Lights trailing-
time exposed before the infinitesimal eye.

As the taxi stops before the almighty red,
the city echoes with the hype
of high life.

As thousands of macrocosms
collide in resounding style,
her violet eyes breath euphoria
into adrenaline filled veins.

In such a colossal juncture
of youth and maturity,
evanescence and immortality,
virtue and vice,
this broken and disfigured world
assumes transparency.

The moment reigns supreme
in this purple city.

Only embers at my feet
make unborn hours seem so sweet.

A heavy wood is where I stand
upon the fire of sun-scorched sand.
These blistered toes so yearn to move
but each step does not behoove.
Every step from burning coals
leaves my heart with yet more holes.
Nothing gained nor hardly lost-
the embers call for life as cost,
where elsewhere shatters soul with frost.

But each days pain- I do not remember,
passing through each charred December,
I dare not venture from the ember.

Glimpses of the light
as the shadows echo into a land of perpetual darkness.

Where blackness is a habitat,
imagination fabricates strobing illusions;
portraying future as the inevitable apprehension
of

impossible

answers.

From within, this truth is known,
and though this light is but a delusion-
it remains a solitary hope.

Lies- the remnants of lives
in this dire day.

Deserving of life...
when it is nothing,
a gift cordially received.

Up in the land of Temalahoo's
the people forgot the number two!
The start of races was often cut short
with a Three... One... oh wait! Abort!

Nobody could seem to come up with a fix
except for the little jolly kid Nix.
See little Nix was really quite young
about eleven months past the age of one.
Never forgetting his next step of the way
little boy Nix knew the number astray.

But because of his age, no one would listen
and little boy Nix grew frustrated with them.
He hooped and he hollered that lonely lost number,
but simply could not awake his fellow mind's slumber.
And it wasn't until he had long since grew,
that little boy Nix got through to the Temalahoo,
but by then little Nix was no longer so small
and he too had forgotten along with them all.

Moses descends from the rugged heights of Sinai bearing the tablet
"You shall not ******"
Nietzche organizes the cobwebs of his mind to declare morality is his own
"God is dead"
Even Monty Python creates mockery and mishap from "The Meaning of Life."

A Macedonian, a ****, a Patriot
with Intelligence, Voice, and Sword
step over the caution tape and march nations
into the deepest valleys                  atop the heights of Everest.
The likes of Augustine put their chips on the table for patience
but Patton has a pair of aces                  and the academics fold before the river.

The denotations of Good and Evil are forever
infinite and versatile to the dismay of the Philosopher,
                while God himself
                  is denied power
                  to undo the past.
                  Humanity lives
                on the nourishment
                    of knowledge.

What does it take for a poem to be great?
A riddle, A rhyme, without any mistakes?
Does it need words, those that are fancy?
Or simply bold words, not of a nancy.
Should it have humor or wisdom?
Written on rest or excessive ***?
For Hemmingway said “make sure to write drunk,”
Or to make it scary, get locked in a trunk.
I heard about some guy, who wrote on his head,
While rappers turn poems into righteous street cred.
It’s rumored that some poems were writ on a trip,
But not the kind with a map and travel tips.
Other great poets flirted with death
or were simply in love with their friend named beth;
some great poems came from hate and abuse
or about women whose pants were too loose.
Some poems inspired by breaking the law
or by an unforgettable ménage trios.
So many things could derive a great write,
But these extreme measures just don’t seem right.
Maybe all that is needed is a little emotion
So that one can avoid all that commotion,
and maybe what’s great is all a perspective,
And that it’s better to read without an objective.

The common cough potato
will sit, laugh, and enjoy,
these bizarre recreations
of life in Illinois.

Springfield sprung inspiration
for two who followed suit.
The Colorado duo
made a worthy substitute.

But from yellow men to paper dolls
most just sit and chuckle.
Yet many fail to notice
that its our world that they muckle.

In addition to your laughter
the writers hope for thought.
They are not just entertainers,
but artists quite distraught.

So while we laugh at Jew jokes
and George Burns makes more dough,
examine what's important
and let the artist's message grow.