I see you framed within the pane
of a stained glass window,
the warmth of dawn
crashing through its technicolor glaze
with the fervor of an untamed wave
of burning rays that peer into my soul
with kaleidoscope eyes

We were misfits
the neglected *******
of a backwards world
that rejected us
not because we were sick
demented or dangerous
but because we didn't prescribe
to a preconceived notion
of what a functioning citizen was.

Not rotten enough to spoil
behind the bars of a prison
just competent enough
to work menial jobs
and drown our sorrows
at the corner pub.

We swallowed this hard truth
the same way we drank our shots
with no chaser
and at times it burnt
maybe even made us tear up
but we never let it beat us
(too strong for that)

We were beautiful
resilient beasts
that could carry the weight
of the world upon our shoulders
and it was heavy
but we would tell ourselves
"doesn't every world need an atlas?"
so we went on holding up the sky
when no one asked it of us.

We had not spoke or wrote
for many long days
turning to even longer weeks
which grew into the longest months
until I could no longer weep
and again I found peace
in my once restless sleep.

But you came a calling
and a texting me
just when my hands
finally started feeling clean
spinning them words like
"I miss you"
"I just wanted to see"
wicked turn a phrases
pierce ears like crooked hooks
they could turn a man's thoughts
like the pages of an ancient book.

Your fingers gliding gently
over now so hazy memories
we meet again amidst a fog
but your eyes, your eyes
they do not remember me
they see a man foul in form
ugly, twisted flesh, weak and pathetic
ripping his own heart from his chest

This is not me you see (no not at all)
but a protrusion of your own ill-regard
you slithered on your belly like a serpent
begging to be tread upon
so I moved like certain kinds of dances
around tribal fires
determined not to slip but inevitably I did
how dare you hiss "Liar" at me.

I'm just a man
working on being a better one
I don't expect you to understand
cause I never said I could fly
so why the **** did you think
I was superman.

Rarely had my vision been focused in the past
and maybe for this reason the passage of time
felt as if it was little more than a forgotten dream.
I often found my eyes on an icy reflection
of a naked man standing before a fogged mirror,
fresh with the haze of a hot shower.
I would gaze upon him and he back into me,
pondering to myself "who are you stranger?"
I could only assume he thought the same of me.
I would wonder when he walked away
from that tooth paste stained portrait
if he ventured into the world with that familiar vigor,
that naive sensibility to battle
the demons,
the contradictors
and the liars.
If he too would laugh at these same fallacies in himself
with a certain kind of madness that could only touch
the ears of the few free men among us.
Those tragic spirits who dared to dance,
to transcend ancient genetics and modern culture
in hopes of touching a god they had long forsaken.
We may have given it a different name
but we were no better then the theologians before us,
we clung to our most primal desire.
It weighed upon us with such force
that hunger,
thirst
or even lust
felt like a pestering annoyance in the shadow of its glory.
Our appetite for connection far surpassed our need
to facilitate our biological deficiencies
and in those moments of understanding we reveled in the irony
of being minds trapped in fleshy bodies.
A smile crept across my face and one grew upon him.
I knew this man who stand before me,
unafraid,
bare in body
with a dastardly grin.
He was my oldest friend,
the ghost who spoke to me
in my most vulnerable moments
when no others did.
He cried for me when I could not,
would not cry for myself.
He had always been there
for me and for the first time
when I turned away from his reflection
I felt him follow too.

Skin deep in her cold green sea,
a dark and gnarled sky above.
On the curved horizon a sign reads;
She believes in angels but she can't believe in love.

Insane in her reverie, wings sewn cross-stitch
down the spine of her back,
rattling panes that the wind blows
are a reminder of all that she lack.

Saw teeth across metal is music to her ear,
the shriek of the tea kettle full of insolent childhood fear.
Rude eyes shout; forget the Devil, he has no bite.
She knows better though and she's not going down without a fight.

Her attempts to speak of the things she has heard
are the sound of the cat who has sprung on the bird.
To spread her wings is to spread  her legs
and to embrace the power that the Darkness has made.

Oh, the suffering of heartache after heart's ache
while pulling the wings off of flies.
She can make you laugh, she's pretty smart eh,
but it isn't the same as being wise.

Every bit of her life, it occurs to her,
yes it does, it just occurs.
Now is that being selfish or just being blind,
if fooling people well was just her way to unwind.

Left to my own, he bit his bone and smirked,
one of the skeletons not in the closet.
Bony he was being dragged
kicking and screaming
and biting his bone.

He told me one morning
after a second cup
of a so hot and black
it took an hour to drink.

Two right hands are the answer,
your left hand will never know.
Two right hands are the answer.

I don't care if you hate me,
usually good does hate evil.
You know when I'm in that closet
I'll step out to visit just like an old ghost
and you may be powerless
and I may have my way.

Then I stopped pushing
and started biting my bone,
I was standing on thin air.
That's what they want,
they want you to fight.

I told you
not to touch me,
why'd you go
and do that.

I told you
not to touch me,
look what you've done.

I was feeling
that I needed someone
to take away the pain,
you came along
with your lookin' goods
your, you're funnys
and your boy you're smarts.

We stood there face to face,
I wanted you to go and I
told you not to touch me.

I told you not to touch me,
now look what you've done,
I can't shake this feeling,
like I just caught fire,
come on now put me out.

I told you not to touch me,
I know I told you that.
When you touch me
like you touch me
there is no turning back.




© 2013

On his head
  was tattooed
           a number,

While through
        his mind flew
                destruction..

Over his shoulder blew Kong,
    and upon Kong's war plate of torture,
    and a vice gripped and girdled waist,
with spikes tipped to rip any mans flesh.

A chain mail vest webbed with deceit,
   and acute, dispirited despair
     lay sheathed beside his broad hips.

You see him and terror grips,
               when through his eye
                  your eyes are reflected.

                    What is your number.

Guess all
      you want,
           it can't be read
                back to front
                   in the mirror.

It can't be
scrubbed clean
with the finest of lye.

Your number is your number
           and when it's up, it's up.


© 2005

All Rights Reserved