It wasn't God

                      that chased me down dark recesses

            both seen and unseen

                             but the allegory.

And so here it is:
My secrets, my fortune!
The untold treasure harbored within my mind--
impeccable wisdom, and tormented genius!

I come to find illumination
and write poems--
in such a fashion as this:

It is I,
with heart on my sleeve
where I cough and sneeze,
becoming mired and virulent--
utterly human and fraught
for the world to see.

The magician who empties his sleeves,
overturns his top hat,
shying off his smooth pallid gloves!

Lies down on stage,
in a pool of my own blood and *****,
retching, trembling, aching,

gasping for air
roasting under an inquisitive lonely spotlight
I stare into
with a distant and longing gaze--

Eyes vacuous,
bulbous in sick contortion bulging veins popping
cracked lips gaping mouth tongue waggling speaking in tongues
choking air and body trembling in hideous convulsions--

for what benefit have I,
to purport and distort myself
in such a fashion?

It is for the sake of humanity,
in the flagellation of the human conscience
as it queries further
into the ambiguous amorphous impalpable
dark matter of the universe--

it is for our sake,
our illumination,
that I retch, and I ache.

Take note.

Man wears Folly
slung low on his hip;
it spits its lunacy into an aching foot.

Spurred heels dig deep in the dirt
fingers twitching arms crooked at the side
sweat beaded across a furrowed brow.

Eyes squinting in the light of high noon
back hunched shoulders arched in the sun
barreling down its mighty gaze.

Cast upon two shade-less figures
twenty paces apart
in the rustic back alley of their ghost town.

A battle for eternity;
which man gets the last laugh?
Folly grins with a crooked smile.

I hold onto my prayers
Like freed baby teeth under a child’s pillow
We hope to wake up to an answer
A treasure to call our own.
The difference being my hope is not a fantasy
This is reality
And I trust in this
Whether I wake up
Lavishing
Or suffering.
I sing praises in your name.

To Poems Lost,

To you who sat on paper drenched
behind the shower curtain,
for I could not get the shampoo
and the soap out fast enough--
dry towels lingering in their mocking silence.

To Poems Lost,

To you who sat unbuckled
in the passenger seat
with the window rolled down,

your flowery head
sticking out catching the cool breeze
in the evening sky,

I, suddenly aware of dangers imminent,
reached with one hand to
hastily buckle you in

and alas--
I lunged,
hoping to pin you
to the upholstery;

you leaned farther and farther
out the window, 'til the current
grasped you by the throat
and ****** you into the night air--
away into oblivion.

I cursed and moan'd,
jabbing and grasping hopelessly at the space
that once entertained your angelic presence.

To Poems Lost,**

Peeking slowly into my consciousness
mistaken for silly dreams,
I awoke in bed--dripping a cold sweat,
breathing heavily.

I laughed abruptly, lightly,
trusting my mind to remember your fleeting ghosts,
moments of serendipitous ecstasy,
a mild epiphany;

so I dared myself not to reach for my pencil
sitting eagerly atop my bedside dresser,
where the concerned blank page pleaded  
with my muddied conscience.

Tired eyes had just as soon closed shut,
and I awaited you as my bedfellow yet again
to wake me up timely in dawn's breach of night.

And alas--
I woke up,
finding the covers next to me ruffled,
but the body that had authored such vexations
appearing to have slipped into the void.

Had you followed my childhood fears under the bed?
Did you fall with a thud to the stifling carpet,
where protruding claws raked you into the hungry abyss?
I squelch'd the urge to hang my head over the bedside and seek you.

In light's breach of slumber,
before the lids of my eyes peel'd back,
did you leap out into the Lovely
to be whisked away into the brisk morning air?

Either way, you are gone,
so I curse and moan,
clutching the lonely bed-sheets
that once wrapt your transient spirit.

I still wait, eagerly,
for your return,
my lovelies.

I come alive
when I silence my voice
and drink your words through my eyes.

I come alive
sitting beside the window pane
hearing the pitter-patter of the soft rain.

I come alive
in the steam of the tea
encircling me like a dragon's smoke wreath.

I come alive
in the still of the room
unprovoked, unperturbed, pleasantly alone.

I come alive
deceptively physically dormant
but inside my mind, a bombination; restless incantation.

I come alive
the voices of time as my celestial guide
the paths innumerate; infinite possibilities.

Every exhale lets out the past
And I've been known to hold my breath
And though its painful to the last
It seems it's all I have left.
My skin will crawl, my lungs will scream
Fingers twitch and grasp for air
My chest will ache, my eyes will bleed
I could stop it all, if I dare.
Every exhale lets out the past
And I've been known to hold my breath
And though its painful to the last
It seems it's all I have left.

Grandeur's delusion
                                                        ­                               is an allusion
                standing on the precipice of greatness
                                                    
  ­                                                                 ­    it's something intrinsic, ain't it?

The hopelessness in a foreseeable car crash--
an emotion lasting a split second--
is unlike the crippling anxiety of a passenger
who fears the leather-bound mobile mercy seat.

Yet the mirage renders the victim just as helpless
in the impalpable facade of doom.

To never leave this room.

I am
A captive of this home
This burden of solitude
Mine to carry, alone.
I crave
The sunshine upon my skin
Not its touch from the looking glass
A glimpse of the life I miss.
I lie
Upon this bed of persistent woes
With blankets wrapped like a spider's net
I am to never know the cold.
I see
The seasons change from my windowsill
As my life passes I feel loss
Am I to never know free will?
I cry
Because the doors are all unlocked
The windows are all open
But my mind can't escape this box.

When
                                   every exhale's a sigh
         every question's a why
                                      every moment's passed by

                                                                                  I've lost my mind.

I love the way you
say my Christian name
without the faith

I wish I knew the name
Of your perfume
So I may buy
For lovers new
So they may smell
Just like you.
I wish I knew the taste
Of your lips
The taste I shall seek
In every kiss
So I’ll never tell
What I miss.
I wish I knew the game
That you play
So I may try
To weave the pain
I won’t go through hell
Another day.

Whitewashed walls
Spotless sinks
Air is still like a fear to speak.
Faultless floors
Gleaming glass
Shoes off at the door so to pass.
Absent animals
Dazzling decor
Thought begs "What is this place used for?"
Immaculate interior
Luminous light
But to where will my humanity hide?

.............Another step
             into the dark
light growing dimmer
               the air is stale
                    is it madness
                          or is it art
                           am i hiding
              inside of the whale
                             is it maturity
                              or insecurity
                   the steps creak louder
               heart's growing prouder
                                       flash my hand
                                      before my eyes
                                           feeling pressure
                                         build in my head
                                     though i needn't to see
                                   with truth locked inside
                                                        si­nging off-key
                                             the swan song is read
                                                  my soul's been hurled
                                                      thro­wn to the world
                                                                ­        i see a mouth
                                                           licking lips that pout
                                    
                       ­                                                                 ­      is there a way out?

The cure was in sight
of the distant spiritual squandering
in my filth

so familiar.

A pig slogging in the mire
makes his way over to the trough
blissful

but something's beckoning.

It is my first and only belief
that I truly know nothing.

That every truth is relative,
that every reality is a perception,

and in time these perceptions may shift.

It is from this footing, therefore,
that I can begin to
ascend towards illumination,
                 or descend into madness.

But
if I am first to believe
that I must indeed know nothing,

how is it
        that I know
                    up
           from
down
?

We're two lonely streetlights
sharing this worn, broken road
watching the tired city crawl home
beneath our fading gaze.

We ache beneath these starry nights
collecting dew on our flesh like a coat
our breath shuddering, lost in the foggy moat
longing in the dreamy haze.