What is love,
if not told to the heavens?
What I feel for you,
is locked deep in the ocean.
The more I know you,
the Deeper I go into your forest.
What I want is not empty,
like weathered plains.
It’s not murky nor dead,
as I step through your swampy past.
It’s whole and true,
as the smell of rain in April.
Its beauty is among the sun,
in spring.
All I want for you,
for us.
Is an adventure,
of love everlasting.

This here is my home,
metal sides of cold.
Death drips,
from the roof and mold.

This here is my home,
I run away far with my car.
To find myself parked,
staring through the dark.

This here is my home,
the walls mutter judgement,
charred with abandonment.

This here is my home,
It's gone now,
Burnt to the ground.

This here was my home.

Cut my throat,
let it bleed my screams.
Gurgle the unrelenting,
patience of myself.
Slash the wrist of the empathic,
let the burden flow.
Lend the ears silent,
to selfish voices.
Shatter the heart,
of the half empty.  
Release me from who,
I am.

“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”

Selfish are we,
as they breathe death.
Creeps undetected,
its gluttony is relentless.

Infected by narcissus,
obsessed with “want”.
Devoured and exhausted,
we perish when exposed.

Divided by masks,
one selfless,
the other selfish.
It's your choice.

City lights banter,
with the night.
We walk,
like water and,
with things unseen.
Step with tranquility,
alone with serenity.

Go north,
into Frost’s domain.
Comparing your soul,
and walk the same path.
Stomp the ground,
to make it real.
Walk in the wood,
in the grass and snow.
Follow the steps,
learned from the past.
Diverge in the thicket,
and follow your heart.

How did you do it?
Will I have to die to?

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

You are a garden,
make the promise,
to feed yourself.
Tend your bed.

Surround yourself,
with fertile nourishment.
Swallow in the rays,
of positive energy.

Know what you are not.  
Eliminate the weeds,
the friends and blood,
stealing what gives you life,
what makes you tick.

Know your companions.
Grow and deepen,
your roots with them.
Share the glorious light.

Open your palms, leaves,
to yourself.
Grow, rise, and promise,

to reach to the sky.

Drawing pictures,
is graphite make-believe.
You can bring life,
or darkness.
Are you god?
Do you have control?
Scribbles, judgments,
of squares, circles
and unhappy faces.
Crumble up,
the paper tightly.
Throw away, let go.

Maybe its time,
To start over.

To those who ache,
rusted by love.
Breathe.

When you are standing,
shinny and new.
Breathe.

When you are ready,
scramble the sharp rocks.
And Breathe.

When you find yourself,
Tell yourself to,
breathe.

Find the breathe of you,
and keep breathing.

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.

Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…

In seeing,
as a child,
breathing blinded.

As we fail to remember,
what we want,
and need at that moment.

We are greedy as ants,
following the path,
striving for the same leaf.

We are small,
humbled by blue sky,
and the night stars.

Only then we remember,
who we really are.

There is a truth,
in our story.

Treasure in your confused,
curly hair.
Honesty in rain,
that falls on your face.
Finding perfection,
in your sky blue eyes.
The veracity of your voice,
expressed in silence.
Faithfulness of your soft skin,
that quenches my thirst.
Genuine movement,
of you is smooth and knowing.

It is a fact,
a complicated dogma,
that in this doctrine,
we are whole.

In this conviction,
that no rocks could dent.

We are making something,
we both need.

You never were here.

After you cut the cake,
was our fate sealed?

Did it hurt when you,
realized…

What was your thought,
one second before?

Did you ever really,
laugh?

Why did it take,
so long?

How did you look,
at him?

Who are you?

Who am I?

We left it empty…

It's gone.

Our dream.

If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.

I’m sodden newspaper,
heavy with time.
Mucky layers,
that pull apart in chunks.
Masking detail,
of stories of my soul:
Hymns of love,
transcribed in invisible ink.
Mastheads that yell,
like father did.
Fables of summer in the wood,
when I was a boy.
These are my columns,
my life.

I was drunk once.
Drunk on love,
drunk on lust.

I was drunk,
warm and full.

You were sober,
cold and empty.

Make no mistake,
you reveal yourself at the bottom.
It's dark and cold,
your pale with black hair,
And **** yellow eyes.

You float,
in your prison.
Void of breath,
and golden rays.
Bringing life,
and color.  






You’ve hit bottom.







Below this,
you feel helpless.
As a trapped animal
waiting to die.

The weight I carry,
was all for you.
Now you left me,
at sea.
I’ve drowned,
months ago.






In 2018, I hit bottom.







Below this…
Glass like,
motivation shatters.
Further you fall,
into darkness.
Your voice,
no longer ripples.
Let it take you.









How much further?








With struggle,
I can’t sink like a stone.
There are souls,
who need me.
Your hand pulls,
me down, it's heavy.
I kick you,
I punch you,
I struggle,
to let you go.
Your grip is,
loose and careless.
Like the past three years.

With a swift kick,
I am free.

I


Let


You


Go

On this day,
of 35 years.
Humbled by,
the cycle of death.
I place my foot,
on sodden wood.
Embracing,
the November wind.
It's cruel and nips,
at my blue fingertips.
There is something,
new and also blue.
That pushed me out,
into the deep cold sleep.

Your eyes.

You pushed me,
off course.
Gray fog resentment,
clouds the stars.
Remote and far,
in my own mind sea.
As distant as summer,
in autumns eyes.
I’ve sailed far,
so far I can no longer,
remember your face.

Bird on the wire,
your soul connected.
Your flock is close,
but far enough.
The distance you keep,
protects from societal envy.
You sit on the wire,
the highest one.
You sit tall,
far from judgement,
far from the road, the path
all others take.
Bird on the wire,
you see what's coming.
Not the future, no,
but patterns of intellect,
like a jigsaw of events.
Bird on the wire,
you're alone.
An outcast beyond,
the flock.

Our glass is full,
it spilled over last year.
Your ropes tied to me,
were cut, so I fall.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will hold an empty cup.

Why couldn’t we last the year,
we were breaking at the britches.
You packed your suitcase,
for red rocks and a better life.

I tried to mend the seams.
I tried to fix the table leg.
But my love you’ve wrecked it all.
It wasn’t balanced,
I needed your needle, your strength.

I tried to tell you,
it was about to burst, spill.
I tried to be patient,
and wait.
We pretended.

Who the hell was I?
Who are you?
I loved you.
Our glass is full,
let it fall.
Wash our hands of this.

In morning, we meet,
But it will different kind.
You will hold the suitcase,
I will give you the empty cup.

Fill it with what you need.
Fill it with the love you find.
Fill it with memories.
I will be here,
far behind.

Find your reflection,
in a lake in the west.

I will be here.

Bring music to the deaf,
let it fill your soul.

I will be silent.

Be the light for those in dark,
shine brightly its a gift.

I will be still in darkness.

Ground yourself in towering peaks,
stand firm and strong.

I am ****** in time.

Find love among Aspens,
lay in the leaves.

I will wait,
and lay with regret.

Those words,
grow suddenly like thorn weeds.
Without warning,
they spread wide.
Reaching and choking,
reality to death.
It's a chemical reaction,
like chlorophyll to plants.

Blinded by vines,
that are fed by her light.
Thorns of memories,
dig deep until you bleed happiness.

It's perfectly overgrown,
10 years of blissful growth.
How enchanting,
to wither with you.
Sow our seeds,
and live.

We’ve suffered,
intimate drought,
periods of stunted growth,
dark days with no light.
We began to untwine,
then climb to seek a different light.

That day was our garden calamity,
You no longer fed me your light,
Or Nourished my roots.
You uprooted,
you...left...me.

I once fell asleep,
to pleasantries of sound.
As the ribbon slides,
it painted color vibrance.
An emotional luminance, that made,
the soulless whole,
and the blind blissful.

Sleeping to strings,
felt like death.
Not the regretful kind.
It felt as if laying,
in the field,
staring at the bountiful sky,
as seasons pass eternity.

A melody of,
exuberating melancholy,
was infectious.
As if my body,
gave into sickness.
Now its still,
in joyous null.

Let breath subside,
slowing to a faint whisper.
Sink into a nothingness mind,
drain all to slumber.
And listen to Prélude.

We yearn for control.
Splashing and swimming,
in an ever-changing current.
It will decide when to crash,
when to pull us under,
or let you ride to stable shore.

Everything gets caught,
in this current, even time.
Reflecting yourself,
in glass-like calm.
Or in angry gray waves,
where you’ve lost your reflection,
yourself...

How often do we strive,
for calm waters?
How often do we predict,
the tides?
How often do we think,
of hurricanes?

Why not just go,
for the ride?

When I think of you,
I compare you to the sun.
Bright, beautiful and warm.

But, when you rise,
I want you to set.
Your bright rays,
overwhelming.
Your warmth violent,
it burns my heart.

Our gradient skies are no longer,
filled with our color.
Your wall of light,
pushed me to nights envy.
Now, I am with the scorned moon.

Waiting — sitting — dark eternity,
for a sun to rise again.
A sun that could share,
my sky.

You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.

I can not write.
My hands ****** in time.
I scream at pixels,
some dead in the corner.
I want to open up.  
Let it pour out as an ocean,
until overwhelming empty.
Composure must be kept,
as this is an art with structure.
The words must perform,
as dancers do before an audience.
As they read this,
it is only half of what is felt.
They can’t smell the rot,
that infects backstage.
The nagging screams,
that would make the world deaf.
Or be blinded by black,
during the bright of day.
I just want to be felt.
Release the tension,
of societies chains.
Or your chains perhaps.
They choke,
my voice,
inhibit my steps.
I want to just run.
Each send is a cry,
in a soundless megaphone.
Can I reach them?
Does this reach you?
I can’t write anymore.
Press send.
Scream.

You're gone.
I’m shattered.
Perfect little pieces,
of self broken.
Reflecting each side,
the hero that fought,
a poet that was adored,
the helpless romantic,
even the sadist.
All of me was for you.

Sweeping up whats left.
Assemble with glue and tape.
I am not perfect,
but I still love you.

Another being,
fresh with blood.
Pale with dark black circles.
Fills my sight,
every rebirth of gold.
It's even there,
during its death.
Its subtle whispers,
telling of truths.
Truths I know,
in heart and betrayal.
Pester and fester,
poke if you will.
Not even time,
grays your message.
“I know”,
with force I scream.
“I know”,
I sing.
Look away at the wall,
“breath”.
Open my eyes,
there you are…
In your vile prison,
reflecting flawed detail.
Who are you?
the being in there.

Let’s get this straight.
I could write this,
using visual metaphors.
As architects build,
or painters paint.
Instead, my blood boils,
with oil and **** at the thought.  

Poems are a release,
for the empathic.  
I could tell you,
nothing is something.
How there is always,
light in darkness.
But, most importantly,
love is cruel.

I could look to,
Emily or Li-Young.
Study the beautiful words
and the mastery of pen.
I protest and reject this,
I will break my rhythm.
Then I will cry,
self-doubt and blood.

You see the word emotion,
is the world to me.
Absorbing as a typhoon does,
all the good and bad.
I could proclaim,
that this is a gift.
To me it is torture.

Even as I write this,
it fills my glass.
Hot magma rises,
boiling to the top.
It will ******* spill over.
I want it to.
The release will feel empty.
Vacant.

There is nothing more,
I could say or jot.
Scribble my protest,
to the heavens.
Why do I feel?
How do I feel?
Why do I feel this much?

Push.
Pull.
******.
Bend.
Hit.
Slap.
Tweak.
Touch.
Turn.
Feel.
Slide.
Press.
Stroke.
Hold.
Twist.

It's ok…ah.
You know just what,
I like.

You should know,
that I no longer follow my compass.
Where the wind pushes,
I lead with squinted eyes.
The horizon is far,
cradled with opportunity.

I’ve taken the step for once,
without you and your map.
I’ve held my hand out,
gave you coordinates.
Yet, you hesitate.

You should know,
I’ve tried.
We no longer scramble,
the sharp edges of “what if?”.
Instead, the question is,
“what now?”

How did it come to this?
I thought with the sun.
Tying the string,
on brush and broken branches.
Will you follow?
The hints, arrows, and signs.

Our maps are different,
one south and one north.
Still, I tried,
circling landmarks left and right.
You will not go north,
but south.
We depart in full gate,
away from our point.
Alone.

You should know,
its time to say goodbye.

I love you.

Hope, a field,
not yet grown.
Vast, open and bright.
You shine taller,
a giant.
Clairvoyance jumps,
across your mind's eye.
Move swiftly,
tread the path.
Toward the bright,
burst of gold.

Alas, the gold is,
out of reach.
Your steps did not find their rest.
Crouched in half-light,
the darkness creeps.
The weeds take notice,
they grow steadily.
You are no longer giant.

A field now,
lost of expectation.
Overgrown with disappointment.

I am opaque.
Just as a chameleon,
I blend.
But, long for color,
that connects us.
That too is opaque,
gray even.
As clouds,
heavy with rain.
Or fog,
as I reach blindly.

You don’t see me.

I am opaque.
Unworldly in sight,
but warm with blood.
Feverishly pumping,
want and need.
To touch,
that touches nothing.

You don’t feel me.

I am opaque.
Follow, I do the waltz,
seamlessly to impress.
Supporting each step,
as your wings are spread.
Catching the wind to fly,
I fall, knowing my place.

You don’t need me.

I am opaque.
Embrace,
is how I dream.
In reality, separated,
by brick and stone.
Each break mended,
carefully from the other side.
I am tired and sore,
but I pick away.

You don’t want me.

I am opaque.
With a low head, I choose,

to stay this way.
Defeated, the fog rolls in,
thick and vengeful.
I will do what I do best,
blend.

I am opaque.

Dark and black,
coffee spilled.
Crimson spoiled,
white paper walls.
Empty stares,
full of wonder and fear.
Few connections,
what will be next.
People in the hallway,
one near the door.
A pearl high in the sky,
illuminates tears.
A door slams,
silence speaks.
Innocent screams,
in dramatic collapse.
Man tightens grip,
war has begun.
Stillness in the room,
a man at peace.

Droves of the dead,
drive through.
Women and men,
dogs doing tricks.
Shiny cars,
and slum deadbeats.
They are like rats,
finding the cheese.
Or maybe god?
Rich women,
poor men.
A nice guy,
in a car soulless.
Screens of pixels,
a father yells.
A mother cries,
her daughter falls in love.
Sunrises,
and then falls.
The dead rise,
soulless and unforgiven.
Trying to find their way.

I'm an eagle,
that flies high above the basin.
Or, am I a snake navigating the forest floor.
Fate is what answers this.
It's cold reaches high and low.
One strives for the sky,
but walks among meadows.
Not knowing of twig they break,
or the path they wield.
Am I an eagle?
I would like to be,
high above the heavens.
Far from the roots that hold,
and nourish.
Am I a snake?
Meekly making way through thicket.
Always finding passage,
through life's perils.
Yes, only fate can answer this.
Fate will choose.

It is neither here,
or there.
Not behind this door,
or maybe this one, no.
Tis not high? Or low?
Oh, I’ve forgotten so.
One can be pleased,
as I have misplaced this.
My steps miss-traced,
something could be amiss.
Though, it is difficult,
to lose such a thing.
Its hands wrap around my neck,
as it clings.
I can’t hear it ring,
what sound will it bring?
When it finally comes back.
Oh, what happened to it,
I feel like a lout.
Where is my self-doubt?

You murdered me,
during spring.

You said the words,
among elder forest.

It was space,
that divided the earth.

I in darkness kept away,
dying in black.

Light and luster far,
as the sun.

Hand only reaching,
to things and you.

You murdered me,
with space.

Though, should I
or have I begun?

To feel the tussling
Of blurring bodies.

Transforming and dancing,
Through these very halls.

Where aching is thick,
and a embrace is a release.

Should I begin?
How should I begin?

Swallow the dagger,
stabbing from behind.

Let it sit deep in my stomach.
Push it further, where it can’t cut.

Where will it end?
How will I begin?

Under lock and key,
Just where I left it .

It escapes as it did just now,
conjuring a puncture to bone.

Blood flows,
Rushes out into the world.

Is this a release?
How can I heal?*

Pouring out,
It tastes salty on the cheek

The color is dark,
cold to the touch.

Purging the night,
that stained blood black.

Sifting the chill,
of steel from bone.

Ringing out whats left of gore and fluid,
down the drain.

*I can begin now.
This is the end.

Snow falls before us.
Through her eyes,
the sky collapses.

It tumbles gently.
Laying softly,
as lovers hands.

They are still as white.
Slightly covered,
by ivory silk.

Snow still falls.
A blanket of calm,
weaves through.

Let it keep snowing.
A tranquil scene,
as her eyes closed.

Let it keep snowing.

I am walking.
Pushed slightly, by the northeast.
My companion yellow in color,
fondles the air with his muzzle.

Our strides take us forward.
Galloping cracked pavement.
Exploring familiar arch ways,
of hemlock and bittersweets.  

Our view is panoramic.
With flights honking in the distance,
as they return to the waking land.

We huddle at the top.
Where we watch the day,
tuck away into eves pocket.

This light is special.
It is a sensation of nothing,
and everything.

It fills you and the land,
with just enough.
Then swiftly dims away.

Leaving softly.
Is truly a perfect,
ending.

How did I get here?
Upon this bench,
I sit.
Watching the frames,
fill and flicker.
It is screen play,
you see.
You are the star.
These other entities,
they are just extras,
in your world and mine.
So, I watch the scene,
as laughter echo’s and
foot steps scamper.
Audiences infected,
by your momentous energy.
Although they do not know,
you, nor do I?
Or is it that I do not understand,
this metaphor of distance.
I wonder about the end,
of this tall tale.
Tragic?
Dramatic?
Happy?
I wonder…
How you must think…
of me?

Resenting the light,
from the Olympian,
that warms my wool.

It cowards behind holly,
that grows in the pine grove.
Retreats to shaded cold,
below timber arms.

It is disgusted to the sight,
of white, yellow and orange.
Prefers the blue of night.

As it fades, flows and steeps.
It becomes clear,
pillaged of its white veneer.

Though, it carries forward,
like a grudge that won’t melt away.
Or is it more like love,
ever changing.

Or even as stubborn,
as a cold bedded love.
That brings life to you,
at least once a year.

But, in the end
it recedes.
Into the wood,
from under the holly.

Then waits,
until you’ve almost forgotten.

Sun ached to rise,
above the jagged horizon.
It lit the shadow,
of stone work,
of your craftsmanship.
It stood high,
strong and everlasting.
A stone giant,
held together with assumption.
Assumption of him,
the prince that you seek.
Recently one has followed,
to the top where you lie.
He said the verse,
a promise, an assumption.
He would mend the holes,
patch the sides.
As time rhythmically passes,
the tower would stand,
strong and eager.
Until your assumption,
is not yet reality.
The one that followed,
sometime ago,
has left with the moon.
As your eye tears,
the tower leans,
crumbles.
The salty liquid,
corrodes your assumption,
that is often set in stone.
I watch from afar,
knowing the outcome.
I tread among the emotion,
overflowing and scattered around.
As your kin, your brother,
I help to pick up the pieces.

Eyes glazed,
Darkness painted about the room.

Waking, to a humble friend,
at the foot.

You in the next,
I can hear through the plaster.

I keep silent,
not to the disturb the moment.

I listen, to your scrambling,
to perfect the art.

You have left,
just moment ago.

Waking elegantly even,
when soaked in morning.

I smell the concave,
the shape of you.

I listen to you,
as you get ready.

Sounds tell of each step,
as you struggle to keep silent.

How I love, need, want
these taps

It reminds me of little things,
that I keep note.

These are things,
that I savor.

The perfect little things,
of you.