My mind seems blank,
worn down
by the continuous use
of metaphor.

I'm unable to connect
any words
stanzas or verses
to describe
anything,
any state-of-being,
I feel nothing,
am totally
empty.

Some may call it
writer's block,
I call it death,
living in Hell.

I have walked with devils,
held their hands
in the darkest corners
of the material world, but
they've shown me nothing of value,
only drained me of my sanity,
my assets & my faith.

And when
I prayed to Jesus
for assistance,
I found out
he was big business too.
For a small donation,
they said they'd say a prayer
for my salvation.

Hell, what kind of Jesus
takes money
from destitute people
in trouble
& asking for help?
Tell me, Jesus!

People say I'm multifaceted,
but they really don't know me.
I feel splintered,
cut from years
of allowing people
to abuse me,
lovers too.

Yet, I still feel
handsome on the outside.
I'm working on the inside,
looking for an
inkling of perfection
& wondering if it
really does exist.

Or, if it's only found
in the words of fractured poets.

Sat next to an old timer down at the shop last week,
he looked older than Methuselah,
piercing blue eyes surrounded by red,
seemed nearly dead,
like he’d been crying for a century.
He told me he was from Tennessee,
another good old Southern boy like me
& we got to talking about all kinds of things.
We ran at the jaw from baseball to politics,
frolics & war, even diamond rings.

I learned he was a fellow veteran,
said he had worked on the big boy
during the last big one,
said it wasn’t much fun,
but they were sworn to secrecy
to do it.
I pondered for a second or two,
knew exactly what he was talking about,
that Manhattan Project,
the huge mushroom-bomb!

Being a kindred soldier,
I leaned over, knew I was safe,
& asked him how he felt,
how he felt about its effects,
all that killing.
It got really quiet, eerily silent,
then he looked at me
& with a lone tear
rolling down his wrinkled cheek,
replied,
“Son, they killed my brother
in the Pacific, which killed
my mother in Cypress Creek,
which killed all my childhood dreams.”

Strange,
            how
                    killing
                              trickles
                                          downhill.

Let yourself go now
Relax, you're flowing waters
Flying like eagles

She's not silver-tongued,
she's golden-tongued.
She knows just what to say,
to soothe me,
to excitement me.
She takes me to her
own little world
with the things she tells me.
I could survive on her word,
inhale them to feel alive
& I do feel alive.
If she only knew the
effect her mouth had me,
she'd be a true believer in love,
'cause I'd show her
in my own special way.

Vibrant and spunky
Traditional beverage
Calms the anxious soul

There's always
that hot-friction,
it's been there
since time eternal,
that gravity,
that electrical
feel-good connection
between women & men.

For once,
it would be great to
leave the *** out
of this friendship,
is that even possible
with the history that exists
between women & men?

You tell me,
sweet friend,
please do.

The sound of bubbles
greets us at mealtime.
I lift the lid &
the family meets me
near the surface
of clear-waters.
I pour in some flakes
& watch them feast.

Hungry
golden-hued,
finned-buggers,
so radiant,
inhaling sustenance.
I love to watch
them feed & float,
their vibrant colors
remind me of the sun.
Watching them breathe
keeps me grounded.
They are indeed
my greatest companions,
swimming
in their
glass palace,
inside
my humble home.

Wicked winds whip cold
Lungs scream for more oxygen
A commune with Gods