White Mustang dream
sipping on life through a straw
until red light turned green.

When saying goodnight
is hardly your final thought,
pray she's creative.

I fight against time
by refusing to subtract
an hour from clocks.

Good evening everybody,
tonight's a very special episode
about a boy not understood
by his peers so sincere
to his emotive-ish veneer.

The irony's so dramatic
to the Viewer of it all.
Tensely suspended anxiety on air
ever known that what's shown
will work itself out on its own.

That's the way it always goes,
but not without comedic conversation,
awkward confrontation, then happy resolution;
thus consealing that joyous feeling
the reward for sympathetic fearing.

Yep, that's the way it goes,
except this is not a show
and my name is not Chris,
so the fly on the wall
will despise or revel in my fall.

As the mornings' suns,
I wait eagerly, for your
lashes to mimic.

The artist dragged
a hand across
a city skyline
in the sky
while the paint
was still wet.

Dormant eyes slept open'd,
sought but hardly for naught,
lasting evermore.

In the mist of shapeful clouds,
in the midst of a friend's grieving,
opened a fist of one lower than
the cherub's wrist outstretched.
Adrift, a story of comfort
exists to ensure her:
blessed is her loved one passed.

I notice,
while sitting with a pen,
harvesting words
for the task I was given,
fantastic dreams
of ****** exploration,
unobtainable and maybe unrequited,
cloud my mind
with a most fatal attraction.

One
two
infinity.
Ask and receive.
If only words could come to life
through this screen.
A truthful miracle
I'd wish for over thrice.
Hundreds of squared pixels
can only hide
a greater beauty
whose words it relays.
Even if to be seen once.

Magic lost behind
two black panes 'fore sultry white
e'er hiding her soul.

Lovin' you is easy 'cause you're easy*
Mirrored instruction on both sides
of a countless-sided sword
toil the earth,
so all that grows
believes,
as if it's truth,
because lovin' you is easy 'cause you're easy.

Her voice echoed
(in remembrance)
from the past
(in passing)
of today
(in glorified celebration)
for centuries to come.

Three years now I have followed
the path in which You've set.
Great milestones have been met
but the anchor's chain still drops.

The year before last,
challenges were external.
At a time, post-vernal,
the flood began, sans-ark.

Simple words assailed in waves,
ignored through red-skied mornings.
Ignominy aborning, through lovely scornings,
a reflective pool showed the two visibles.

My path had grown dark between lamposts
the distances grew with self isolation.
Without light, advances cause irritation--
with light I can see my fright.

To all I've hurt,
and for all it's worth,
my robbery of mirth
requires penance.

This pen knots the future,
a copy to be sent in turn,
for my lost friends to learn
the pain one wields with a pen.

The white cloth of old
is, and always was,
tainted slightly
with yellow or brown.
Yet, it was white,
nonetheless,
to them.
So, how do we
set our standards
moving forward?

Such reverend sanctity
is destined to change.

A week,
we eke
weak.

Red, blue, and orange somehow peak,
sun blasted clouds in front
a picturesque scene no words can depict,
or the shot when it's seen.

If such beauty lies in the inanimate,
then am I to believe I too exist?
When the ringing in my chest
and esophagus
echoes with the most hollow pitch?

Blinding light bears a hole,
killing the product
with the source of it all.
I am filled with the sorrow
of watching a loved one fall.

Not drunk,
yet not sober.
The ones who've left you,
hardly consoled.

At the moment,
I don't know why they would ever leave.

These are the nights I should be out with friends, but I give in to the allure of writing instead.

Five bars boxed conceal my fate,
opulent stiff trees sit outside an iron grate.
I can't leave this prison for I'm the secret's committee--
my captors want the source of my surreptitious serendipity.

In the surreal landscape stood a man
laying in the vertical catamaran;
he's not a man queer and unknown,
but a queer man with the same face as my own.

I stare as I stare, and a smile breaks
like a mirrored leaf fallen, ripples a still lake.
The forest becomes him, for blurred vision ensues.
Teared freedom he uses, for to blink I refuse

My oppressors' gaze won't break away.
Believing I pine to nap under the trees' shade
Yet I'm as liberated as I am confined,
so my life alone I will never mind

I've done, will do, and am doing everything I want,
so when I close my eyes the wind is my confidant.
Speaking to me I follow its every elision--
the eurythmic breeze unleashes my inhibitions.

Leading me to the dark corner of my cell
with beauty all around me I stay in this hell
As night falls the bars rise in turn,
for the clear, star-streaked sky I yearn.

On queue the creek of a door latch is heard
I must choose but my decision won't be deterred:
the door leads to my guardians' labyrinthine maze,
the window-- a drop to the darkness, who preys.

So what do I do? Flip a coin with no sides.
With the decision face up in the moon's candlelight.
Frozen by fear of the known and untold.
Convinced I'm not ready, my merits must mold.

Three or four cups
I'm not really sure
formed two lids,
an iris,
and a pupil
on a table.

I guess I'm being watched.

The first time
I lost a home
was when I
outgrew
my sandbox.

We sat silently
to watch the sunset
on our phones.

Behind a window
I travel the world
with melody carrying the road.
Today is freedom
and tomorrow is open.

I stop

Clear skies in my head,
because when Johnny reigns
it pours.

A lure
left
taken.

Thank you,
for a beautiful night.

I drove at night
on the left were frosted clouds sleeping on the horizon.

I drove at night
on the left a red ribbon blew in the wind like the hair of the iconic Cossette.

I drove at night
on the left solid and flashing lights made me think of Christmas.

I drove at night
and arrived home.

You came to me in a dream,
O Specter of Sensibility,
to help discern the distant
drowning dirges of dying doubt

We walked—our party’s steps
quite quicker than our own.
As the gap grew greater,
they disappeared into the night.

All alone along an amphitheater’s path,
my ghostly guardian gave life
to the story I had wished to hear.
Clarity obtained—each player was one of us.

Eyes straight ahead, she didn’t break stride.
The waves of her voice took charge,
powering the reels that play,
saying, “So, you slept to know?

“I’m here for you and you alone
so you could see me in reality.”
A proper lady she was,
so small talk preceded needs.

She went on to tell of how,
“patience at present is prudent.”
“And purposefully perplexing,” I thought,
listening in reverie.

“Just as I return oft in your dreams,
so too will what I embody come back.”
She was cold so my arms became alms.
We sat in acceptance until the crowd caved in around.

I've yet to forget,
slews of verses on paper
written just for you.

I embarrass myself nightly
but am I always to blame?
To look is as easy
as staring lovingly at a leopard,
whose cubs cry from woeful pangs.
Yet I oblige,
for it's easier for me to fall
than to entertain, tame or sate.

You stood there, probably cold,
in the frozen foods aisle.
Actually, you had a peacoat on.
When I first saw you,
I only saw your back.
Your hair looked wiry and blonde,
I thought you were aged and frail.

When you turned around with a gallon of milk
your face surprised me.
I was swept up in awe and stared too long.
Your eyes-- blue, kind, and calming--
rested on pillows of roseate cheeks
that looked recently swept by winter winds of New England.

You looked at me, too, but with an austere expression.
I said, "I hope the tempest of your mind
soon finds peaceful resolution in tranquil waters,"
in my head.
She walked past me
her audible rhythmic steps
made with untied,
disheveled
boots.

A beatnik
simply keeping a beat.

Sometimes,
I wonder,
will it be dark
when I die?

I heard someone say
"it's going to be my first marriage,"
today. God, how sad.

Every starry night
I look for your face.
Four imaginary lines
connecting five glimmering dots.

I relive the summers passed;
when I would look up, see you,
and know something was missing--
like Orion's Belt.

Come winter, when he returned,
he must have made you cold--
because I felt it too.
I moved away,
but ever in the sky you'd stay.

Every starry night
I look for your face.
Some call you Cassiopeia;
however, the beauty marks I know,
belong to one of another name.

Chestnut curls kissed by the sun, waved
on a day of melancholy gray.
She stepped out from that awning that protected my car
that protected me, from her.
Slowly, it rained around her,
angel's tears surrounding like beads of dust.
"God, she's beautiful," I said,
and she walked behind a pillar.
I never even saw her face.

never accepted.
often alone.
strangely thought
can define us
either together
or on our own;
so is it wrong
to question the norm
while idiocy
nestles comfortably
like a worm?

Battling passive aggression
comes off as aggressive pretension.

The world shook,
I awoke.
Not from sleep--
but consciousness.

The world shook,
I stood.
Strings controlled my limbs--
I was helpless but nurtured.

Planet silhouetting atlases
of worlds we'll never know.
Their histories repeat,
through mushroom clouds
of soft pink explosions,
crying their fears for us to feel.
We watch them live and die,
admiring the beauty of life and death;
only I weep when light eminates through their wars.

Hello Poetry,
Why are you not stopping prose
running rampant here?

It’s been two years since I first met You,
and one year since I wrote to You.
Oh, my, how You’ve made me grow.
The toughest year I’ve seen has passed.

I suffered for months and questioned a lot—
I knew You had a plan, but I must follow through.
On the darkest night I gathered the little I had
and drank Your unblessed blood as I wrote.

Unsure of what was said, I went to bed,
and in the morning I found written gold.
The words, though, were not my own—
even more unknown was the character transcribed.

The path was now set to leave the forest,
the same unruly garden Your last blessed poet
journeyed from successfully so many years ago,
with my own Beatrice as my glorious guide.

But my Beatrice has plans of her own,
as both a Muse and developmental instigator.
She holds my hand as we walk off cliffs
knowing full well that I cannot fly.

I tried to learn the follies of Lust
and alone its intricacies eluded me;
but she showed me in an instant  that what we want
can wait, the good-willed Lust, the puzzle piece, and missing link.

From here I can move on again, slowly recovering.
Each new dream sets the stage of life’s chapters,
to convey the ideas I want all to know,
and to remember the power one wields with a pen.

I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.

Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.

I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.

Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”

In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.

“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.

“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.

A flower cannot unblossom,
but it can stay beautiful forever.
Put in a book-- thin as pressed papers--
all while its holder's fingers hover over.
There it stays safe until the book is closed,
the flower's fate, from then on, is unknown.

I draw lines like a map
and walk along its coast.
The tempests of one day,
seem to quell by the next.  
After the sand's the swell's host,
my troubled tides pull away.

I bathed in a steam shower, I still feel impure.

You think that I'm weak
and don't see what you seek.
Wise eyes can see through trees,
but can't stop a deer from stepping into the street.
An arrogant doe not yet peaked,
stares into the headlights,
whose dangers she can't see.
What matters is that they shine on you,
negligent to the fact that they blind you too.
Bathed in light a deer will never move,
lost in their bright Narcissistic pools.
Flying above, I can swoop and save,
but first you must be willed to look away.

I had a dream that felt quite like reality

To begin its tale I start with the day,
which opened the same as any other--
with my eyes fixated on a cigarette in an ashtray.

I put a light to another so he'd have a brother.
Hopping in the shower the lights and I shivered,
blanketed by warmth the cigarettes became a vase with a flower.

I faced the glass but refused the image mirrored.
No good would come from stalling to dress,
for a package, not mine, needed to be undelivered.

Soon I sat in a park with a friend and a board of chess,
he said, "You need not be here I know your worth,
others need to know you neglect them less."

Unsure what he meant, I still rose and went forth,
to the world of friends who tend to dislike me.
Back turned I heard young laughter and exited the mirth.

Walking in a desert forest, I grew to be rather thirsty.
I ignored the mountain lion that was out of place
and took shelter under an oasis's bourgeois.

Sweating in the cool shade, memory thought to erase
any action I took before I lay to rest.
As I looked down I saw a garden from space.

I had fallen asleep back into reality

I accomplished a feat I never thought possible,
staring into a mirror not fully sure if I should,
I looked into my soul avoiding my vanity,
the glass transparent of opaque clarity.

Scared of what haunted even a laureate,
whose pilgrimage is an allusion taken for granted,
the serenity was sand scooped by my hand,
and each second's passing left its ridges more empty.

Soon, the shadows of lives moved, awaking my mistake.
Now noticing the lapse of minutes lost,
I made sure no one noticed my mind's vacancy,
then looking to the mirror, I see its prisoner's turned back.

With work in my past, I sit at a bar,
kissing the whiskey date in my right hand.
A man, as fatigued as me, takes his place
ten paces to my left—the corner seat.

A box is slipped from his jacket pocket,
which contained the well packed words of many lives.
The luckiest one was pulled from its cubical
by a weathered, unsteady hand’s fingers.

Praising his release from prison, with anticipation building.
The light in his face breathed life into him.
The tape—whose cogs turn forward—
plays the cigarette’s song; the cursive words spill out.

Audibly visible, I watched the smoke intrigued.
“Finally, a break from my daily building—
the one who confines my colleagues and me—
now, I can breathe a breath of relief.

“We spend each day waiting to die
never knowing peace, for we know our fates already.
We work each day praying for release,
but family comes first—it’s for them I work.

“We’re always being told we’re unique individuals—
yet we remain clones, individually wrapped.
Seen only as commodities by those who rule.
An invisible hand selects the slaves that be.

A breeze cuts him off, I wait.

“At least my servitude comes to an end,
so soak up what you can, while you can.
I may seem infinitesimal to the likes of you,
but you see your self in me, it’s true.

“I’m you in a minutes long microcosm.
You and I will never know true freedom
because all we’ve ever known has been prisondom.
The only liberties we know are delusions of solitary thought.

“When we’re released from our shackles—
that brief moment before passing—
they say we suffer a blissful ‘death rattle,’
but I say ‘nay, we don’t display disdain for that peaceful sigh.’”

Then, snuffed out in an instant,
the tape recorder ceased its spinning.
I stared waiting to hear more of the smoke’s wisdom;
however, he hadn’t had time for even a “Goodbye, and enjoy life.”

What do you see when you look in a mirror?
Well, I know you dont see me.
If only we could all be so lucky;
for when my eyes fall upon that glass--
in full fledged vanity--
the only wish I have is for my mirrored elimination.

So why do I stare into the eyes I've known for so long?
There is no more knowledge to be gained on my own.
Stop looking
Avoid Narcissus
Learn from Dante
Evade mirroring landscapes.

There has only been one time that I could stare
and learn from that spectral pair--  
not those brown ringlets of life,
but the world after-- in which  I died in strife.
My soul was bare and my fate was there,
but with clouded mind I can't remember if I truly cared.

How do I thank the one
to whom I owe my entire existence?
From the smile I share, to my wavy brown hair,
to the blood flowing through my veins

To thank her fully I think I'd need
each one of a beach's grains of sand--
one for every bit of love she's shared
lifting my soul from frequent despair.

Though that still wouldn't be enough
I'd then need every star in every galaxy
to then shed light on her beauty
and even then they'd be a pale analogy

So I call on the oceans and the seas,
who have separated many, for generations,
on how to cope with the distance
and how others survived such separation.

When we're apart you must feel idle,
alone, and often unthought of--
but truly you're a lifeline, that to me is vital;
therefore, never discount your worth for a second.

So I apologize for the sleepless nights,
spent waiting for me to come home and those spent worrying,
and sorry for leaving your nest so suddenly,
even though you'd wished you could stop my flying.

But I thank you, for never thinking ill of me,
and for nurturing who I turned out to be,
and for unconditional love, though I'm unworthy,
and most of all, for being my mother, and ever so motherly

Samuel Coleridge might be proud of my Kubla Khan attempt.

Sitting on my sleeve
The green being grew accustomed.
Flicked off, he flew in free fall,
"That predetermined drop must be awful"