so humbled that you,

wanted my initial in

your life's monogram

ravens
   follow
me...

  behind
the ravens,

    the
vultures
         follow.

behind
   the vultures,

             the
           coroner
with a

black
   body bag.

life;

it is
  something
that,

    i barely
live.

with Jesus,

i will
finally be
whom,
i struggle
here on
this earth
to be.

here,
i am
broken promises
i am a
broken spirit
with an
unmendable
broken heart.

most days
i just go
through the
motions,
just enough
to get through
that day and
get away
from the world
and the pain
that the world
causes me.

i am a
homebody
because
i don't trust
most humans
outside of
my home.
i go to
work because
i must, not
because i
want to.

i can't wait
to one day
make a home
with Jesus.

i can't wait
for the day
for this anxiety
and pain
to end.

to finally
live with
Jesus.

love,

   far too
often now... ..

  appears
in my
  
     rear view
mirror.

it's a
   stranger
in the night.

    it's... ..
endless nights
   of dense fog
a sea.

it's an
  empty bed.



   if found?

my only
  reward
can possibly
     BE,

   love... .. .

---------------

like a tree,

     i have

        lost all

   of my

          leaves.

but,

     as the snow

        dresses me,

    i realize that

       i am not dead

           but rather,

   i am simply, free.

        free to

    stand against

        every gale,

every breeze,

            never alee.

and i will,

     because even

         goliath - the giant he,

          was fell by

      by a mortal

         named David,

just like me.

cancer,

it
kills more
than
one
person
at a
time

i mean,

  let's be frank
here.

you haven't
   sipped
from me
  in a lifetime.

nor have
  i wanted
or wasted
   my moments
drinking
    in you!

i know
   what we are
and what
   we should do
but....

  just put
more makeup
   on that pig...

but eventually,

  you too
will realize that
  no amount
of makeup
  can pretty
what is ugly.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

a
  loving loss
is a
   wound
which
  never heals.

there
   are
no scars
   from loss
like this....
    just
open wounds.


'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

i am
  David
and i
  slay giants.

you there,
  in the
shadows,
   David
does not
     fear you.

to the
  contrary,
David is
  waiting to
slay you too.

one by one
  the
   long line
begins to
   wane.

your fleece
  was
no match
    for my
  ornamental
mane.

as David
   lives on,
he waits for
  false giants
to try and
  hinder
his way.

felling
  each giant
to wallow
  in pain.


'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'

the trees
wrap themselves
in slumber.
birds try
to fly away
from december.
winter comes
and schoos away
my loathing
of summer.
i wish
summer never
had to be.
summer is
obnoxious
loud and *****.
nothing beats
a crisp white
winter's beauty.
the summer's
rank and stank
of people and
garbage lined
streets.
individuals
in sandals
offending us
all with hideous
troll feet.
when i die,
i want to die
in winter please.
i don't want
to die in
summer's
smelly person
breeze.
i'd rather go
in winter's
crisp and
fresh clean
freeze.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

as you
   brush by me,

we attract-

   pull to one
another
   like magnets.

our gravitational
   pull
has me
     rigid
as we....

   well,

unintentionally/ intentionally
   orbit
one another.

  and like
neodymium
  magnets,

once joined
  together,

it will
  take
heaven....
    to pull
us
    apart.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

Tragic is the life ended so suddenly.
Tragic is the void that's been left in me.
Most often staring out into the never.
A hazy horizon that sets beyond the river.
I don my stetson, front brim tipped way down.
A broken cowboy, life of a rodeo clown.
Lifting my head up just to know I am not missing much.
So much love deep within but so numb to the touch.
I may have died also when you went away.
I fight just for one smile since, each and every day.
'Gets easier' , it hasn't, least not for me.
A deep breath, a sigh, I now live life on bended knee.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

i look at
   the bottle,
inquisitively.
the bottle
   i *****
with my hand
  nears empty.

the answers
  i seek
are not any
clearer.
maybe the
  next one
will help me
  draw nearer.

i twist off
  another and then yet another.
  the spirits
this night,
  my friend,
my intoxicating lover.

my table is
  littered with
tears drops
   and bottles.
ashes and
   images of
hot brunette models.

as i glance
around,
i admire
  life in double.
i beg
  my new friend
to keep me
  from trouble.

the answers
  it promised
have staggered away.

but alas...

  it still
promises
friendship
each and
  every day.


'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

she squeezes
  my face
with her
   silky  
upper thighs.

locking
  my face into position,
   my arms wrapped
  strongly around her waist....

  i take a deep breath.

gyrating hips,
   panting moans are telling
   no lies.

guiding,
   pressing firm her hands
   to the
back of
    my head.

Please...please!!!!

don't you
stop are
   her heavy breathed cries.

and all
   the while
i'm humming
   the song -
"She's my cherry pie".



'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

life... .. .
  it is such a
twisted and
   frayed strand of string that swings like a pendulum in each storm's hurricane force winds


'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

the lights
  are going up,
the decorations
   too for my
grandson.

if not
  for him
i wouldn't
   even bother,
my life's light
  has been dead
since i lost
  my own father.

i'd love to
  thank his
mother for
  giving me,
a light of life
  for me - all
sparkly and
   Caleby.

without him,
     i'm not sure
   where i would
be in my life,
   but with him...
i get to put up
  christmas lights.

thank you for
  my everyday
gift and
christmas lights,

because;

   for him...
every day of
  my life.. .
i will fight.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

a poet is
not selfish
although we
love the quiet
of being alone.

any kind of
silence is a
prescription
to let our
tortured minds
graze and roam.

by oceans
of foam or
the hush being
played by a
clock's tick tock
in our home.

us poets
being alone
in our silence
will always
produce a
plethora of
poems.

by the time
i grasp my
last breath
i will have
created a
large heavy
  scholarly
book... .. .

..a tome.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

there is only
  one that is;

forbidden
   restricted
prohibited  
banned
proscribed
vetoed
ruled out
interdicted
outlawed
not permitted
not allowed
  illegal
illicit
unlawful
impermissible
not acceptable
frowned on
beyond the pale
off limits
out of bounds
unmentionable
unspeakable
unutterable
ineffable
censored
indecorous
verboten
haram
  tapu
an informal no-go...

   and that
is you.

        admittedly
   my mind is
often decorated
      with you

but i lament....

   you are taboo.

Oral pain relievers

         laying in bed,

a hospice bed.

               Favorite meals brought by

                     comers and goers.

Sadness

       pity and low voices are popular.

              Methadone given

lorazepam given

                 a walk to the downstairs bathroom for Pops and I.

        Phones ringing

              California and across the country relatives calling

                   a brother dying of cancer in California as well.

         We pretend to sleep

but,
    
    . ...       it's time for pain meds.

Higher dose of methadone hospice instructs us...

       we comply.

               A new day has dawned

and-

                    trips to the bathroom have stopped.

      Time for a catheter hospice asserts to me,

               I struggle with this decision

      do I invade my Pops even more ?

Ripping myself to shreds,

.......       I reluctantly agree.

I lie next to my Pop's bed on the floor

       dawn has yet to break,

             pounding on the handrails of death's bed is Pops....

                  I need to get the fxxk up !

       I need to *** !!!!

who the fxxk is holding me down ?!?!

             I destroy myself further for Pop's catheterization.

                  For one
hour Pops angrily pounds...

      Higher oral dosage of lorazepam hospice asserts,

               finally the pounding stops

......I break down ,

       telling my older brother that I need him to help me with this ...

              Dawn breaks and Pop's pain is a 7

              the time for ports have come....

        one in each of Pop's arms and upper thighs,

       Methadone is now morphine.

People still coming and going,

        but it's Cindy, Cathy and I that will not allow Pop's end in the hands of strangers.

              Morphine in one port

lorazepam in another...

Morphine becomes tramadol

              breaths become faint...

I lie next to Pops on the green carpeted floor.

                   End stage is over...

it's ended-

       I have lost my Daddy

the cold stethoscope tells me that my Pop's life is over....

          I am amputated limb, numb!

Questions amass from strangers

              a stretcher opens on my Pop's white ceramic tile foyer floor....

               a black body bag unzipped and my Daddy placed inside of it..............¿¿¿¿

      zipped up-

           my mind blacks out from there.

             I finally, weakly stumble to the kitchen and see all of the medications we pumped inside my Daddy.....

           it's clear that we fought hard against end stage cancer with Pops but at what cost to me.....

         for life?

Imagery never alludes me,

           it's a replay,

a broken record,

                        that will never stop,

      .....until my end days....

and this I know !

i write
  about her
often but,

  i am
sure that
      she
doesn't
    know it.

every year
  since his
father's
    passing,
he seemingly
   has only
gotten worse
    not better.

withdrawing,
     retreating
  himself deeper
inward and
  furthering
himself away
    from every
normal
  societal
celebration,
    everything
and everyone.

intentionally  
  destroying
himself privately
    at least,
  away from
the eyes
    of others.

he desperately reaches
  for hope
within Jesus
   every day
but not even
  Jesus can
give him hope
  on his
"i don't want
   to be here"
days.

he sees things
  much too
clearly about
    life that
his troubled
  mind refuses
to be persuaded
  with mere
fractions of
   happiness.

his eyes
  absolutely know
what they see
  and his heart
absolutely knows
what it feels.

which,
   leaves his
soul wrought
   with pain
      and wound
after wound...
  
deeper and
  deeper these
wounds plunge...

  the bleeding
is becoming
    uncontrollable
  inside...

he's running
  out of
tourniquets.

like the
   sensual
feeling of
     a warm
summertime
    waterfall

c
  a
    s
      c
         a
            d
               i
                 n
                    g

down your
  naked body...

   so do

a

  good
poet's

  w
      o
         r
           d
            s

as poets,

  we breathe in
the universe.

while others,

   breathe in
themselves.

when you
insert fire
into fire... .
it
only intensifies

heavy
oxygen in
the air
feeds the
burning

the heat
and smoke
arrest their
hearts

monolithic
bodies
melted... .
exhausted

all cooled
down with
a spasmic
hosing

in today's
world,
you
'get together'
why?

to sit across
from someone
that you
barely
even know
any more,
and perhaps
more troubling
is that you
don't even
care to?

to sit across
from someone
that rudely has
'earbuds' or
headphones
covering
their ears?

to sit across
from someone
that has their
face buried
in their
phone like...
you're not
even there?

Helloooo...
I am right here!

no thanks.

i will pass
on those
'get togethers'
with folks that
it seems have
turned into
total
strangers.

once, twice,
three times
a year?
i consider you
a stranger.

and then,
when we
'get together'
you have music
blasting in
your ears and
your face
buried in
technology?

no thanks.

let's just
continue being
strangers....
thank you.

no need for
awkward
silence...
no need for
feeling alone
around a
crowd.

no need for
a feeling of
needing to
be drunk
to deal with
this complete
waste of
time.

heck, i can
have much
more fun alone
getting drunk
and writing
poetry and
having a
functional,
creative
and
entertaining
'get together'
with...
me, myself
and i.

so,
"why even bother"?

i'm not
  impressed....
with your
  'get togethers'.

That empty place at the table.
Or, perhaps the place not so void of another worldly presence.
I caught a glimpse of you....yes you.
A quick sighting of you in brightly monochromatic colored attire.
With a light so magnificent, so radiant.
Almost in trance by its wavelength and frequency.
The chair directly seated in this empty place.
It appears almost depressed with a form of what once was.
Beneath the chair , your slippers Sabre has brought with a wagging tail.
On the holiday place mat your black framed reading glasses.
The ones that made you look ever so wiser to me.
Even more than I thought could even be possible.
Also a number 2 pencil and a book of fabulous crosswords collections.
Challenging word games we both took seriously, yet enjoyed.
A navy coffee mug inscribed with your name.
Not a stain to be found on the USS Fort Mandan.
I sip from this mug , never to gulp.
I want my memories of you in stages....
not a gulping unsavoriness.
But rather slowly , cherishingly...  methodically.
I set your coffee mug gingerly down after rinsing it with care.
I will sip from this mug again another day soon.

deeply breathe in
each muse
that passes by
without hesitation
or wondering
why.

let it
cut you,
pierce your skin
and fully
let it in.

we are meant
to bear the
scars that
others ignore.

almost daily
we will
place ourselves
at the foot of
death's door.

i see you
fellow poets,
i feel the
pain and
the longing
of your own
tortured yet
loving soul.

just keep
the tourniquets
handy because
bleeding for
others is meant
to be our
life long role.

we love,
we make love
with unmatched
passion that
one never
soon forgets.

we are lovers
that when one,
our lovers will
never, ever
regret.

we lOve soooo
so much
deeper than
most others
could ever
comprehend.

we are poets,
born as poets
and we will be
poets right to
the very end!

i love you my
community of
genuine
fellow poets.

the words
that i splashed
upon this page
are truth,
and all of us
poets,
know it.

not only do i
  need her but
i want her.

those
   green emerald
eyes like
  2 emerald
shards of ice.

those
   mesmerizing *******
  and gum drop
******* that
  poke through
every piece of
   clothing.

that
   hourglass figure
that haunts
  me as i sleep.

those lips...
   where kisses
are meant
   to be missed.

one night,
  i wish to
have my
   own lips
buried deep
  within her
thighs.

born in
the cold
month
of november
rain.

born on
day 24
and
shackled
to life's
chain.

chained
to a
tree
like an
ornamental
dog.

everyday
just
struggling,
to be
seen
through
the fog.

left out,
alone,
to suffer
and die
a slow
death.

he's not
really
sure what
any of
it
meant.

his chains
are now
broken
to stray
from the
tree.

a birthday
gift
to leave
his tortured
existence
behind ...

and at
long last
his
unchained
soul
can
playfully
be free.

from
  life's chain
sadly and
happily
  at long last
   released.

gone missing:


last seen
running
from
myself,

thanks to
having to
deal with
today's
society.

society
grooms us
to be
folks that
we aren't.

that's why i....
run from
them,

i know
who i am.

i am
a poet
with deep
intrusive
wounds
that need not
society's knife
to plunge
any deeper
into my
soul.

vital organs
deep
already.

there she was
  sitting in
her long  
  brunette hair

and that
   *******
fitting dress
    left me
gasping
    for air.

silhouette
   on fire
as she
    teases the
moon light

her curves
  have got
me hungry
   for one
helluva night.

  she hopped
up on my
  pickup
and then
  she's dropping
my tailgate

i knew to
  hop on up
'cause this
  lovin' just
can't wait.

i still haven't
  found what
i am
   looking for is
much more
   complex,
much more
   profound than
just a few things.

   unrewarding
is a life
  asea that
lives and breathes
  within one's
dreams.

   exhausted;

what i look for
  may not
even exist
   except for
what lies in
  my subconscious
mind.

dubiously
   just living
and seemingly
   wasting time.

people
  for one
day
   "act".

they
    "try"
to say
  all of
the
  right - expected
things

      and...

   the very
next day
    "reality"
settles
  back in
and they
  go back
to being
   who they
really are... .. .

   for good
      or
    bad.

thankful?

i am
   thankful
for
      keen
        intuition.

               i
     understand
            that

most-
  have no
    motives.

they're
   just
b-list
   actors....
  
  in

     a
  
world

        scattered
.
....    and

    filled

with

      hollyweird

         flunkies.

              i say

               be
          yourself.

   leave the

         imposter

    at
.
          .. home.

      halloween
      
was in

     october.

   i bring

      my

bipolar self

     everywhere

         with me,

   even if

....   i have to

    drag him.

     for
    good
       or
      bad.

i say you're not you
when you wear makeup
because you spend
so much time
in that mirror
making yourself
look like a rose....

well...

when i fell in love
with you
it was with your roots
the roots that are you
not the paint you use to cover
who i fell in love with,
the one i awaken to
in those early mornings
unpainted,
just naked.

and...

your beauty goes deeper!

the superficial you
leaves me wanting your roots,
the roots i want to water forever
the you in the mirror
was not what attracted me.

the you deep inside
is all you need to be,
you're already a rose
without all of that
paint on
your face.

your roots
are breath taking

your roots have
always left me
satisfied
your roots are
an aphrodisiac
to endless
intimacy.

your roots have
always been more
than enough
for me.

i'd ask you
  what's wrong

but,

   there's
no need
    chasing after
what's already

     g

o

       n

e

you are
  one star
and i
  am another
      star...

and yet,

   through all
of the
  stellar remnants,

interstellar gas,
   dust,

and dark matter
  in this here
galaxy,

  
  your gravitational
     pull has
never been
   equaled.

they say
  that,
one can not
  help whom
they are
    attracted to.

you'll
  have to
forgive me
  if i never
apologize
    to you.

build
  someone,

anyone
  up today....



without first,

   knocking
them

      d
     o
        w
     n,

be an

   overcomer.

Over thinking life
can leave you sinking.
This started as 10 words
but got me thinking.

Losing sleep over
the day that's been.
Instead of looking to tomorrow
and what's yet to be seen.

Dwelling on something
someone MAY have said,
when you could be sleeping
in comfort in your bed.

Drinking to excess
over matters of no control.
Or turning silver haired
for not reaching a goal.

We're not all entrepreneurs
or a self made millionaire.
Look at President Trump,
who'd want his hair?

Try living each day
like a fresh start.
Sure, it may end like crap
but listen to your heart.

Celebrate your uniqueness.
Let off a bit of steam
at the end of each day.
Think positive and, dare to dream.

sure,
  i've been
a fool
  before

but your
  whispers
in the dark
  will never
fool me
  again

i graze
your
lips
with
a
drive by

your
eyes....

so hungry
asking
me why?

anticipation,
wetting
yourself
longing
for my...

leaving
you
and
knowing
that
this
is not
our
last
goodbye.

this is for the forgotten ones.
for the in-betweeners.
for the never-good-enoughs.
this is for my strong people.
who like me, struggle daily to find their footing in a world that seems to take pleasure in seeing them trip.

for the second choices.
for the i'll-date-him/her-if-i-have-no-other-options.
for those who always feel alone.
for my fighters.

i understand you and i am so proud of you.
it is not easy to live the way you do and yet you are breathing.
this is for my forgotten people who simply exist while no one cares.
i'm with you and .....
i do care.

i am
more bi-polar
than i care
to admit.
but ...
i do
admit it.
i'm the one
that struggles
to fit in.
and i am
okay
with that too.

like a
morning sunrise
through the
open blinds,  
i gently kiss
your silken thighs.

forcefully yet
thoughtfully,
i awaken
your enchanting
emerald eyes.

I have a
  valid question.

Why do some
  folks try to
treat this
  as a
      dating site?

I mean,
  listen;

   I am here
to read
    other "poet's"
work and to
  share mine
as well.

Please stop
  inboxing me
about things
   that do not
pertain to
   the reason
that we are all
  supposed to
be here for....

poetry.

I'm not here
  to make
videos or have
  some weirdos
   inboxing and
asking me where
   I live and....

I am sure
that you can
    figure out
the rest.

Stick to
   poetry please
or I will
   block you.

Thank you.

into
ebon
forests
alone
i trek.

limbs of
stripped
trees reach
for the
communion
wafer
hued moon.

unsettling
echoes
of predators
find way
to my ears.

unfamiliar
eyes by
the hundreds
seemingly
fixed
upon me.

yet,
i continue
forward,
never do i
retreat.

fate is
not my
fear.

and fear
is not
my fate.

building a
granite
foundation
of character
represses
any fear.

i stand
firmly
ready
for the
attack
amongst
the shadows.

darkness
will regret
taking a
second swing
at David.

i already
fell
Goliath
once.

writers
write

poets
poet

just when
  you think
that you
  know
a poet?

HA!

that's
   crazy talk.

you will
  never really
know
   a poet.

they don't
   want anyone
to really
    know them.

all a
   poet wants
and craves
    is their
next muse.

they will
  only allow
you to
  discover-
to have pieces
  of them,
only the
  pieces that
they want
   you to have.

no one
   will ever
put a
   'poet puzzle'
fully together.

even the
   poet admits
to missing
  a few
pieces of
   themselves.

and they
   are in
NO HURRY
  to find
them.

a
  poet's words
are their
    organs

   that

they
    donate
to

    the world

at a loss,
a loss for words.
I *****, I scratch I claw,
for words with weight.

the deaf and blind ignore,
respect its clear, now out the door.

excuses flood a public forum,
caps lock and exclamation points,
the ignorant counter with hyperbole and erroneous nothings.

passion collides with patheticism,
followers flock to regurgitated utterings,
my bib is clean because this man doesn't eat what followers bring.