Have you ever seen a moonlight rain,
a blue-lit mist of lost arcane?
Have you ever seen a daylight star,
shooting swiftly from near to far?

Have you ever seen a grizzly's tears,
fish obscured by new built weirs?
Have you ever seen the eagle laugh,
as across the sky, clouds paint his path?

Have you ever seen the ocean stale,
a roaring beast behind a veil?
Have you ever seen a forest bland,
of broken limbs and blackened sand?

Have you ever seen the midnight light?
sun amidst dark, and the sky ignites.

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 blue eyed man’s piercing gaze peels back the layered shell
To my heart, and though I cannot hear what it tells me
Magnificent waves of purity radiate through my subconscious

His divinity is certain, but its properties are so ever elusive
deep blue iris’s crippling,
Smiling ear to ear with quivering lips
prison bars shaking from the rampant tears of joy
that tremble within the prison of his mind
experiencing an ever present beauty

Everything that exists is beautiful
As seen through those eyes

And just as the far off galaxies disappear
When the telescope zooms out
Beauty dies in those blue eyes,
No freedom is found in death.

I cry
I cry

And just as words on crumbled paper seem
poems never meant to be read
A beauty dies in those blue eyes,
destined to remain unseen.

Death be nimble, Death be quick.
Walls of decaying urban brick
rotten scars of surfaced pain
scratched away by city cranes.

Landfills and houses fill the rest
behold the putrid angels nest,
mayors of blind, children of deaf
tongues removed from gifted chef.

Brothers and sisters fade alike
rusted daggers flawless strike
Hearts of lions dull alone
Hard men's withered fingers groan.

Light forsaken in cities dead
plagues of sorrow swiftly spread
today is dying, morrow's sick,
Death be nimble, Death be quick.

It is the era of aerosol and quick drying paints.
Nocturnal beings of angst and rage,
tags with demons mocking saints.

Turn on the news, what do you see?
Testament to the world's misery.
Cheap lit tunnels of black and beige,
for the righteous 'tis the perfect stage.

From boor to bold, in quick fashion,
magnificent walls of exploding passion.
Social themes? Put a dash in.
Something about food stamps or field rations.

The can is violent, the man is not.
Only the walls it fought.
Bombing the streets
while promoting world peace.
Feel the wrath of mighty pen,
I dare you- paint me white again.

The grit in this world seems to be gone,
all of us have just become pawns
in this static, yet enigmatic,
state of mowed lawns, and designer shoes.
Yesterday, I asked for a hammer,
to fix things up around here,
and was asked if I wanted red or blue?
Because everything nowadays is a choice.
I said to the man in a soft voice, "I'm colorblind."
If only to remind him that it didn't matter what color the hammer was.
Because you see, regardless of whether the hammer is red or blue,
I'm still going to nail and glue
this world together again.
And make a world where cranes have feathers
and not tall steel bars,
and life is just a really surreal cigar.
Tasty and lustful.
Mysterious, but certainly not mistrustful.
A world where only adjectives can make a complete sentence,
and not create any repentance.
Are you catching my drift?
Grasping the concept?
If your mind is still adrift,
then leave it there.
Let it float around until it reaches something profound.
Then come back.
Join the rest of us for a mid-afternoon snack,
with lemonade and empathy.
Ginger snaps and morality.
And a rainbow.
Even if I am colorblind.

These dreams in my head
of a place with an end.

A road
stretching and winding
through the hills of time.
A place with an end.

The end of the road
a place where we can all happily abode
in a place we love and know.

A goal,
a place with an end.

I have been wandering these hills
and the nearby flat lands.
There is no grand road
to direct what I know
and show me the way to go.

I still wander
as the grass grows
and the river flows
looking for that road.

Eventually
after centuries
of strolling through the trees,
I came to a place I had seen
in a dream.
But instead of a road-
a stream-
and a boat
in which I now float
to a place
and the end.

moments
of Medusa's eyes

visions hardening
then crumbling
whilst still distracted
by the unwaivering allure
of come-hither eyes

oblivious to the dire
realm of quickly evaporating reality
left with thoughts, though
no choice but to revel
in the vampiric kiss
of a beautiful apocalypse

finding only empty castles
void of jest and princess alike
not lonely, but alone
crowned king
of thoughts already spoken
and days already dead.

Looking through a complex eye
poisoned by countless vials of nitroglycerin
the world sings a familiar tune of
an ineradicable human urge for lethal conflict.

A world view
of culturally intolerant tyrants and a place
where Robin Hood does not exist, instead
his former self sits wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity.
Society now aids the pauper,
who is but a superficial vagabond sitting intrigued by
hopeless people from distant lands.

As the innocent of Beirut lie murdered
the reaper tastes regret,
while bank accounts paint self portraits
instilled by ephemeral yet righteous morality.
Dangerously speeding through the lanes of life
to make it home just before it rains;
the world all encompassing
is never the concern.

Halos hover above diet pills dressed in simple linens
for everything is an easy fix;
lies, hatred, ignorance, and blatant evil,
all can be fixed by ignoring the even lies (the even lines that lie above).

sipping
iocane powder
in anticipation of my vengeance

dreams of
dim witted gentlemen
choking
on vials of their own arrogance
allow joy
through the sacrifice for ironic justice.

I may not own the streets
or ride them in leather seats,
but if you can hear the beat
then that I speak isn’t weak.
And when I use my unique technique
you will feel weak and antique.
I imagine, create, and contrast,
while you remain in the shame of the past.
And no fame or acclaim will frame
your lame claims of a big game.
So listen up;
let my words glisten
and strut
and enlighten your mind
to the blind kind of refined chap
whose strife in life is crap
in a shiny wrap.
And when you understand
that this land
is not about high-end brands
or powerful hands,
I will demand your attention
to begin an ascension
into another dimension
where we will find a divine comprehension
of our world.

In this new state,
where happiness is part of fate,
we will no longer ache
from the weight of our hate.
We will not longer become irate
when the worth of a great estate abates
and no longer fail to appreciate
dates with soul mates
and time with your friends,
while the trends will amend virtue
and not pretend and defend
vices that can only hurt you.
So please open your eyes
and let your mind fly into the skies
so that my goodbye
might manage to give flight
to what is right
and make all our dry lives
a bit more bright.
Because all I really want
is to see every gent, elder and debutante
from the Nile to Vermont
to flaunt a smile that does not beguile,
but genuinely shows how versatile
and worthwhile life can be
when we defile the hostile
and see that a college degree
does not advocate the ease of greed
and even those without
their abc’s and phd’s
still need to be part of the key
to unlock a world above thee.

We must choose to rise together,
for one missing feather will sever the wings of mankind
and leave us blind;
Always and forever.

Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale

Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly

Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown

Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.

A lucky conscious
so much so
that
words without meaning
form under the clicking of my fingernails.
Plugging in, and swapping out
with algorithmic precision.

My hands know something that I do not.
I envy them.
Envy,
because they are the maker
behind the mask.
The unsung and unseen hero
of my conquests.

My conquests,
but my hands
separate from my mind.
This is not self-envy (if that's even logical).

Just like passing that test
you didn't know the answers to
I feel I cheat the world.
Claiming rights to words
not mine,

Only a part of me.

Through unheard hymns, stained glass reflections,
and blurred visions of scattered rosary beads under a dusty crucifix
I stumble desperately towards the confessional booth
so as to skip purgatory
and walk across dried [willow]* leaves,
the patron saint of flipping the bird
refusing to recognize the difference
between water and it's apparently holy counterpart.

Unscathed by altars of broken dreams
I will slip into the mysterious afterlife
without fear of judgement,
rather drunk
with a child's curiosity.


*unfavorable climates for palms led to the substitution of boughs of box, yew, willow or other native trees.

The vacant hallway echoes futile cries
of withering smiles
and half-murmured lies.
Mind scattered with glimpses, images flash
relentlessly
'till memories collapse.

Vintage wallpaper stains rooms with regret
as the cold wooden floors
never forget
temptation haunted by weights of deceit.
The rocking-chair sounds
the horn of retreat.

Remnants of love forever lay broken
shards of once was
and words left unspoken.
Joyless, he left with just a whispered sigh,
of withering smiles
and too-late goodbyes.

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.

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.

As the sun crawls over me
the first daydream ensues.
The bore of time replaced
by the temptress of my wandering mind.

When the sun falls flat
across imagination's temple
my pen will ensure it's infamy
by unleashing the fury
of our language.

By the time
the god of sun
must spread the day afar,
I will press gunmetal to my head
and pull the trigger
on another tomorrow.

May the likes of another world put a smile on my face.

Play a song to my fevered heart
do not stop, do not restart.

Sing the tears right off my face
sing forever, just in case.

Rock the shoes off my aching feet
"down on the corner, out in the street"

Beat that bass till youth returns
and the yearning soul within me churns.

Solo licks of sacred breath
heard not once since Hendrix's death.

Compose a score of rising tension
race my heart with hot dissension

Songs of love or songs of trance...

...all I want to do is dance.

Captive to an enigma of mirrors
where infinity is seen to grow nearer
but delicate fingers stop at cold glass.
Escaping Plato's Cave but reaching impasse,
perception eludes reality's grasp.
As wise men sit patient and cowards gasp
intelligence hammers at mimicking bars
unavailing, retreating with only scars.

Self projections linger 'cross barren plains
mind forgotten freedom, shackled in chains,
hungry men compose spoken free verse
bellowed harmoniously unrehearsed;
but only one voice reality sings
I am the first of the mirror box kings.

There is a deeper destiny
that lay in the wake of demons,
and desire those who undertake
to not remain unscathed
for pain is the knowledge of the sage.

Once emerged from the abyssal void
strength and truth be found
ceasing to wade in unanswered questions.
Peace for the tethered soul.
The tearful aftermath.

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.

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.

A dim lit night amongst the rainbow bridge
Love not softened by the lingering fog
Sharing memories atop this steady ridge
The last farewell, sweet goodbye, and prologue
Of a fleeting story. Before sunrise
All regret will be vanquished beyond doubt
No more time to dwell on yesterday's lies
Share all hopes and dreams before the lust drought
Below the skyscrapers, tender a kiss
City lights linger along with wet haze
A moment of lifetimes and potent bliss
Hearts beating faster, eyes begin to glaze
Unfettered life together through and through
I'm just a prisoner when without you.

Nocturnal gypsy
gnawing at the neglected
passengers from alley voids

An insomniac
bored with sleepless nights alone
wandering the fractured night.

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.

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.

Obelisk of black, shades in all directions;
death's become a knack, creatures void affection.
Blood is all about, with battle raging on;
soldiers absent doubt, will never be withdrawn.

Glory still fleeting, tales were never told;
pointlessly repeating the wars of new and old.

A figure tall and grey
waltzes through the night.
The way is cold and dreary,
this one meets no light.
The trees stand firm around him
to fix his line of sight.
The road must lead to somewhere
and the man will find it right.

The path is long and gloomy
but never one to fear.
Many have walked upon it
yet seldom shed a tear.
The darkness hides no demons
and the air is thin and clear.
The man will never tire,
nor turn to check his rear.

The man knows where he comes from,
but not to where he goes;
and many trot behind him,
in neat and tidy rows.
Some of them companions,
others are his foes,
yet they keep on marching,
into that which no one knows.

None will stop to look around
or even begin to think
why they walk on soggy ground
nor why their journey's in my ink.

Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals

angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.

I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
pharmaceuticals,
and high profile lawyers  
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.

And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****?"

Take the things we all say and hear,
and accept them as the truth...

If A+B=C and C=D makes A+B=D
Then,
If history repeats itself
and it's written by the victor,
then originality isn't winning.

If cowards die many times before their death
and dead men tell no tales,
then we should trust cowards.

If I practice what I preach,
and tell others to do as I say and not as I do,
then I'm lying.

If opportunity never knocks twice,
and at first I don't succeed,
then he should try the doorbell.

But wait,

If revenge is sweet,
and a dish served best cold
then why are we making guns instead of ice cream?

If it takes one to know one,
and fools rush where angels fear to tread,
then do angels fear because they were once fools?
or is it foolish to overcome fear?

If love can conquer all,
and all is fair in love and war,
then love truly must be blind.
Why else hasn't love found a way to make everything fair?

...If I take the things we all say and hear,
and accept them as the truth,
then will all the things we say and hear, start becoming true?

Or

If

I take a closer look,
and see,
that some things are true and others not,
that saying one thing can mean another,
that talk can be cheap but it can't be bought
that we all want to go to heaven, yet still don't want to die
and learn
to think for ourselves
because even quotes have intentions,
the best of which pave the road to hell,

Then

Love can make life seem surprisingly fair.

The fools of the past can be the angels of the future.

We might spend more money on ice cream than on guns.

Opportunity might knock again, so that I can admit my mistakes and practice what I've learned, so that all the cowards and the lies can be conquered by originality...

...and history can stop repeating itself.

Accept the truth, so that it becomes what we hear and say.

Ambiguous propaganda seeps paranoia
into crevasses of budding knowledge,
spawning hordes of diffident souls
that cower behind the Aegis
of altruistic motives.

Self preservation clings
to pragmatic love
and delayed satisfaction,
while enthusiasts of law
leech gold from delicate
words left unsaid.

The expense of insuring hope
dooms creative anomalies
to tedious and ceaseless
indentured servitude.

And the day split-lip parasites
swarm like Death to claim souls,
the only cure
will waste away final days in
an attempt to prolong them.

A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.

A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.