Fellow men –
man to man,
once a boy to
another boy...

I beg you,
please make your
intentions clear...

For we all sleep at night –
and in that sense don’t
need more dreams
being sold to
our women

those are false dreams –

A man opens up

in the arms of a woman --


He softens and talks.

And they will still be celebrated by the people around you as "good men" while your blood drips from their teeth.

Fridays were always fun.

Jack was always the bold one, but once you knew him, it wasn’t that bad. You be surprised, once he got going, he became the life of the party.

Jerry was sweet and got along with everyone, though if you cornered him, he has one hell-of-a-punch.

Tito was smooth too, and like Jerry, got along with everyone. But became a bit bitter later in life.

Jim, Jose and Bulleit—man those three guys always got into trouble. They were ok at first, but we had a falling out as they fought with themselves and everyone else. Probably for the best not to worry about them.

And Mary. I don’t know how to explain it. She had a certain allure, an air about her. She is sweet, good looking, and super funny. No matter who she is with she can have a good time, down to party whenever.  

I suppose we all have lives now.
Too responsible.
But we deserve to have a good time, right?
It is a Friday.
I’ll be honest out of everyone I’d contact, it would be Mary. Maybe Jack and Jerry, only if Mary said she was cool with them as well. Anyone else though and the good times will not roll.

Mental mettle,
Mettle mentally.
You just don't understand,
The way I speak.
So if you're yelling incoherently,
I'm just going to repeat the same thing,
I said before backwards.
So please use restraint my friend,
Or show some restraint to me.

Right on 490,
The raised turn to 490 east.
There’s a hill,
And on that hill sits a lone,
Lazy Boy recliner.
Two folding chairs,
A table,
Two men,
And one sign.
“F Trump”

Boys will be boys,
Guess that’s it.

toxicity is just a human thing; cause of all the fumes we
all love to breathe – do our young men have much chose,
we can all live like men, but need to be trained like boys
if the roof over our troubled fires fell down, would the
smoke clear, or would we be forced to breath it all in?

but that’s how we live because we’re troubled, have dreams
inspired by the ideas of others, treat women less, as men
with no father’s, live in our own shadows because we all
hate our true colours –
                                  we just all want to breath.

Patro, patrino.

Mother: the little father --


in Esperanto.

my body was once a temple to Daphne consecrated,
got razed by your sinful touch,
an ingenue bearing the grudge.
ephemeral eudaemonia, sempiternally anesthetized.


crimson substance will gush out from my lips,
running down my ******* and hips
it will splatter my ankles and thighs,
retracing the marks of the night you eroticized.


same old scars were once covered with epidermis,
petrichor smell, decorated with the salt of my tears.
backsliders will cry at my vault, murderers won't go to court;
left with a soul reduced to the coagulation of common thought.

I don’t have time for senseless scribbles written by arrogant men, hailed as classics

But I’ll spend hours pondering a sentence written by the most somber silent woman,

I’ll listen to hear her quiet voice