The most ludicrous of all behaviors
is that which the man
wakes up every day
at the same hour.

And falls into slumber ever night
at the same hour.

And dies playing a role
he could never abandon.

I woke in a confused state
beyond fixing or controlling.
The lazer beams were still fresh off the clock
But the monkeys had full possession.

Clearly, logistics were backwards
And complete world ******* would have to wait
Till tomorrow
or the next day.

I put on my trousers and got right to work
On trying to figure out a way
For every child to eat
Golden sugar puffs in complete unison
for only then could i qualify
for a nobel peace prize.

I said **** the midgets and spiraled into a complete
mental breakdown
for the walls began to scream ****** ******
and the china men were officially on time
and wearing their fanciest suites.

Clearly, I was outnumbered.

So I devised a new plan, on the go
in order to navigate thru the city traffic.
Push came to shove, and eventually
I found myself in a maze filled with clones
of a specific woman named Marlae.

Her face was ugly and full of zits
but none the less
I made love to her left hand
until the sun came up
giving me permission to finally
enter the inside
of her body.

Spinning thru the details
I decided to take a shower
because the conference was in
76 hours and I only had 15 minutes
to get to the conference.

65 days later, I found the keys
to my under appreciated heart,
giving me the mental strength to sleep again

Until next time.

for I do not know if I should
write in notebooks or on this laptop
that hurts my eyes.

When I hold a pen, and press it to a piece of paper
inside a notebook, I feel alive.
It feels organic.
And the universe notices the concentration
of pure energy.
Nature.

However,
my consciousness flows at tops speeds
all the time.
(literally)
And writing on my laptop
aids the flow.

At what price?
my soul, possibly.
for, its not organic, the process.

It is false.

I look around my residence and see a TV
a Laptop
a Smartphone
and I weep.

Nature is dead.
I am confused.

Poems scattered in various notebooks.
Meltdowns ending with it all
crumpled and in the garbage.
followed by regret
for I just murdered my own children
and threw them in a container
with spoiled cat food,
***** napkins,
empty beer bottles,
and scraps from breakfast (Salsito turkey sandwich)

Nothing makes sense
and nothing I write matters
to anyone

Indeed, I know,
I am simply a poet,
and I crave suffering.

This new millennium genocide
is perfect for a guy like me
who wants to fade away
slowly
and *in pain.

Sad girl,

love your soul.

Frown *not
for those *fools.

The alarm woke me up
Constant beeping by my head
It just wont shut up
But I think I'll stay in bed

There's a snooze button for a reason
and that reason today is me
I'll try to be gentle nextime Mr Snooze
And not hit you so forcefully.

My bed is my kingdom the scorching sun seiges
My curtains' my fortification's already breached
I admit my defeat and go see whats in the fridge

People say,
I should be over it.
"It was, like, a year ago. Stop being so afraid."
Don't you people see?
A year ago is all too close to me.
(and, for the record-- it's 11 months and 6 days)
How do you just 'get over' the loss of your peace of mind?
I sure as hell haven't figured it out.
I still see him
in my nightmares,
in the flashbacks.
Some people think I actually am over it.
But I know that I am not.
I flinch when others touch me without warning,
I cannot open the front door,
I'm unable to walk down the street.
I'm so hyper aware of what happened to me.
I swear, he is buried in my sheets.

So don't tell me to get over it.
Unless you can somehow tell me how.
  

                         (d.d.b)

When the words
do not come.
And you stare empty,
onto the pages that
tell tales far more colorful
than any songbird singing
its perfect tune.

Then speak out loud.
Words flow with such
fluidity and solidarity.
Pouring out of me with such
beauty that my fingers with
pen clenched could never muster.

Beautiful lyrics and words
and rhythms escape the confines
of this screen or the paper prisons
poets use to capture them.
The best works the truly inspiring
and jaw dropping, tear jerking
sentences and phrases will never
be seen to the world, when spoken
out loud.