I took for granted everything,
colors of every hue.
I didn’t know those colors
filled my world because of you.
 
So, like the fool I am
I let you go, too blind to see
that on my own I am just alone
and things turned out to be
 
where colors slowly slipped away,
the yellows, greens and blues.
And now the only color left…
is the memory of you.

~
Maternal midnight

Metallic lakeside

Freon heart, fayence mind

Eyelids of iron ore

Influence feet into the water

Into an embargo bay

Clear and innocuous, innocuously blind

Hills like white elephants on a polar plateau

Mosquitos on her mouth

Drink the blood of encryption

Change the tone of her voice

They pass behind the blue vein

Become infinite particles of her
~

Shadows dance along walls
Cold, undulating fire
Threatens to suffocate
My thoughts,—I go on walks
Outside, the golden leaves
Know how to be better.

A dormant forest sees
Balance between forces,
Ever-changing seasons,
The purposeful movement
Of critters and giants.

Is the forest moral?
Wolves know moderation
Better than most of us.
My reason breaks:
Do humans still bother
With being good
These days?

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

A drainpipe, a drain, and an old sock.

3 things that may not mean a lot

to you.

To me they do.

When the latter is connected to the former.

Nothing gets through.

My dads idea.

What a man.

Night falls, lines are drawn.

No time to take a breath.

Doors swing wide the length and breadth.

Slipping from bars and into cars;
new Geisha girls in search of pearls.

Inflated smiles, puncher marks, chiseled-chinned oligarchs.

Hypocrisy rains and soaks the sheets
Hypocrisy rains and soaks the streets.