everything I see
is not always harmony
is off key
at times
I guess he may judge me
an idiot or be a true savior

and see me as a human creation with weaknesses
partly his fault and he gave to me dark to
highlight my strengths.

Like things growing closely in clusters
are the memories of sweet trying to understand truth
when wrong arms reached out and offered devilish friendship.
As a child you sat reading softness and hope and butterflies
untitled poems rhymed in your head,
Nightmares woke you up, so cruel as to drive you here.
All windows closed and flies and stink festering within
and burning fires untended threatened to burn you down.
As you sit, still reading alone,
poems unwritten.

by: W. A. Marshall

There’s a thornbush blocking my path
its branches shudder
from dust devils
like the tormented
coat of a colt -  
the spectral bush must burn,
for me to see
through the canonical flees
that clutter the infinite path.

My splendor is disguised however,
it hides inside my chest
I point to my breast
a parched mark of the sun,
cauterized by nations,
an open country itemization
goes further now
with the bush burned and gone  
down into a damp stairwell
the lane leads me -
where I can hear
distant hammering of fists
on rusty cellar doors
beyond view from mounted kings.

Their whispers never heard
a fat consequence
that I shave away and away
day after day
in order to admit to myself
my impatience inside a palisade
causes me to stagger.

To escape my flight
or hide when the dark night
creeps on fog and seed
howling winds blow
down the staircase
and into the cellar
where the moon collapses softly
along my reoccurring path.

Their behavior is horrific
but they look like you or me
they don’t have horns
or sharp fangs
they have no fur or claws
their tame faces and clean cut part
a municipal duster in their hair
scented ivy suits and black pumps
behind fortified bars and tolls
force their rage and terrorize “chumps”  
nonetheless oblivious to an afterlife
this Will to Power breathes in shady rooms
just above ****** squeals –
genocide and late night beat downs
a wolf’s sight is sharper at night,
wicked lives next door  
near those you meet
just outside Darwin’s Place
on a cozy street  
tangled like Dingoes and Panda bears
that can’t stop themselves from
eating their young,
there are animals among us.

The white ceiling has been in my sight
for so long that my open eyes
have turned black.
My skull has lain motionless on the carpeted floor
since the dawn rose bloomed in my window.
The walls have no ideas hanging on hooks,
similar to the walls of my mind.
There are times when my eyes are open
but they cannot tell if they are awake or living
in a monotone daydream.
Drums are present to the ear,
but there is no beating rhythm to be felt.
As the light now slowly drifts off to sleep
the dull ache creeps into my unused brain,
and the black in my eyes becomes real.
So bored that every sense of reality has gone numb.

Photographs of my family hang on the wall.
Some I know.
Some would recognize me.
Others I know only from the stories
that immortalize them.

There is a family portrait in the hall
it tells tales that great legends envy.
For the stories left by these faces
will never be forgotten,
retold at bedtime for generations
to come.

The portrait speaks of a time
before cancer and old age.
Back when Linda and Debbie ran the house
and Jorge still went by Georgie.
Kathy was falling in love with dirt bikes,
Joey had to take Jimmy everywhere
and Nena made everyone save food
for when Silvia got home from school.
All the while Papo sipped his scotch
and watched his legacy leave their footprint
in the sand.

Truth is I’ve always known
he’d live forever.
Long before he began his walk home
Papo was already immortalized
in our memories and spirits.

Now that you rest
I find comfort knowing that I
carry your story with me,
and have the honor of calling you
Grandfather.
For us, you will always be
the legendary
Vincent Joseph Schement.

There's this thing you do when I'm sad.

It can turn a winter storm into a summer rain.

If you are uncomfortable when you look in the mirror,
keep in mind:
We spent thousands of years
trying to convince the earth
she was flat.

We wrote her maps as evidence of the things we saw;
and she believed them.
She cried tsunamis, and had earthquake breakdowns.

Keep in mind: the Sun never gave up hope.
The earth will keep spinning and breathing
the star-dusty space void of encouragement.

Next time you look in the mirror
and second-guess your potential divinity,
remember you will keep shining and living.

Because the Sun is out there
believing in you,
compensating for lack of the human capacity
to treat each other empathically.

You don’t need proof or approval
to be exactly what you are;
Eventually everyone will see
your infinite beauty.