my scar
etiolate
but my vigor remains
I stand unbowed, unbeaten, and
alive

the fog outside my window creates
miniature halos around each
streetlight -
mocking me with their
barometrically-induced
divinity
how the **** can a streetlight
find God when all I find
are more reasons to dislike
my fellow man?

every day, all day,
on every channel
(CNN, MSNBC, FOX, ABC, NBC, CBS)
I see hour after
hour
of so-called news about
the latest boogeyman Arab,
celebrity pregnancies,
something else that
causes cancer,
a book that will
change my life,
or a heartwrenching expose
on teen drugs use in
suburbia.

hundreds of hours of
"news"
every day.  We talk
so much and still
fail to communicate.

And all the while, the light
outside
my window reaches enlightenment
without ever
saying
a
word.

“Sorry babe”
I breath fire as I stare
down at her naked
body - the twisted sheets
damp with futile sweat -
“I have
  whiskey ****.”

"We're way
past
the point of no return,"
she said,
refusing
to look into my eyes
as she said it.
"I gave up on
you
a long time ago.  I'm in
love
with another man now."

There were so
many
things I wanted to say
right then. So many responses
on the tip of my tongue.

Some were
angry and inflammatory.
I didn't tell her that she
was the
*****
who lied and deceived me
for months while she
secured
her future with another man.

Some were
hurt and accusatory.
I didn't tell her that she
had unerringly found
every
***** in my armor and had
mercilessly
exploited them.

Some were
loving and pleading.
I didn't tell her that she
was my soul mate and that
there was no problem
too great
for us to overcome - together.

I didn't say anything.

Instead, I
****** her
and sent her back to
her new
boyfriend.

the stained glass window in my bathroom is broken
I see it every time I ***
three shards of missing colored glass
bleeding non-filtered sunlight -
a washed-out contrast to the flavored
beams shining next to those jagged wounds

a more discerning eye might notice
  the scars
on two more pieces of tinted glass;
cracks that promise
to sacrifice their host, hint at
a future for the frame with less glass
and remind of it's eventual doom

I’ve often considered repairing that window
but I never do
the missing glass, spiderweb cracks  the flaws
make the window less ideal,
but more perfect

Washing my hands today, my face illuminated by
green light,
  red light,
    yellow light,
      broken light,
        and spidered light through cracks of glass
      I think again;
I really need to replace
that glass.

Bloodied fingers are badges of honor
that few men suffer themselves to accept.
Part of the debt the instrument incurs;
a separation of skilled and inept.

The mastery of half a dozen steel
strings oft becomes a lifetime endeavor.
This daring quest for musical ideals
demands commitment lasting forever.

A hollow body touches the essence
of perfection that is merely expressed
by mortal beings of inconsequence
who caress the Muse nevertheless.

Ten fingers endure torture on six strings
for melodies only guitars can bring.