There's my father
sitting on the couch
slowly dying
slowly falling
into
modern traps

End table is
covered with snack bar
wrappers
Can of cheap beer
but at least he used a coster

There's my father
watching the TV
Feeling life never
gave him his chance
his break

Left behind in the wake
of that which he did
not create

Pictures of the past placed
on the wall behind him
A monument of a life
that's not what it seems

There's my father
Absorbed in reruns and
political commentary

This couch is his coffin
This house, his cemetery

There's my father
that role model of mine
lost within his failures
static in time

Inside the darkest garden
in this castle of
roots and knots
                  with ancient shadows
                      that come out to dance
                         in consistent moonlit thoughts
where my body starts
                     to swirl and sway
                     my spirit stirring free
inside the bones of
                underground caverns
where I have found
the once –buried remnants
           of me
Here.      
Antiquated magic
            is rediscovered              
next to dark-aged
weapons of layered rust
in the ghosts of the tears
of the collapsing fears
           that quaked the bridges of trust
where the unlikely
traces of self-love
never did really die
and despair in its
quiet torrents
prepares to release and fly
        
Here.          
I embrace the night
               in its fullness,
drink it up
          like temple wine
accepting all the dark within me
letting its light fill me
in vibrations,
              divine
In most scintillating strength,
my inner swords enhanced
in sharpness,
                in potent length
before my armies
                       advance

Here,              
in wild mossy corners
the blackest of berries grow
round and perfect, on
the edge
                     of bursting
revealed only to those who know
that clandestine language
of echoes of loneliness
that wander breathlessly
                           and roam
clutching their essence
                           to hold it safe
over the soil and loam
Now minerals sparkle in the
                       rich, dark earth
atoms of crystal
and stone

Here.
In this darkest
oasis of seeming nothingness
glows a
      single tree
bearing the juiciest
        of fruits
    now dripping
  just for me
and as my hunger
pours up
from the roots
propelling me in sacred trance
I find myself
gazing up in wonder
letting down
          my warrior stance

I slowly take off my armor
freeing up the fullness
of *******, of thighs, of hips
to allow that emotional
         fruit liquid
to nourish me from
core to fingertips
and to catch that ripeness
     about to spill
goddess voices calling
"Yes, woman. Now"
I, with reverence
     with honor
take on that sacred vow
tip back my head
let the quartz-snapped
air into my lungs
let that liquid
slake my ache
and,
in moaning silence
grace my
     tongue

The clouds curl over mountains cold and blue
and rains hiss whispers back to thunder's speak;
so all is mist and green and gray of hue
and in this land a child would wonder seek.
Cowichan coat warms her in its magic
with knitted forms of mystic dancing deer.
That she's alone might seem all too tragic,
but in her mind all that she dreams is here.
She holds an abalone , pearlescent grey
And wonders at the colours caught inside.
She lifts it inside out up to the day
and wishes every heartfelt dream applied.
The abalone then vanished all aglow
and in its place appeared the bright rainbow.

What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?

This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.

It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.

It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.

This poem is *****,
a SNAFU waiting to happen.

It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.

This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.

This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.

This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.

It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.

It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.

This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.

It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.

Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.

This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.

This world is not meant for dreamers, poets or lovers
only to be torn apart
slowly dissected by death's scythe
worn down by the language of life
words, weapons and worries
all designed to destroy us
losing yourself in a flurry
a chaos of accidental karma
taken by the hand and led astray
I never wanted to harm her
I just wanted it my own way
a perfected illusion
trying to mould life to suit our ideals
but it's those same ideas that ****
torturing us during the night
and rotting our insides by the day
the maggots of the mind
make bait for the fishes
the world is full of sharks
this world is malicious
as I wade through the dark
you devour me whole
spit out my bones
and consume my soul
then leave me alone
for there's no more you can take
there's nothing of value left
when I rise I will be awake
or else my name is death.