I didn't tell you I loved you
Because I thought that you already knew.
I never told you you meant the world to me
Because I thought it was clear to see.
Or maybe that's just the way I wanted it to be.
But now that you've gone away,
I asked myself if it's too late to tell you these things.
A voice answered back.
"It's never too late."

Welcome to the worse
ending of our human universe,
cause this is the lamest
apocalypse.

While the world is dealing with
a covid pandemic
and corruption that is so systemic
that our president can’t even begin
to hide it,

I am keeping busy by
trying to write
brilliant rays
of inspiration into
this endless night life;
Tired of the long line
of the long blind
stumbling stupidly
far behind,
unable to find a sound mind
among their cult of greed.

My deep dark cynicism
has been building
brand new chasms
that collapse into
whispering despair voids
which need to be exercised regularly,
but all of the gyms are closed.

I know there are truths and perspectives
that sparkle under the surface,
of this world that makes me feel worthless,
things seldom seen unless the poet deems
to share their deep dark beautiful dreams.

But those were the poems I wrote
to warn of the wolves at our throat,
and now I see my lines of predictive poetry
have becomes our pathetic armageddon reality.

strange professions and true confessions from a lockdown town (4/17/20)
————————————————————————————-————-

not a great idea,
in the not-yet-dawn,
to write
a poem entitled
strange professions,
true confessions

dried stains of prior leakings
upon old ‘n yellowed linoleum,
no need for more friends,
for sure, for sure,
that’s the smart play

you see! right there
I’m professing age
old wisdom,
confessing my sorry face is
well acquainted with
floor coverings,
where even the
soles of my shoes
won’t admit they been polluted,

having stepped in rooms
of low and ill repute,
those them there,
right in here
poetry writing sites
where there ain’t no
guideposts, reminding
what’s in the heart
pretend stays in Vegas,
but what the heck,
since I’m here already,
might as well,
ready go and spill,
things you don’t
need to know but...

help the time pass
in this lockdown town,
where total silence is
the loudest sound around

wine, empty beery bottles,
bad rhymes give me up,
just before I start a hey look!
it’s a brand new
sunny rain afternoon

the governor pronounced
we all gotta be masked,
24/7 inside and out,
the women complain that it
musses hair, the men say,
who me? nah, got
nothing to say about that,
We, don’t make no con-cessions...

when you can’t see
my lips moving, or my
one good eye be winking,
means it’s likely that I’m lying

they say, I’m going
stir crazy,
not me says he,
unlike  some guy who
wanted to blow up the
Alice-in Wonderland statue in
Central Park, hell,
u could look it up!

guess I coulda call this
here epistle, official “Lockdown Blues,”
but I jes heard gotta stay inside
till June Seventeen
that’s the good news,
plenty o’time to set
my affairs in order,
burn the poems nobody
needs seeing, those them
there with weirdness galore,
say no more,

you can whine, it’s fine,
no caring, no hearing,
past way the point,
where running or returning
is an option viable for nut jobs

them, with strange professions
and true confessions...

My comfort zone is more like a black-hole...
I fall into it real easy....
And when i finally get this teeny weeny bit of determination to get out of it, it pulls me back into it leaving me feeling lazy, depressed, anxious and guilty all at once.

I wear too many long sleeves,
and my eyes are just red from allergies.
I’m always somewhat full even though
the weight keeps dropping and my
stomach protests. I was going to stay in
anyways and that beer was just for the chili.
The weird smell in the air is just from the neighbors.
It’s just water in my bottle and that rattle
was just from some bath salts. I use those lighters
just for work, yes, I was just on the phone with my boss.
The music is loud just for the ambiance.
My face is just puffy in the mornings
and I was up late last night just playing some games.
Those fans are just because it’s hot up here
and that bag has just pens in it.

Tell me your secrets
unofficially
surreptitiously
on the quiet

whisper the unknown
off the record
behind closed doors
on the sly

between you and me
in camera
sub rosa
entre nous

let me be your one and only