I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.

All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.

The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.

Vicious eyes,
ferocious smile, and an
*** that begged to be
rubbed all night, like
Buddha promising good luck.
But, what that
*** brought, was
jail, soup lines, and
homeless shelters.

The heart pounds the
head, then the feet pound
the street;
walking mile after mile,
aimless roaming,
doe eyed thinking

What went wrong?
Where the hell did
I go wrong?

Then it dawns on
me like the dew
soaked morning.

It was the ***.
Always that
sorceriffic ***.

I dreamed I was rooming
With Simon and Garfunkle
They didn't seem to mind

                    Hope!

my deepest, darkest secrets
bolted in a wooden trunk.
All my junk stored in the attic.
And he stood static like the cobwebs
hanging from the ceiling.

I gave him
my hairless trim body.
The ******* the half shell
spilling her sweet perfume.
In full bloom, spreading out like
eagle wings, as he held
all the strings.

I gave him
my poetry.
He ate it down like candy,
lollipops and gumdrops
toffee flavored brandy.

I gave him
my photograph
cut out in a locket.
He threw it in his pocket
and forgot it.
The colors bled out
in the wash.

I gave him
my pneuma.
He pounced on it
like a puma in the grass.
I was the air he'd come
to pass.