he’s wrong
he’s done terrible things
any, that you can think of
he’s been behind the old rusted bars
exchanged bullets with a stranger
as if they were having
a casual exchange of words
then ran and ran
and then i asked
do you even know how to shoot a gun?

crystals and the night stars were his friends
seeing them blurred
with the tears that filled his nights
and dreams that filled his thoughts

do someone like you even dream? do you even have a dream
Yes, I did.
no sister, no brother, no mother, no father
hated seeing kids with mothers
kids with fathers
kids with sisters
kids with brothers

having fist fights for lunch
and breaking legs for dinner
like wish bones
and a broken promise of a father
but there was life, lightyears away
because the night stars and crystals
left him bare, naked and jaded

carried a little boy on his arms for the first time
and said
i have a dream, i want this little boy
to have a mother
to have a father
to have a sister and a brother

They call him Captain
because although his old girl
is a row boat
he goes where
he orders himself to go,
and tends to his love
with the same effort
and care
as a full crew of
the descendants
of gods.

They call him Crazy
because he uses the moon
instead of a compass,
and reads poetry
instead of treasure maps.
Though a hermit he is,
he scrapes together
enough money to travel
and dream.
Otherwise he knows
how to survive
on intense, amorous affairs
and treats his women
like queens
using only a quill
and their bodies
for paper.
But he sails alone as if
more loyal to his boat than
a man to his wife.

They call him Spirit
because he comes and he goes,
pulling the high tide with him.
He writes on beaches
where the moon is brightest,
under clear skies and never
after sunrise.
He shrinks with the waves
and is never seen again
by the same individual.

Most often they call him Myth
and on desolate nights
he tells himself
that those who don't know the sea
intimately
lack faith.
Then he paints portraits
of the old, exhausted faces
of the stars
and speaks epic poems
to crustaceans as he boils
them alive
(if he isn't human
then he's cruel just like one).


All who know him forget his name,
and he tells them to
as they wave goodbye
and the sea ***** him
back into her arms,
against her beating breast.
Yet his is not a lonely existence,
not another soul is necessary
to keep him rowing.
It is as satisfying
as it is solitary,

because he calls himself poet,
and a poem is all he needs.

Brooklyn
is LONGING for his warm presence
because this place is cold
without him—
the fallen SOLDIER
who was lost in a sight
of a snow angel
in a battle of FRIGHT CAR

faith
that we never loose
and a pinch
of a never ending hope
awaiting for his HOMECOMING
in a cold Brooklyn
that even with
the heat radiating from a FURNACE
the cold won't melt away

catching
a hold of the SOLDIER
in a mid-frozen way
and in count from ONE—
to NINE
he become a man of no BENIGN
tempted by control
triggered by words of fear
he comply himself as a SOLDIER
of cold blooded missions
and for that cause—
Soviet is harsh

darkness
on a DAYBREAK
was enough to fill harshness
inside parts of him
that are already RUSTED
as the result of
being more a machine
than a man himself

wishing
from the depth of his consciousness
that he could turn back time
to where he was SEVENTEEN
with a hold of a friend
and a smile that was genuine
not a killing
and a destruction machine
that he is now

i'm supposed to
be the captain of this ship
i should be controlling it,
but all it is doing is
slowly sinking and
out here there is no
escape or exit.

Miles of indigo ocean floss the urchins from its rocky teeth
cracked, aged, sturdy

like our captain
unwavered by the changing tides
wrinkles deep in his eyes
skin dry from the salt of the blue.

The ship a knotty brown, pointed like a tri-corn hat. Roguishly handsome like it could Woo the sea.

Our captain sang stories
of the ship's past lives before its soul
settled into our vessel.
His adventures hearing mermaids
Lured under to their beauty.
Most men be tranced by their call
lost forever in their seaweed chains,
not this Stone-hearted Charmer.
With swiftness of a thief
his smirk toss the sirens under his thumb.

Johnny Two Leg sticks his knife into the lid of a large barrel
prys it open.

Maggots wriggle under the dark of it's planks.
Rot cotton forming in their crevasses.

"Another day another barrel" Johnny sigh to himself
lid clanking against the deck.

This will be the crew's rations.

Sing songing men with their plenty red wenches toss back tankards on board.
Their song isn't flashy,
not even practiced,
they just want their tales to be heard.
A chorus, or chant repeats between stories.
Some simpler, some scary, some tall.
Each member of crew taking turns with their voice boxes, scratching the black liquor walls.

Johnny Two Leg plunks the barrel center of the crowd
a loud cheering erupts.
The poor boy who was staged on a chair belting limerick of his most recent love affair has his stool politely kicked, knocking him prone,
causing a nearby member
or four to laugh.

"If a man is a song, is he really dead?"
booms our captain through the bustle. touching Johnny Two Legs back,
giving a smile as he walk past.

We form a line as he hand us vials from the barrel

thumb the frosty glass
pop cork unleashing purple mist tendrils that spiral round like a serpent's tail

look to our captain in devotion
who holds his vial out proud.
Johnny Two Leg stands prouder,
glowing for the captain.
The poor boy stand bright eyed, clutching.
Together we swig back the poison

give our souls to the next vessel
be it castle, sword, or ship.
They'll sing about us
of hearts calloused harder than oceans teeth
voices louder than the reddest haired *****
passion hotter than the fires of hell.

When their lungs grow tired of our song, remind them
'fore we faired the sea under their new flag
we breathed oceans of wisdom
devout to this Knotty Tri-corn Rogue.
May his story never die.

It's hard being perfect in a world where it's physically impossible when everybody being flawed
Don't expect me to be your Jack's Mannequin
I have my flaws and i'm proud to be human
I wouldn't want to be someone who never has a defect at all
I want to come off as human and real for others
My ship usually sinks daily
But i'm the Captain so i got this
Or it will be a mental Lusitania
Causing me to prepare for war
Towards my conflicting thoughts
I won't wait like President Wilson
Action will be called upon
But i won't waste a second
I'm keeping this ship above water
My passengers will be safe
It's all on my shoulders
Keep your cannons holstered
We don't want this to really happen
Send your youth back home
They didn't want this.
I sure in hell didn't either.

“Tis but a nick,”
said the captain
of the Titanic.
“Don’t worry.”

I can hear the nurses over the din
That is my blood in my ears,
Coursing through these veins as if on fire.

I can hear them say "He's struck dumb,
Poor man, gave the boys all he had,
All that's left, of course, is a wordless bag of bones,
And broken heart".

I can hear them frivolously care for the others I cannot see,
Whose names, are to me, little anchors that weigh me
To reality, like a nail in the ground holds a kite down
To keep it from breaking free.

I am silent, struck dumb

Why can't the thoughts that swirl in my mind like mist
Materialize into words and sentences so that a living eye can read them,
So that a living ear can hear them, as they flow from my mouth
In little indeterminate streams,
That can remind me that the world exists beyond what I have seen.