in the
  still of
the night... .

   your lips
were the
  definition of
delight.

  in the
still of
     the night.. .

together,

  your lips
were.... .. .
   oh so tight.

when
  we know that,
something is
   killing us.

what is
  our fascination
to keep
  touching it?

still there?

just about
everyone
thinks that
they have
a
"good heart",

just about
everyone,
right?

me?

i think
you're
full of
****!

your
intentions
may be
good but
you know
the
ugliness
that lives
inside
your head
every day.

stop lying
to us
and
better yet-
stop
lying to
yourself.

you have
to live
with
yourself...

and
thankfully
i don't
have to.

i'm beyond
weary of
the...
"i'm such
a good
person posts".

"i do this
for people-
i do that
for people-
boo hoo.
****!

for Christ's
sake be
honest
with
yourself!
you're not
fooling
anyone
but
yourself.

remember
that.

last i
knew,
Jesus Christ
died on
the cross.
None of you
are
Jesus Christ!

stop
the
charade.

thanks...

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️👷🏿‍♂️

Listen to the calm surfaced river.
Shhhh....just listen.

As the blazing sun shines like diamonds upon it and glistens...

with lack of words or sound;

remember:

today's quiet river is still full of mystery and quite profound.

Đaviđ

with a
    deep breath
he inhaled
  the
christmas
  lights
and snow
    as he drove
in the dark
  with a
broad smile.

  the next
morning,
   he was
dead.

Sleeping
Under
Night

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'

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.

that cloud,
  right there.

the one
that always
drifts away
  from others
and their
  mundane
    colors and
rituals.

that cloud
  right there
doesn't mimic
  the tired old
zombietic lines;

merry Christmas
happy birthday
happy new year
blah blah blah
and blaaaaah.

why?
  
right there,
   that cloud
is not a zombie.

it's beyond
  bored of
triviality and
  predictability.

  the more
that cloud,
  right there,

exists in
the sky,

   the more that
it wants to
   drift away from
the ones that
  all look the same.

i don't wish to
  cover up
the warmth
   of the sun but,

then again,
  i don't ever
get a chance to
   because....

the clouds that
  all look and
sound the same,
have blocked
  the sun from
shining on me
  for my entire
existence.

  that cloud,
right there?

 it holds
    torrential
rains...

it holds a
     billowing
   storm
  with his name.

hopefully,
  it won't downpour
years of thunder
  and lightning
over you.

that cloud,
  right there
is me.

that one cloud
   in an otherwise
cloudless sky.

ravens
   follow
me...

  behind
the ravens,

    the
vultures
         follow.

behind
   the vultures,

             the
           coroner
with a

black
   body bag.

humanity
these days,

often
leaves me
in
bewilderment,
awe
and despair.

hunt,
go ahead
for food
of course
but,

why shoot
a bear?

that's just
trophy
hunting,
pound
your chest
little *****
syndrome
in my eyes.

i literally
look at
those that
trophy hunt
as wolves
in disguise.

be you
of course.

just remember,
God
nor I..

your
murderous
behavior
will we
ever endorse.

i clearly
put much
more value
on life,
any life
than you.

i am
thoughful
enough
to know
that
once we
draw our
last breath..

there are
NO REDOS.

**** for
food?
Jesus
approves.

******
for sport?
from heaven
to hell
your
forever home
moves.

i remember when-

i enjoyed
chocolate chip
pancakes when
my doctor
allowed it

smothered in
2 pats of real butter
and drowned
in maple syrup

now?

after my doctor
took all of my fun away

now i sit here
with my dry
whole wheat
toast and a
cup of decaf

while dreaming of
chocolate chip pancakes with 4 pats of real butter and dressed in a life preserver so not to drown in a quart of maple syrup

Who am I kidding?

with a side of salty pork sausage and bacon

i'd eat my own foot if it were fried in butter and wrapped in bacon

this year,

there were
no aromas
of fairs
or festivals
to fill
the air

just the
essence of
burning wood
by the shore
to share

the
hot summer
night
left her
hungry and
thirsty

each drink
she would
celebrate the
stars in
the sky that
made her
irresistibly
flirty

she begged
the moon
to undress her,
kiss her
******* and
*******
and make
love to her
by the fire

kissing and
exploring
every
soft curve
on her body
of which
he never
would tire

suddenly she....

******
her hips hard
against his
mouth into
a climactic
unique filled
desire

after exhaling
many a
"oh fxxks" ...
she lied there
satisfied,
vulnerable
and whispered...

"i hope that you're single
with any
good luck?"

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
-👷🏻‍♂️-

i'm

   a poet;

what

     did you

        expect?

poets

    are not

       recipes

that

...     taste

like

             the rest.

call us;

     -odd
      -eccentric
        -weird
       -bipolar
        or strange.

we poets

     love whom
       we are

and we have

    absolutely
  
       no desire

         to change.

   we are artists

      with words...

in case you

      haven't heard.

  misunderstanding  us

       is something

       we're

          used to.

    we'll always

be outsiders;

    it's just

     what

         we do.

we are

     comfortable
there,

   we are loners

       it's true.

      we write
for ourselves...

    we don't write

          for you.

Life.

Second to second it's a mystery.

A secret garden of roses at times.

A highway to hell in others.

Strangers that are strange.

Friends and family even stranger and more obscure.

Faces that disappear into the quicksand.

Marionetted Pinocchio's lies, their truth.

A cardboard box, the homeless.

Passers by act as if they are invisible.

Carnage of war, parent's and children's bloodshed.

Peace, a thing that will never be.

So what's it all about?

These "lessons" we are allegedly... supposedly... to learn from.

Even that garden of roses has thorns.

When "it's over" is it over?

Do I waft around aimlessly some misty foggy figure?

Do I decompose and fertilize the land?

Is there a purpose for me sitting in this chair?

Is there a purpose for me writing this piece?

Smile to frown takes but a split second.

Reality is I am but mere dust in the wind.

Reality is that bed of roses has been over watered by tears and the sadness of which is called "life".

I'm here right now, today for some purpose?

Perhaps my purpose runs out today, who is to say?

It's deeper than the deepest ocean.

This is not for the surface thinker.

The bowl of cherries thinker, the life is but a dream sweetheart thinker.

I'm the heavy guy on that see saw right now.

as poets,

  we breathe in
the universe.

while others,

   breathe in
themselves.

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.

growing up
  without
a father was
in fact,
   the most
painful
  experience
of my
      

     life.

these are
  wounds that
  never heal.

scars that,
   you can't see.

a lifelong pain,
   just for

      me.

Your teddy of white soft **** silk and lace,
covering your sweaty body in all the right places.
A soft kiss and a nibble on the nape of your neck,
south down your body slowly, a methodical pace.
Your inner thighs as hot as a melting ice cream cone,
I lick and I lick , fever pitched breathing , my shoulders you brace,
I make my way by the silk and the lace,
like candy from heaven, sweetness is all that I taste.
Legs draped over each one of my shoulders,
the summit is near , oh that look on your face.
The ceiling fan on high over a bed of sweat filled sheets,
cooling their bodies as if in a race.
Your teddy of white soft **** silk and lace,
gone without a trace.

'Yours and everyone's
'concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️👷🏿‍♂️

our parts
are
mostly
universal
sure...

our
outsides
are :

"you've seen
one,
you've seen
them all."

which IS
beyond truth.

remember
though,

that's not
what makes
you....
you.

you are
so much
more
than that,
so much more !

unique to you?

it's your soul
that
makes you....
you.

it makes
you
attractive,
it makes
you unattractive.

keep your
soul
beautiful.

feed it love,
feed it caring,
feed it sharing,
feed it
properly and...
people will
watch you
grow,
watch you
glow.

your soul
is not
universal.

your soul
is the
truest you.

i
don't
fear
what
the
world
thinks
of
me -

i
fear
what
i
think
of
me.

I am such a
  tortured soul.
More than
  anyone will
ever know.
   My heart
weeps every
   moment like
it is
    its job.
Leaving this
  earth is
the only time
  it will stop.
My thoughts
  are always
     stolen by
my heart.
   My heart
has controlled
  me right....

from the
    very start.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏿‍♂️👷🏻‍♂️

The bond.
The tightness.
I touch the number one.
The unforgetting.
The initial clumsiness.
I touch the number 3
The you.
The me.
The small talk of weather,
what makes me a man,
and you a Godess.
I touch the number five.
The dripping euphoria of playful intimate chatter.
The moment I saw those curvy hips swaying to song I hold dear.
The secured hours together I only deliciously imagined your ******* captive by my hands, my mouth wantingly, lustfully agape for your hardened *******.
The days I seduced ALL of you , your lips quivering... climatically speechless....
I touch the number one.

And ohhh...

That look in your eyes.
The look of those eyes giving in to passion, falling off to every angle, back of the head , catatonic.
The moment you realize this feels a lot like paradise and your world seems a bit like a perfectly fitting glove...., a bit in your face.......you breathe deep and know the hands that now sculpt and massage every curve of your aching wanting body wish to make you quiver till the first of never.
I touch the number one.
The chaos is lived within a ******.
The ****** you and I and the nosy neighbors for that matter, will not soon forget.
I touch the number one again and again and again.
The neighbors open their windows further...

"Men do not live on a pile of excuses.
Men live on a pile of results."

If time stood
still?

I would push it forward.

No need to be stuck here longer than intended.

Let the young live.

Let time move quickly and ****** us all like the homicidal maniac it is.

I don't ever want time to stop.

As I move slower, I want it to move faster.

I threw all of my broken watches and clocks away.

Ah yes, that sweet sound....

Tick tock

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.

Stop,
to admire
the beauty
of any
and all roses
in your life
before they
lose their bloom

Try not
to yield to procrastination and all
of its
stalling tactics.

Don't,
allow
your roses
to wilt
while you
utter that
tomorrow is another day.

Tomorrow,
may hide
in the
darkest
of nights
forever.

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.

even if
you had
removed
my skin?

what lies
beneath
is still
the poet
within.