I'm trying to stay alive long enough
to get the words out..
the words your broken soul
has been longing to hear..

the shift, that will provide
                             the offset

Not as if, an undoing of the trauma
or an explanation as to why
this whole ****** up world
is as ****** up as it is

but instead

ones that will  show you
that it all has been worthwhile--
That the pain  that you carry
will find a place--

and you will no longer have to  be
so all alone


I am failing, my beautiful..

and I am dying
in all of my inability
to say to you  (and those like you)

what it is I have been built (from day-one)

.
.
.
.
.


to say.

This feels like  what it feels like
every-time I come back,   yet
I can't  even remember the name

I used when we last spoke.  Funny
that I can feel you in this everso
surreal fog, tho.

    I could find you anywhere.

Change each time,  I
must-- in order to keep myself
from being stolen.

You know how that feels.

That is how I find you--

                          by feel

Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)

One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.

Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.

There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..

the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..

--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.


****.

eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.

Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.