His soul was woven
From a fool's whispers
By the hands of a ghost
On a loom of lies
          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                 . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                        His condemnation
                        Was not so much
                        Predicated on the Lord
                        Or what part of his body
                        The Devil had enjoyed
                                 eaten and spit upon the street
               The whispers
               The echos of whispers
               Troubled him the most
               Especially at night
               When light breezes
               Muted the voices
               In an interruptive cadence
               Leaving the words unconnected
                        The burden
                        His own
                        To fill in the blank spaces
                        Connecting the dots
                        With a broken pencil
                        And an eraser
                        Worn to its metal edge

Accepted clarity
Muddied only
By half-truths
Perceived as real
                       A contrived conscience
                       With volume control
                       Lowered by convenience
                       And narcissistic survival
The retail outlet
Of self-patted shoulders
Selling in real time
One's own significance
                       Safety in numbers
                       A comfort of thought
                       The inclusive community
                       Of light
                       Through fractured prisms
Individuality
Sought in the scope
Of a petri dish
Hopefully,
There be an artisan
Peering through the lens
An expert in restoration

All the young raison wanted,
             was a drink of water
His mother sternly told him
            " You get back to bed! ''
He shrank away from her discipline

A newborn
In its mother's arms
Gratifying
Death defying
In aspects uncountable

Turned out
Burned out
His mind a vacant lot
Debris and weeds, grown up
"Stay Out" sign, thrown up
No one to own up
To the mess on the block

Hard to restore
Trying to ignore
The broken concrete
Like wounds unclosed
Crumbling and overdosed
Garbage in the street

A hope at best
To find some rest
In a seamless mind
Like newspapers tossed
In deserted lots
Where no one walks
Without a glance behind

It seems like I'm
        on the inside again,
                        of the outside,
                                   I'm usually living in
There is little fear, here
        In this place of my own making
        The only things breaking
                Are thoughts,
                         thrown against the wall
                Better that,
                         than bouncing back
                         as problems I can't solve
Fears of loss
Are easier to toss
          at structures that can handle the blow
          No Echo
                   Of frustration or regret
                   No need to place a bet
On a world I will never know

I don't bother anybody
Spend my days, doing my thing
Show up here and there
Hang around awhile
Then blow the scene

I've been called "too common"
Not welcome, at the affluent homes
Constantly harassed, insulting digs
Never left alone

I've never been offered
Good food or a well kept bed
I'm beginning to think
Some are wishing me dead

I've been intentionally poisoned
A brute broke my neck
I was kicked in the face
Out of spite, I would guess

Could this be my fate?
Cut down in my prime?
Chopped up and spit out
                 Have you no mercy?
I'm just a dandelion!!!

He was a homosocialistsexual
His clothes were multi-textural
Often had thoughts exceptional
With the swallow of a random pill
                  His friends sometimes glittered
                  In lights harsh, but not bitter
                  All his little sisters
                  Had lost their sense of feel
Circles bent by passing time
Trying to keep the stars aligned
A simple trick within his mind
To take his own advice
                  Play fair and simple
                  A tsunami starts with a ripple
                  Leave your troubles on the pillow
                  When you get up from the night
______________

     My neighbors are asexual.
     They're constantly adding on to their house.

It was an evolving matter
Of agreed on fact
That swayed the puppeteer
To reach back
And slide his hand
Into a new face
One with a bit more grace
A softer voice
To calm the noise
As he spoke,
            mouth unmoving
Through a goat of his choosing
To ease the uprise
If not,
Then a sacrifice
Of lesser meat
A calculated retreat
Leaving his name
With no blame
By courtesy
Of the circus

Pierced through
       by so many spears of betrayal
His  shadow appeared
       as a moving constellation
Defined by street lamps
        on the empty streets
He chose to walk
But,
   There was always
                more mass than misery
With hope lying,
                 in the darker contrasts
                                     of his silhouette

Real
The real deal
That's pretty much how I live
And what I've learned to live with
Not so much what
As who
And the who is me
And how I choose
What some might perceive
                         as stumbling paths
Are my simple walks in the park
The rain
The sun
Have little effect
On my well earned
And fought for at times,
                       invisible umbrella
I step gently
Not when I am unsure
But when there are crowds
               of others who may be
I follow no light
I just reach
For the nearest hold
My hands might find
Whether smooth or jagged
It gives a bit of rest
Being more timely
            than being deserved
Still hanging on
Despite the fact
             This is as high
             As this effort may go
But I am not a pretender
My hands are calloused
From a climb
Somewhere below
If this be the space, of my legacy
It's where my heart, and myself belong

There was a richness
                              in her voice
A calm, deliberate, unstressed
                              expression of thoughts
Even if in disagreement
                              I never offered a voice
Only listened
Content, in the melodiousness
                              of the breathing of her mind

I remember the fall
My life flashed through my mind
Years of confusion, in a second of time

I fired the King's horses
I fire the King's men
I finally managed, to climb up again

The wall is scary high
And my **** is still round
Yolk is leaking from my cracks
Running to the ground

I hope I can hang on
I know it's a gamble
But sunny side up
Is much better than scrambled

Some people have the knack
Of not slapping back
At edges, dark in demeanor
That lets some of us walk
After, just a brief talk
Feeling somehow cleaner

Intelligent
Unassuming
Not forcing
          square pegs into round holes
A general appreciation
                 of the variety of souls

Different steps
Taken everyday
By everyone
But few can say
"I am not one to judge."
And live their lives in that way

Farm house
Old and empty
Miles from anywhere
Miles from anyone
A broken window, or two
One unbroken step, out of three
To the bowed, unsteady porch
A door, still solid
Open just enough
          as if asking me in
I accepted
The creaks and slight groans
                             of the floorboards
Echoing my curiosity
A steep narrow staircase
Seemingly to nowhere
A collage of peeling paints
                               and wallpaper
Portraying a timeline
                   of moods and change
The smallest hint of sun
            filtered by dusted glass
                   dotting the kitchen table
The only, lonely furniture
A tint of retrospect
            failing, fading
                   on the wood of a thousand meals
On those that might have sat
                   in the chairs now missing
A sense of sweat
A sense of simpler,
                  though not less noble, thoughts
A comfortable, musty inhalation
Of who we were

I'm employed at a factory
20 miles from here
I make transmissions
Which lets me afford a car
With a good transmission
So I have a way
To get to work
And make transmissions
It's complicated

Grass grows
Grass mows
Grass blows
One of the few things
Men brag about
As having the shortest

Did you ever try to write a love poem
But no longer in love?
Write about a broken heart
And yours already mended?
Words and efforts
          shallow as a mud puddle
Just as mucky as its bottom
Like my hippie buddies used to say
" It's not real,
            unless it is,
                               man."

I was born
In a place
        nobody wants to come from
And I'm here
        breathin' your air
I was formed
        from a bad piece of clay, son
Don't look me in the eyes
        'cause there ain't nothin' there

I spend
         most of my time alone now
Nobody but me
          has my back
Some people say
           I got a little chip on my shoulder
Be careful
           If you wanna get you some of that

Count your blessings
          my mama would say
She said
           your daddy slipped in
           then slipped away
Go outside boy
Go out and play
There's another daddy comin'
                                               later today

I was born
In a place

Blacked out
In the backroom
Caught up in the vacuum
Of space
Needing space
Eternal grace
With a black eye
A ******* eye
A cringe worthy black eye
That will fade
In passing days
Thank who?
Blame who?
Not God
           for short memories
No sense of history
Common sense
            the oxymoron
Most vivid in its display
               of division
With the rubbing of one's arms
In some uncomfortable manner
An attempt to soothe
An ignorance
Be it yours or mine

The strong storm lashes
        the brick wall with its winds
Leaving the mortar
        a bit enlightened
Not with the fear
         of its eventual crumbling
But the knowledge
          That a good person
          With a good broom
          Will sweep up the red dust

Dancing delusions of darkness
Stealing the show
       from the sun's determination to shine
Green grass the palate
Of the shifting shadow artist
Riding on the wind
And living in the trees
Tending each leaf's turn
                       until a sparkle
The heaves
         of branches and boughs
As if animals come alive
Standing in ferocity
         in their will to live and speak
The comfort of my shaded spot
Unnoticed by the giants
A steady breeze
In this place of refuge
Nothing less
Than the breath, of a kind God

He looked down at his wrists
He must have tried to resist
The purple cuff marks
         were as plain as day
Even in the yellow light
Upper bunk, late at night
He felt no need to pray
What would he say?
         Except for what he said
                                         an hour before
         To his group of comrades
                  locked behind the same door
"I guess I ****** up again."

He was never fooled
Though sometimes ridiculed
In places he was not present
A face to face
Might displace
The confidence of his accusers
And the short chute to insignificance
Describing his tumble
By those with congenial
           and reciprocated pats on the back
In the comfort of closed quarters
Where disagreement
                on certain matters
Is considered
              not only uncomfortable
                                        but irreverent
At least in the context
Of a small room
A very small room
Where ideation beyond the norm
Is considered heresy
Or more troubling
Begs the insidious questioning
Of one's own absolutes
Or calmness in stature
And how firm the ground
Before lying beneath it

They voted not to let him join the B.P.O.E.

But he could still golf, as a guest.
No swimming!
Thank the Lord,
      that he was a very light-skinned *****

There is never a relevant reaction
To the realization, of being lost
                     Not a corner
                     Not a turn missed
                     Not a stumble, past a road sign
Just a gut wrench
                     harder than poison
                     or childish heaves of alcohol
A falling through the curtain
On stage
         with the cruelest of admirers
         disappointed there is no meat left
                                     to pick from the bones
Pardon me,
Excuse me,
I disintegrate nightly
On no one's terms
            not even my own
But laugh if you wish

I use my elbow
Not my sharp elbow
My sharpened elbow
To wade
          and make my way
Through the throngs
          of bleeding hearts
                   disturbing my peace
MY----- peace of mind
With their empathetic conjectures
          of what my purpose might be
Leave it alone! PEOPLE!
It's every man for himself
Or should I say "every person"
In hopes that it pleases
          some inexhaustible demand
For compliance
          In being politically correct
          On not only the trivial
                    but meaningless matters
I will strive
I will survive
I will thrive
In my complacency
         to recognize anyone
                         with thoughts
                                     different than my own
My bubble is made of nylon and prejudice
Woven band over band
Against the slithering bombardment
Of knowledge or ethics
       I live very comfortably
                   in my two bath home
        Except for the fear
        Sometimes a terror
        That brown people and Muslims
                                   are trying to take it away

She was ran off
So she ran off
Took a dive into the deep
Living in a cement landscape
Where no one ever sleeps

She was hustled
So she hustled
To keep her piece of pie
Working winter corners
Where no one ever cries

She was abandoned
So she abandoned
Her soul and left it bare
Trash covered sidewalks
Where no one ever cares

She was used up
So she used up
The last of her stuff
Dark room, off a dark street
Where no one ever loves

He doffed his hat
         To the maiden there
Said " If you wouldn't mind, if you might not care,
I've lost my way upon these cobblestone streets.
My sick mother, I'm here to see."

She led him through the shifting paths
Sunlight here,
                     there shadows cast
A winding trail, of smell and dirt
         He traded his sixpence, she traded her worth
         No knives were drawn, nobody got hurt
Just a circle of footsteps
                                 trod on this earth

Occupying the same space
In a new place
Easing the restrictions
Of a jailed set of comforts
Exploring building tops
With no way down
But sheer will
And a desire to fly
Walking the ledges
High in the city
Toes hanging fearlessly
Somewhere
Over there
I'm told
There is better air
Resembling life
With a different twist
Spinning spirals
Fingertips
Feeling how blue
The sky might be
Or finding where it ends

A spider made its way into my bed last night
I saw the crawly creepiness
In laptop keyboard lights
I let it clear the alphabet
And smashed it on the flat
It was pale yellow
The color of infection
Invading my space
Disturbing my peace
A mindless jumble of nerves
Biting in survival mode, if pressed
Even its death
And splattering were disgusting
Legs and juice
I floodlit the ceiling
And the walls
In an all out search, for his brother
Nothing
Still uneasy
I slept on the couch

See the soul of a solider boy, keepin' time
Seems, that he can't find
What it is, in his mind
That makes the whiskey
                      taste so fine
He had the music of the band
In his hand
But he knew, they would never play
Well, I guess tomorrow
         is gonna be another yesterday

Let The Wind Take You Away

Soon he met the ocean's rising tide
Found him a cloud, that he could ride
Took a race through space
         that was deep and wide
But he couldn't cross the rivers
         of tears that he cried
There was no love
To speak of
Wherever he might lay
So, he lost himself
As he fell to hell
In the darkness of the day

Let The Wind Take You Away

Old man turned gray
Through ages of red
Turned his mind to the heavens
The he said
        I have the fear of being near
        A heart that's been misled
        I hear words of pain
        And the freezing rain
               is falling in my bed
Old man died
Nobody cried
His soul became a ray
Shining bright in the sky
He soon learned to fly
In his silence, you could hear him say

Let The Wind Take Me Away

A light never noticed
Until it is gone
Barely aware of its fading
A reflection diminished
To the dimness
              of moonless night fog
With no intention or awareness
Behind the dark circles
              of black with no gloss
                       becoming a lifeless gray
A damping of the fire
That propelled this life
         Through time
           Through anger
             Through pain and love
Now a smoldering
                  of eventual ash
Eyes once blue
Having nothing
                  behind the lenses
And little recognition
             of a world once inviting
                        now fear filled and confusing
Sight
      used only for survival
              and the next unsteady step
                      Taken only
                              with an aiding, guiding hand
A light never noticed
Until it is gone
When my father
      No longer knew my face
But at times
      Knew that he should

Too many times
    with our outstretched arms
        reaching for nothing more
             than something different
Because of our own resignation to entitlement
A few steps back
       and some faith in ourselves
Lets us occasionally, wave the bus on
Knowing,
It is not going anywhere
        we haven't already been
___________

A fairly constant search
       For that comfortable perch
              Where things seem better
                                  than they actually are
                             But not too far
                                   away from the turmoil
                             That might spoil
                             The perfect idea
                                       that actually isn't
                              But seems so
                              In too high a tree
___________

Restored
      A bit of self sense
      No longer on the defense
      About the bits of me
                  that aren't  for rent
A calm, laying down
        of my bruised hands
In the acknowledgement
         that no one understands
         My brief shadows
                   on a good day
         Let alone the long day
                    where shadows cannot be made
_____________

I'll give you a piece of my mind
It's in my back pocket
The one without the wallet
The one with nothing
But my *** to kiss

Blisters/Falling in love
Your body's warning signs
Whatever you are doing
You need to quit
Or do it multiple times
To create the proper callouses
Your ballpark
Your call

I am a common man
I write common poems
I use common words, common phrases
Most commonly, anyway
When I eat out, at the diner
I leave appropriate tips
I have been accused, fairly or not
By other poets, who claimed
I was a member of the Commonist Party
Oh well
So be it
I never take myself too seriously
Might be my age