Upon the soot-barren landscape
where serpents slither
in misery,
there are champions
of struggle
among the few trees
that defiantly grow
through the pollution.
We must only close our eyes
and open our minds
to sense them.

Simple words
that pour from the simple lips
of simple men
with simple minds
and simple values,
have always led to simple choices
and simple hatred
by simple followers,
who simply march over simple cliffs
to their simple deaths.

Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.

As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.

Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.

Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.

As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.

The moment the mind floats
on two shots of bourbon
our physical and mental ailments,
the stress of bills, the job,
and our resentment for ex-lovers
clocks out for the evening.
Don't worry.
The **** storm will return
in the morning,
but that break and a quick prayer
gives us the tools
to withstand the storm.

Gazing at the city skyline at night
through the living room window
brings peace to raging thoughts.
From a distance, all one sees are lights,
they twinkle peacefully
against a black curtain.

The rapists and the drunkards,
the hookers and the fascists,
they're all hidden in the landscape,
right below the surface.

If we allow them to ****** us,
even for one succulent moment,
they will consume every last ounce
of our reason, our purpose,
and leave us in madness.

An elaborate nightmare about fascists
running amok on nameless American streets
dominated a long sleep
after an endless week of servitude at the job.

In the nightmare, socialists in a nameless American town
battled torch-bearing white men without souls
in bland polo shirts and khakis.
A pervasive aroma of wood-fired smoke,
beer, and diesel fumes cut us off from the natural world
as the Neo-Nazis and their allies surrounded us.

In the throes of the crippling effects of dread and fear
the few of us, brothers and sisters of love and compassion,
the very young and the very old,
pushed forward to fight as warrior poets,
in remembrance of our grandparents,
for our children,
and for ourselves.

In the dream's periphery, blank faces of cowards
I've known for life looked on from sidewalks.
They refused to fight,
and instead they cracked sarcastic jokes
about both sides.

In the back of my Honda Element
a single mom of two licked the tip of my ****.
The scent of her strawberry lip gloss filled the car.
Every few seconds she'd look up at me
and smile at my ridiculous ****** expressions.
"You think I'm a ****," she said
while pressing the **** against her cheek.
"***** are courageous," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"You live the life you choose.
Other cowards live as they're told.
That makes you unique, baby. Strong."
She stared past me out the rear window
until I went mostly limp.
She then wrapped her mouth around the top half
and worked on me deep and with passion.
Sensations coursed through my body I didn't know existed,
a level of ecstasy I would never experience again.

Soft chairs watch over us.
They give us a place
to mourn, laugh, ****.
Chairs gently cradle us
without guile or judgement,
as the best of friends.
The crevices and folds
formed in the material of chairs
record and keep our secrets,
our histories.
Without soft chairs
we are nothing.

In a building recess
between a whiskey bar and a vape shop
an old man sat on a rolled blanket.
He held a simple sign on a torn sheet of cardboard
that read "HONGRY."
The old man's face contained hundreds of deep crevices,
a lifetime of memories permanently imprinted,
much like the etchings found on old vinyl records..

A young man in a while golf shirt
Stumbled out of the whiskey bar.
He stopped in front of the old *** to regain his balance.
"Get a job," he said in slurred contempt.
"Do something with your life."

The old man stared through the drunkard,
In total silence,
the old man's worn face filled the sidewalk with the music
of his wisdom, his pain, his experiences.
The drunkard stumbled along,
deaf to that solemn gift of truth.

Rage is all the rage,
except when the rage
is directed at me.
That's when rage transforms
into terror,
and terror is combated
with violence
and rage.

Outside one of Pittsburgh's many suburban malls
a middle-aged woman wearing a colorful hijab
held the hand of a little boy of about eight
as they walked past the entrance of a department store.
Three teenage boys leaned against a nearby wall.
One teenager wore a printed t-shirt of a confederate flag.
All three of the teenagers pointed at the woman.
They laughed with a roar of contempt
that exerted dominance over the sidewalk.
The little boy hugged that woman's leg.
He sobbed into the material of her long dress.
The teenager wrapped in the confederate flag,
he put his hands behind his head
and leaned back against the wall
in victory.

Coffee on Monday morning
carries a richer aroma
and a sweeter flavor
than the same brew
in the same cup
any other day of the week.
If our minds, our experiences
define so many of our tastes,
consider the satisfying joy a handshake
brings to a lonely old hermit.
Imagine the luscious splendor
of a long walk during a summer drizzle
after the endless confinements
of hospitals, doctors, and the funeral home
when she departed this realm.

During mass on Sunday mornings
we would recite the Act of Contrition,
a prayer to request forgiveness of sins.
In humble voices, we asked for absolution
from God and from each other,
before the priest blessed the eucharist.
Most of our sins were encouraged in a world on fire,
but we owned up to them every week.
Hatred of our brothers and sisters,
the best drugs and the juiciest hookers,
these were our only escapes
from the bosses, the bills, the tax collectors.

Sin was how we stopped the perpetual slide
into total madness,
and the Act of Contrition,
that was how we kept our sins
from eating us alive.

This leather bag and I,
we've tasted a bit of the world
on dirt trails and city sidewalks,
inside cars, buses, and planes.
This leather bag and I have done battle together.
We've struck intellectual blows in classrooms,
and we've celebrated success in board rooms.
The bag and I even laugh about that time
it blocked a drunk's fist aimed at my kidneys.
Few people believe in the loyalty of a bag.
They seek devotion, love from other people,
only to suffer great disappointment.
This leather bag and I,
we're the best of friends.
That's how it is
and that's how it will always be.

About three weeks into one of the many jobs
the boss, some short, white woman,
stormed up to me like she meant business.
"You don't act professional!"
she screamed in an emotional rant.
"You don't dress professional.
Your humor isn't professional either."
I stared at her in silence,
occasionally feeling my eyelids blink.
When she finished, I asked a question,
"Can you define the word 'professional?'"
She stormed away with the ferocity
in which she arrived.
I was back on the job boards that night.

Along the shore of the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh
a little girl of about seven, dressed in a track suit
threw chunks of bread to nearby ducks and geese.
The geese, twice the size of their mallard brethren,
aggressively pushed between the ducks
to gobble up each morsel.
The girl placed her hands on her hips
and scolded the winged despots for their greed.
A few of the ducks joined in the protest,
and quacked in solidarity, for justice.
The geese remained undeterred in their conquest.
Clearly frustrated, the little girl gave up.
She handed the bag of bread to her mother
and then ran off to join a group of older children
playing frisbee in a nearby grass field.
The ruling geese and the victimized ducks
continued to swim near the shore,
hungry and confused,
and without that reliable food source.

I lied, baby, and I'm sorry.
The truth is I never loved you.
Watching you share your passion,
hearing you sing really turned me on.
I loved ******* you,
filling you with my pain,
watching you take your punishment.
But I will never love you.
The passion is over.
My **** is dry.
Goodbye.

A young man with ***** hands
walked into the bar.
He sat next to a blonde
of about the same age
and ordered a beer.
"Don't even try to talk to me,"
she said in an arrogant tone.
The young man didn't speak.
Defeated, he climbed off the stool.
He took a pull from the beer
and then dropped a crinkled fiver.
As he walked out the door,
the girl laughed out loud.
She showed us all
who was boss.

In the late 1990s on the South Side of Pittsburgh
there was a cafe I'd frequent
with large cozy chairs next to picture windows
that looked out onto East Carson Street,
the main drag in that part of town.
From those chairs, I'd read and write and watch
tattooed bikers, artists, skaters,
young ***** with their **** out,
and poor thugs in ***** clothes
posed as weathered statues against brick walls.
They all craved attention, respect,
a solid footing for their place in the world.

Today, I imagine most of those people are
dead or in prisons or barely making it
with several children and dead-end jobs.
That cafe, like so many storefronts,
fell victim to the polite ravages
of suburban malls and the Internet.
Those days are gone to never return.
Still, those people had my attention.
For what it's worth,
they will always have my respect.

Out for a walk one saturday morning
I passed an antique store..
In the window sat a cat
with an all white fluffy coat.
The cat appeared hardened,
probably from a life of confinement,
and from the daily onslaught of customers
that insist on petting its furry back.

I stopped at the window
and that cat gave me a good once over.
He and I were compatriots in a mad world,
both of us shamed for our truths,
both of us loved in convenient moments.
After a minute, I moved on
to grab a coffee and a cigar,
secure in the knowlege
I'd made a new friend.

On the TV stand in front of me
sits a sculpture of a skull.
No matter where I sit
the skull stares at me.
It haunts me,
and reminds me
of my fragile mortality.
Still, I won't turn the skull away.
We're locked in a test of wills,
even though I know
in the end
I won't win.

Sometimes on late Monday nights
I'll climb out of bed,
get dressed,
and walk outside
into the middle of the street.
The lack of cars and people
brings peace.
It's just me,
accompanied by the steady hums
of building ventilation systems.
I often think about old friends
long gone.

On the city bridge sidewalk
one summer night,
I contemplated
the second half of my life
among the lights
reflected upon the river.

I came to the realization
that no one will remember me.
My readers will soon forget,
as will my family.
That's why I need you,
to remember why I smile
and how I think.

Perhaps a young man with ambition
will inquire about me one day.
If that happens, pour him a drink.
Tell him I loved the sentiment
only the written word can deliver,
but I never loved words as much
as I loved you.

The ignorant always smile, not in bliss, but in narrow self-righteousness. Geniuses are kind within bubbles that float to the tops of white towers. The societal mid-range of people, the ones who know just enough to be afraid, these people carry the greatest burdens.

I loved you
every single day
especially those nights
you ******
other men
You’re better than me
but you kept coming
back for more

You should know,
I love the way
you mourn
the end of laughter
in the silence of night.
When the laughs return
you rejoice.
I always smile.

‪I don't just love you;‬
I love your imperfections,
those hard memories
beneath kind eyes,
when I watch you
gaze out my window
every morning

‪I am you‬
‪and you‬
‪are my enemy‬
‪Late at night‬
‪I plot your demise‬
‪In the mornings‬
‪regret‬
‪In the evenings‬
‪I beg forgiveness‬
‪The cycle‬
‪never ends‬

‪Loneliness‬
‪is a contagion‬
‪of the mind‬
‪fueled by propaganda‬
‪from toxic allies‬
‪Believe it or not‬
‪we live and breathe‬
‪succeed and fail‬
‪together‬

‪Me and the typer ‬
we fight the world
with vicious fury
We shake mountains
Entire lakes
of tears ripple
as we live
our truth
as men

My thoughts
never dwell on you
not even when I see tree branches
reach for the sun
like your arms
when the doctor said
the cancer
was gone

Sins are often forgotten.
Brain molecules are overwritten,
cell pathways erased,
as good conquers evil.
The righteous actions that ignite enlightenment
and solace for the sins we can't remember
are also eventually forgotten,
because evil also devours virtue
in what priests and monks refer to
as an ancient and everlasting battle.

Some people live out their lives in solitude.
We see them in quiet jobs,
alone in libraries and coffee shops.
They patiently wait out the battle
for the day when the struggle ends
and they finally know tranquility

Others choose action,
to play their roles as instruments, weapons,
sometimes for the forces of good
and sometimes for the forces of evil.
I’ve chosen to add my flavor of mayhem to the world,
inspired in forgotten nightmares
and during quiet car rides home
after the job has drained the last drops
of energy and self-respect.

Without the battle
humanity certainly would be boring.
Unfortunately for all of us
nothing is quite so dull
as serenity.

In our youths
Sundays were dreaded
We mourned the death
of weekends
Now, on Sundays
we reflect, quiet
on the continual
struggle

All I ever wanted
was to be left alone.
The more I ran,
the faster the cockroaches pursued
with their false friendships
and self-serving greed.

A man grows tired, sagged,
and his body slows,
his mind withers,
as death approaches.
This is not from old age,
but from thousands of stabs
delivered by forked tongues
of friends and enemies,
and his women.

As the spirit escapes
and runs
from the madness,
its the soul which finally
has the last laugh
in the darkness,
alone

I loved you
every single day
especially those nights
you ******
other men
You're better than me
but you kept coming
back for more

I will *******
and then
I will leave
to never return

I'm honest, yet frightened
of your prison
I'm weak and lost
buried under layers of sin

I'm unpredictable
exciting and dreadful
and I know
you will always
remember
me

I loved her face
until her eyes narrowed
in disgust
and her red lips
spewed cringing hate
That's when I knew
beauty does not exist
All we have
is *** and
survival

Dames, man
It's always the dames
that drain your
heart
wallet
and the will
to carry on
At least
they please
the senses

That girl
She was the one
who made me laugh
I really dug her
until she stopped loving me
Then I fell in love
with her

If you let the ******* get you down,
you deserve to be down.
It's that simple.
While the mad howl
into the void
of restless summer nights,
bad *******
sip cool drinks
in confident silence.

Bad *******
laugh when others weep,
feast when others hunger,
they **** long and deep
the angels others crave.

Bad ******* die
far more often,
worn from the continual fight,
broken by the drama
of never-ending
women.

In rebirth,
bad ******* learn
to wring out every last drop
of a whiskey flawed life.
Then and only then
do blood red skies,
that musky scent of wet ****,
or these typed words
have any real meaning
or significance.

I can't write today
I wanted to write
but I can't
Lack of sleep
The humidity
Rain
Worries
Who really knows?
I just can't write
today

Today depression visited
a quiet despair one feels
from grave injustice

Driving home
the world fell silent
On one street corner
stood a man of color
in ***** work pants
He frowned behind a gray beard
his eyes distant

He and I shared a truth
that while the poor wept
those who represent hatred
celebrated
again

When it rains
whiskey thoughts
wander in lust
Memories surface
of love and hate
That steady patter
contrasts
the chaos
we live

Wake at 6:30
Drive to work
Rain
Traffic
Trump stickers
Hit a pothole
Spill coffee
Arrive late
**** on your fly
Life

I only love you
at night
when loneliness
fuels desire
and
desperation
replaces
rational thought

Your value is reflected
in an empty whiskey bottle
sideways
on the stained carpet

Funny how everything
is eventually
neglected

There's something peculiar
about witnessing courage
in the face of hatred
True righteousness hits me deep
It flourishes from within
the way epiphanies bloom in scholars
or the way love overwhelms
young students

There's majesty in the underdog
who stands until his knees buckle
who shouts until her voice breaks
fueled only by fortitude
mocked for feeling empathy
hated for living truth

In moments of moral principle
I see peace amidst the chaos
poetry amidst the prose
in the eyes of the young
and in the old
who fight
for justice

When in doubt
spit on the sidewalk
and stare the ******* down
This procedure works
on violent men
It also works
on your own
madness

On late spring nights
a breeze through cracked windows
feeds silent madness
It screams louder than life
Memories flow as a river
Their resentment for my existence
once brought depression
After years of absorbing rancor
the onslaught of sandpaper words
ground my soul into flakes
carried away in the wind

Hollowed into a human cask
guilt has nothing to grasp
Hatred from others means little
Perhaps amusement
A muffled chuckle
breathed into the pillow
breaks the silence
until sleep

At the Bernie Sanders rally on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in Alabama, a middle-aged woman in the crowd fell to the floor from illness. The entire rally silenced. All 7,000 attendees turned their focus to her welfare. When the medics arrived, the crowd erupted into cheers, a heroes’ welcome. The people then applauded the ill woman once she regained the ability to walk out of the event.

Two weeks prior, at a rally for the authoritarian populist Donald Trump, three white men stomped a black man. He’d worn a t-shirt that read 'Black Lives Matter.'

I held the door open
She looked at the ground
and walked
past me
I didn't feel anger
only the sad truth
We live and breathe
dystopia