Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land

I got home tonight
Walked in front of the mirror
And undressed

Out of my skin

Leaving my corpse
Lying on the floor
I sit next to it

Opening my eyes

To release the water
That have short-circuit
The wires of my mind

I take a deep breathe
And count to three
As I gaze into the mirrors depths

Reflections of my soul emerge
Skinless and vulnerable
I confront myself
Causing my memory to surge

I don’t recognize this person anymore
Dropping the hard drives into the degausser
Old files displaying
An error occurs
“Are you sure you want to erase memory?”

CTRL+ALT+DELETE

I have finally set myself free
Of the AI who controls my mind

Named:
Victim mentality

When writers stop telling us
What we don't know;
When the musicians pack up
And leave the Big Show;
When the actors stop showing us
How to feel;
And all the mixed Players
Leave all playing Fields;
When the clerics and laity
Stop living in Awe;
And the Body Politic
Stops abusing our Laws;
When teachers stop returning
To teach in Homerooms;
And we finally accept
There are no empty tombs;
When the philosophers stop telling us
How we should think;
And our Leaders abdicate
Because of the stink;
When all the Professionals
Stop professing their Trade;
And we ruminate peacefully
Over an Open Grave;
We will ask,
Was anyone saved.

i cried this morning
while washing my fruits
my tears mingling with water
fixated on conversating
about my emotions
simply due to the fact
that everything in my garden
was grown by

the love of me

only to be harvest
on a regular tuesday sunny afternoon
by none other

than the hands of you

I spend lots of time writing poems
I probably write two a day,
So it sounds silly to me
I don't let many see
All the writings
That I create
Everyday

There is a
force at work that
doesn't want me
to write.
There's always
something vying for
my attention.
The phone rings,
the kittens want
played with,
I get *****.
All I have to
do is think about
writing, and the
next thought is
I should take
a nap.

To read about
writing
isn't enough.
To promote my
writing won't cut
it either.
To finish one more
poem, to communicate
something worthwhile
is what will help
me sleep tonight, and
keep the undertaker
lonely and afraid.

There must be
a hell where
forgotten
words and lines
dwell.
Similes scamper,
lost like beetles.
Bat winged metaphors
fly to that dark
hell of forgotten
poems.
If those wandering
words escape, they are
gone forever.

When I swim in
the ink, and the
writing streak starts,
the prose comes to
me while I try to nap.
Now, I sleep with
pen and paper,
to put the words in
that white paper
prison where they
belong.

I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.

Turbulent waves of thought
begging to be surfed
my pen is my board

Thoughts break like waves
and just like the surfer...
a missed wave is lost forever

Raise a glass
to the missed waves
that will be forever mourned

It was either you or no one,
When i took the risk,
When i made it clear I wanted it to be you,

It was either you or no one,
When you marked the list,
And you made me feel like a 100 flattering roses

And I wanted it to be you,
But the universe said we werent meant,
And I had to continue to flow alone