to.

The fix is in
for the politicians,
got businessmen
buying them
our elections,

so if you are expecting
democrats or republicans
to fight against
the corruption,
you haven’t been
paying
enough attention.

With our attitudes
towards IQ
and academic aptitudes
our human metrics
makes us
maladjusted
and unjust.

Materialism
is a modern
mass pathology,
perpetuated
by outdated
corporate
mythologies.

So, what gives rise
to precise
intense inner
creative drives
that elevate
and surprise
humans before
great creations
are fully realized?

The core of
creativity
is not centralized,
but synthesized
from your insights.
It is up to
you to decide,
bring out your
unique light
and brighten
our lives.

I drive while I am overthinking,
watching as I run through
a hundred thousand
floating firefly butts
that lessen the darkness of
the highway I’ve been
driving;
  
Reflecting on
the corruption
of politicians,
and businessmen
who are war
profiteering,
arming up soldiers,
and bringing military
grade gear
for policemen
to use here
within our own borders.

How these thugs
take their orders
from the rot at top
and brutally torture,
hearts once hopeful
that now turn to dust.

I am amazed by
the ease at which
I see all that ****
but keep on
swimming through
the gross cesspool.
I know I can walk away
but I am fool
who has something to say.

Evan though,
there are no great
ways to demarcate
stages of human pain. cont.

I have been furnished
with a burning furnace,
a form famished for
seeing those justice ignored
even the score.

Older men and woman
are ordering our children,
the younger generations,
to go off and die for them,

while the climate
is so drastic
that this lifetime
might be the last bit
before we hit
super apocalyptic.

Our leaders didn’t
try to prevent,
slow, or stop it,
cause they got bought
by those who caused it.

So, we need to circumvent
the already entrenched
corruption.

I'm not that great
or the one to originate.  
An innovative 15-year-old girl
beat me to it,
and so did every other
social movement.

This isn't for my amusement.
It's for people re-attunement.

We are reacting to the wrong stimulus.
Stop binging that cringing
news that spews
fear of the other.
Stop submitting to
materialistic distractions
and get down to
mind expanding interactions
and some serious political actions.

I’m a prisoner of this lullaby.
Almost asleep,
almost awake,
halfway
between
night and day
as I work
to make my pay.

Theoretically,
I am a zombie,
brain dead,
flesh fed
beast
who needs
to rest in bed
but I live in my head
instead.

Walking in the
wrong waking world,
on a ride to the otherside
of a goodnight,
but I just can’t
pass out with
all this disturbing ****
on my mind.

I’m so tired,
that I feel ill,
and intoxicated,
probably gonna wish
I had stopped and waited,
taken a fifteen-minute nap
at the nearest gas station.

Groggy and trying to drive;
You might see me,
My head may nod softly
as my car slides
and I hit those
who drive to close.
I’ll be
to weary
to even try
and cry out
any last words.

I do not know why
I want to sleep
all the time.

Life is fine
as much as it can be
with a virus
limiting our society’s
ability to interact.

I am not depressed.
I am just meh.

So, I go to work,
get drowsy,
come home
and go to sleep
and hit repeat
all week.

Then when
it’s the weekend
and I get just
a little tired again
I instantly hop in
to my bed
and pass out
instead of
trying to stay awake.

I barely remember
any dreams,
there is nothing notable
to make me
want to stay sleeping.

Maybe it’s just that
there is nothing worth
staying awake for.

She promised revolutions
with the slow movement
of her dancing form;

Of new evolutionary
revelations,
that may be scary
testaments
to the new environment
we would exist in.

Artisan of living,
lips giving
sweet passion’s nectar,
she was a specter
of life and death’s
imaginary perfectness.

A thousand point of
poetic reactions to love,
more than enough
to dream eternity
written within
the cold skin
of infinity.

She promised me
a grand reality,
and I wept,
so ready to succumb.
Then she left
and I was struck numb
and dumb.

Now, I wonder
who taught her
how to lie so
beautifully?

I cheated myself for so long,
built up a foundation that was
settled on looking strong
and being be better than
that bunch of get along men
who were working for a profit.

Such anger and pride,
but when I elevated my mind
I displaced that drive.
My ambition lost it’s bite,
because it was derived
from a powerful sense of self spite.
Evan though, I believed I was right,
I felt like I was not worthy.
Evan though, I was certain I was better,
I still felt like less than every other man.

Pushing and pulling metal plates,
and other forms of resistance
in varying weights,
shifting, and reworking
twisting, and jerking,
turning perspectives
over and inside out,
till I could figure new **** out
and garner the wisdom
of ancients at the same time.
Always striving to be
something better than the current
version of me.

What a sickness to let myself be defined
by that twisted dissonance in my own mind,
but the problem I find
is right now I am left
with almost no bitterness.
I have no desire to overcome
any of the crazy ****
that never really mattered one bit.

I am apathetic,
dangerously dulled by my indifference.

One withering look
and I am an unbound book,
pages fluttering away, broken,
smitten with tiny kisses,
or temporary ink tokens.

She can reignite a dying sun,
set solarized skies ablaze
and make them burn
for days and days.

She can shift the seas,
then trade places with
strange faces that
echo older generations
which will never come back.

Five fingers folding in
touching my mind,
burying brilliance in my skin,
she is the door to
Oz, Wonderland,
and Neverland,
making me wonder if I can
fly like superman.

She supersedes the entirety of my being,
enveloping, in all shades of dreams,
making my reality her plaything.

Not a person, more like a metaphor,
or a hint of a thought I’m searching for.
There’s eternity and an ocean’s more
waiting for this dreamer outside her door.

Tension pinching
my chest
while I am clenching
my teeth
trying to catch
my bad breath.

Red eyes strained,
and pained
from coughing so hard
that my neck veins
bulges out so far.

So, tired
but I can’t sleep,
haven’t eaten
much all week
and I am feeling
really weak.

Nauseous,
and afraid
so many things
I have yet to say.
If I die today
who will know
or care anyways?

I’m scared
and confused.
After all
that I have done,
this is how I lose.

No one here
to talk to me
and I don’t
want to believe
this might be
how I leave
the world.

Is there anyone there?

It’s a sorry sick visitation
of your life in animation
cause everything you do
is humorous to you.

Colorful sketches
and comedic timing
set up the words
and keep some
for rhyming,
as Instagram,
Twitter, and Facebook
miming
meant to impress
those who
you think are watching.

Social psychology,
human imagination
puts us in a lie
with our horrible
miscommunication.

So, we watch the blue water
burn with all that fire
wait and see
the ocean bleed
because what we desired
was for people to pay attention
to our overgrown ego.

Do not ask me to write a better future.
I cannot see a light through
the dark tunnels we are
traveling in our fast flesh cars.

I am not depressed as many are,
because I have seen what horrors
have moved us forward thus far.

My nightmares pale in comparison,
to the carnage other people have been
moving, drowning, and living in.

Poverty and hunger, war and terror,
chaos and destruction, over there
where I don’t have to see,
but I watch and read
enough to know it’s real.

I am coasting while others are roasting,
burning in their own personal hells,
convicted and sentenced to a chemical jail,
that they cannot escape because their cell
is the body that they make.

Rage and anxiety pushing our society
to uncertain extremes,
dividing us into the too many teams;

When we would be better served
by acting like Earth’s steward
and learning to listen to
those who have not been heard,
by making kindness the new holiness,
and finding out why they know this
isn’t how it has to be.

Inclusivity doesn’t cost much,
and we gain the universe
by being able to accept and embrace
change.

But my people like to tear down the strange,
prefer the cold dark caves
from which we sprang,
whilst burning and burying
most outliers.

I live in a world of science deniers,
that don’t give a crap about forest fires,
cause our climate has become
numb and dumb to the truth.

So, though, I may smile
while I am talking to you,
I still believe we are totally *******.

I am fractured,
a flower floating in
times that never end.

Orange clouds afire,
lit by disasters,
I am that burning
bratty *******.

Foaming wave,
fierce tidal force
forced to go with
the terrible flow
that beats the shore.

I am the shattered glass
lightbulb burnt out.
Thin shards flying away
from the electrical light
that I made.

I am the leaning lighthouse,
beacon in the storm,
the key to my own
clockwork brain,
just tic tocking away,
wasting time
every single day.

I am all the strange
mixed up metaphors,
as mad as a hatter
cause I make little sense,

and someday I will be
sadly,
past tense.

So, are you okay
with the way
he spreads hate
across these
United states?

Do you mind
how he divides,
claims Nazis
and pedophiles
are good people,
hires employees
cause they are
the best by far,
but when they
try to say
anything against
your president
he completely
disavows
and demeans them?

Aren’t you bothered
by the man who fathered
corrupt clone sons
and daughters who
spew his stupid to
while pocketing
donations from
charities?

Corruption,
exploitation
of the president’s office
to make money
at his golf course
and hotels,
scandal, after scandal,
sexism, the paying off
of a **** star
but that is your right wing
man of god,
racism against immigrantscont.
especially Mexican children
when he puts them
in places worse than
our federal prisons,
none of these actions
ever touches him
in your eyes?

It took me
a long time realize
that I can’t break through
all the lies
you want so badly to
hold on to.

So, like your brain
I’m gone to,
done indulging an idiot,
and it will take a lot
for you to ever prove
there is any good left
in you.

There’s a little bit of wiggle room,
there to let me wriggle through
tight corners and passageways
that lead out to brighter days
of childhood imagination at play.

Lava like floor to explore
as I jump from one piece of
furniture to the next,
barely escaping that terrible fate
as I try to catch my rapid breaths.

The swing under my stomach
that lets me fly up swiftly
until my arch enemy,
gravity
grabs me
and pulls me back down
to the hard-hitting ground.

He-man and Thundercat sword fights that
are as epic as a I can imagine,
till I step up to ride on my furry white dragon.

Me, GIJoe, and the Autobots  
fight off Cobra and Decepticons
until it’s time for me to move on
to Star Trek and X-men adventures.

There is just a little more time to
live in the past dreams of play
and remind myself
that I don’t have to be an adult
every minute, of every day.

I would like to believe
that every moment
that comes after
is an elevation.

That progress is not an ark
but a constant procession
to summits we never knew
existed,
pinnacles that allow us to view
all of reality anew,
to work out the science and review,
then renew
our dedication to
new discoveries
as we climb even higher,
than previous peaks.

That we constantly aspire
to fly and inspire
each incoming
generation to seek
a better understanding
of everything.

America has been feasting
on that Billie Holiday strange fruit
for so long,
drinking that thick red wine
straight off the long thin vine
of mankind’s suffering,
profiting from people losing their sanity,
gaining from the loss of our humanity.

Black as that sweet star sparkling night,
mothers, and fathers denied the right
to stand up and fight,

bullets to the back
as they try to enter their own houses,

bullets to the side
right in front of their children and spouses,

bullets through the heart of a child
in the middle of his imagination,

bullets through her bedroom,
no space to escape
not even some safe head room:

All that agony and desolation
to be constantly facing
violence and degradation
from the so-called authority figures
who only see another dead ******.

Blue lives, white supremacist guys,
proud boys and Neo Nazis
have grown obese.
These foul ******* beasts
have eaten the heart and soul of us
right off our bones and thrown
the rest to the scavengers back home.

No grander
fool who
meanders
makes demands here.

Restless,
head to chest
to catch his breath
else meet his death,

the poet seeks
dreams to speak,
closes his eyes
and lets his mind
rise.

Until his art
is fully realized,
and the hunger
to create
is satisfied.

The muse
lays down
and falls asleep.
He puts down
his pen,
and lets her rest
without a peep.

Until, he needs
her life’s blood again.
She will awaken
but need sustenance,
and he will feed
everything
heard and seen
to his artist queen.

The phoenix
will rise to shatter
all the thoughts
and words that mattercont.
to create wonders once more.

I tell such tales
with recklessness,
as a fearless
hypocrite,
cause I am
unsure
which direction
it will go,
such a fan of myself
cause I also
want to know
where this
crazy show
will lead.

A compulsion,
a need,
perhaps a form
of creative OCD,
ambition
doesn’t really
proceed or follow me,
cause I am so brilliant
that I find
everything
hard to believe,
but easy to read,
write, and figure out
no matter how much
I struggle with doubt.

Shadows tell all secrets,
my pen has been
reborn again,
a phoenix in
computer screen form.

so well-staged,
I make corpses
dig their own grave,
while making major marks,
so they can embark
on being engraved
in the minds of
patrons who love
the poetry
of everything.

There is a
hell of a distance,
between acceptance
and resistance
against the persistence
of subliminal criminal messages
with ill intent
to dominate
our unsecured
political establishment.

What a crushing chasm
between thinking
and demanding
results without
any reflection or doubt.

In a world with
**** near unlimited
access to
information we can view
and self-educate,
like most modern
auto didactics do,
expanding our minds
beyond the
romantic renaissance
masters of past times,
it is hard for me
to comprehend
intentional stupidity,
despite the fact
I can plainly see
idiots ruling over
my society.

I write under heaven’s fire,
a bright orange flaming fury
that sets the skies ablaze,
as the sun rays
makes clouds
look like they are
burning, burning,
moving, while slowly turning,
a righteous delight,
that I enjoy.

Until I feel
the day’s descent
and night’s lovely ascent to
a starry painting
we all can view.

There are some sins
that feel like
a constant burning,
shame so deep
your stomach turning
becomes a relief.

Good grief,
I am glad
that isn't me.
I may not be
perfectly at ease
but my shame
doesn't torture me
all consumingly.

It just buzzes in
the background
discreetly
like a handful
of lost honey bees.

As I say goodnight
to my former life,
let go of those
previous blinking lights
that once defined
my divine
yester self.

I fall asleep
and all that was me
is washed about,
swirled around,
reorganized,
and restored.

I awake refreshed,
form regenerated,
mind invigorated,
and ready for me,
the essence of my being
to be reintegrated.

Almost new,
similar to
but not exactly
the same,
as my previous
version.

It’s hard to breath
but easy to bleed
with this hole
in her breast,
a gaping wound
in her chest.

She tries to keep
the weeping
suppressed,
to not let her
children
see her depressed,
but it is beyond
obvious.

One body missing
from the chair,
and child’s bed.
She still feels
a quiet dread.

No sleep,
but a little drink
to fill the void;
They say
time will take
the pain away,
but another loss
is what she is
trying to avoid.

She goes on,
while her family
tries to bear
the same agony
with stoic despair.
There is only
air and tension
to fill their
emptiness.

No shared connection
or conversation
to help them all
deal with this.

So, day by day
the nothingness
burrows deeper
and eats away.

The space between,
human beings
expands beyond
reckoning.

Strangers,
keep expecting them
to come back together again,
but the crack between
these human beings
becomes too far to leap.
Till, one day they are
too far gone from each other
to even speak.

The reaper’s victory
is totally complete,
because for one,
he got four souls to keep.