A man of this life
knows his story
too well,
he walks the streets
leg one leg two
at just the right speed:
moving at a glide
because it's gray outside,
the frozen tide
of the open cut concrete
is hard underneath
the soles of his worn shoes,
they hold a pair of dart like feet
that walk through
the jagged edges and
changing pathways,
talking in tongues
about lurid destinies
of lacking destination,
a babbling that never reaches an ending,
the two are crooked and bleeding
but they always keep
through this crowded street
that the man
in the palm of his right hand
has learned to hold
a “hello” for,
stretching far from his arm
it is quiet and scared,
so often invisible
but hoping,
not hopeful,
that someone will see
beneath its creased,
mistrusting,
bare naked and often mistaken
surface,
but with it
is a perfect fist
strapped like a puppet
to this tacit brother
in the man's
left pocket,
fingerless and mastered
to smash into bits
what may be caught
by the other cupped misfit,
whether friend or enemy
they are always mistaken,
so the beating
makes them scream
in victory,
horrendously and
harmoniously sprayed
in the liquids leaving
Whatever's seam,
“whatever”
they seem,
thoughtless of the backlash
only meant for the brain,
it solely knows and
takes the blame
for the horrid red stain,
trying to love
when the brother
habitually
frames the other
into maiming
another
who is all alone
DON'T!
it wants to re-aim
the darts
that leave
on pavement
straight for misleading paths
WAIT!
It planned to create
a noose for the unstable
connections between
those lost A's and
the angry B
and that fretful C but
ANY!
Thing can happen, and
ANY!
thing will,
ANY!
One
would really help,
and now there's not much
LONGER!
Till you truly understand,
The very end is very close
for that man - he is ******.

Monday
with no arms
reminds himself
of the seemingly endless
sleepless night
forming from and into
a nightmare day
and daydreaming's
of nothing
from everything.

Tuesday
finds himself
in no form and with no focal point
for walking which way in a drunken haze
and equipped with no corrective lenses
to correct the blur
between the images
bent by the past
Of the present.

Wednesday
are the collective
active corpses
listening to the
ins and outs
about a street corner
filled to bursting
whose tired stares
through hired sires
steep in grim life
all want to sail towards
the tale of man's hail-fire
that's just around
the right angle.

Thursday
was the child
whose malignant aggression
against his mother
****** the earth
with fire
until the reflection
got the best of him
as he turned to see
something
that started
to make his
eyes bleed

Friday
is the three legged dog
trotting about the lawn
in circles
looking for a sign
from God
that when this mutt dies,
though it won't be long,
all the lies
he barked
might not try
and follow him

Saturday's
the monster
who starts
to take care of himself
the moment the wealth
of this world was found
beneath his worn clothing
in the beating *****
of his very own soul

...I felt your kiss,
The cut-out tongue between those perfect teeth,
They clank against mine.

...I felt your smiling laughter,
stunning as it is ~relent-less~,
losing a regard for honor
as it creeps in a blood lust.

...I felt the rumble
of the warm pressure cooker
on your ~pen-sieve~ face,
The rubber guard
keeping my hand's blood circulation problem,
a problem.

...I felt your scrunched brows as your eyes shifted,
wandering your past
and
silencing our ~pre-sent~
and
surviving your future.

I felt your eyes crumble,
Tears splashing into ~fire-works~ on the floor,
God help me.

God.
Help me.

I feel.

God.
Help me.

I feel.

I could grow old with you
Baby girl,
But I’m not looking for love,
My sweet doll,
‘Cause nowadays
I’ve a six shooter on my hip that I keep loaded
With three bullets
And three lies
And the pocket on my side
Has a lighter
And a key for a night,
They accept the fire
Because all six hit
Even though they went through the other side,
Always equipped with a smile
In case the tide rolls out
Or rolls in
Or whether she sink her feet into
The wet sand next to mine,
Standing on my two
All the time
And that too is all I’ve got left
For now,
But then
I’ll just breathe
when she catwalks up
With those grown dry eyes
And her own gun
To my stomach,
Red dripping from the jacket
As she whispers.

“Bleed slow, honey”

I’m running,
Running backwards,
Moving inwards
All the time,
Always caught up in knowing
where I'm going
But,
I’m coming back,
Back to the place I never knew,
streets with street signs covered
by the wool around my eyes,
A kiss,
Your love,
The broken bulb
Beneath a night's sky
was lying
as the light cried
Finding,
her last breath was a sigh
as she was dying,
Nevertheless
I was loving,
loving these moments,
closer than far in these moments,
movements forward
are leaving foot prints full of color,
Your beauty is an antithesis of my own
And I see how you and me
are making a great gray
But,
The Gray makes rain,
It painfully casts a shadow on the flowers
That bloomed
When I first saw you,
Truly saw you,
I thought you’d be like that Forever,
However,
The Grey is a stain,
It relentlessly takes away the color
Of when we laid together,
Severed by the
Regretful pull of a halo around your neck,
I Flew,
I flew towards a hole in the ground,
Clipped by the gravel and soot
As I fell right through to somewhere new
Thinking,
Though gravity will eventually
Pull me back,
Back to where I was before,
Thrusting me threw this planet's core,
The duty of a downward pull
Creates dreams of my history,
I'm falling into this atmosphere,
It's unmistakeably my sky again,
Unmistakeably I'm lost again,
Perhaps for a time again,
Perhaps after I’ll fly back through the center
To leave here forever,
But,
Perhaps I’ll grow to know
The difference between you and me,
While in this hazy dream - You'll see,
Here where my forward footsteps stop their track,
Here where my white should find
your shade of black,
Here,
I'll turn back,
I’ll be free at last