Welcome true Love.
I trust. Tread easy.
Don't become a ghost
haunt my memory.

My heart has become
fields of unmarked graves
calcified and numb
we're all Love's slaves.

I'm 7. I want to be like God.
He makes my mom laugh out loud.
I want to be Him when I grow up.
I smoke the butts in His ashtray and
drain His beer too warm to finish.
He's the God that I wish God was.

She hypnotized me.
She mesmerized me
staring in my eyes
telling me the lies
I never believed
her love deceived
I broke my own heart
just like I always do.

Silence and noise
destroys my poise
up and down again
the madness within
shadow in noon light
it is my final flight

Rockefeller was a villain
back in the olden times
until he gave away all of
his pockets full of dimes.
A gentle kind old man frail,
caring, generous to a fault
sold his soul on newsreels
to an adoring sheep like cult.

Dodged a bullet called life
so beautiful yet shattered
fine crystal bloodied hands
we all act as if it mattered.
We protest in graveyards cry
blood tears for tiny abortion
boy or girl we never know now
just another ignored correction.

I feel your shadow from above
  hunting me with your eager eyes.
  I always told you of my weakness
tear my love apart with  your lies.
  Keep your talons from my flesh.
  Spare my heart. Ignore my carrion.
  Share your heat on our wedding bed.
  Stay with me through the bitter end.

It's just me. I can't be you.
You are sunset. I'm morning dew.
I haunt you but you evict me.
You live in my bones for free.
Love is the harshest mistress
wearing the smallest dress.

We're all being swept to sea in a
riptide of madness in a sinister
world of mad science and trusted
aides with long knives and smiles.

The sky's so clear
  in the atmosphere
  stars perch on a tree
  caged birds set free
  my mind takes flight
  into the cold night
  when I just can't feel
  what's dream or real
  my dogs walk me home
and I write this poem.

I used to look to the future,
        the only thing left is a past.
        There's an emptiness I can't fill.
        I've always been troubled fun.
        It's a steep price for a ticket
        to a ride that lasts a minute.
        The line is long but moves fast.
        Afterwards you change your name.
        We never drown in the shallows.
        We always preferred the deep.

Who fumbled the ball?
I think it was us,
the spoiled rotten
Baby Boomers.
Misinformed we
sold our souls to
Wall Street and her
golden treasures.
When everything
has a price on it
there is no value.
We sold our America.

The hearts we set aflutter as we
     danced inside the canvas tents.
     Towns on the edge of the dust bowl who
     still had pennies and loved our scents.

     Times were hard and we moved to catch
     the next town with a sawbuck to steal
     with our games of chance and ladies
     teasing what we'd give after a deal.

They had to have a live tree
instead of a fake ironically.
The thing ended up killing me.
It's not big enough can't you see?
It was monstrous as it could be
but kept them quiet and happy.
I tried to lift it, was on a knee.
Help! They ignored my plea.
Coroner delivered me for free.
Moving the tree cost a hefty fee.

I have scars of life
mostly self inflicted
bad judgement of youth
just accidental addicted
to a crack ******* pipe
and Satan's debauchery
Eden's fruit now ripe
Eve gives me her cherry.
I take it as a treasure
covet as I do her heart
the fiercest pleasure
will tear us both apart.

I've used substances to balance my tilt.
     Smokes, beer, wine, vallium and xanax.
     They've helped me to stay in the lines.
     I chose to ignore the rules and live on
     a pinball machine with frenetic energy.
     All I want is a drug to bring me down
     to this earth where I began the journey.
     Please take these cravings from my mind.
     The Chemists come up with carnival rides.
     Up and down and everywhere in between,
     Coney Island madness in their tiny pills.
     Bring me back from this life on Mars.

Just be my breath and heartbeat for a start.
   Be stories that tore beautiful through my heart.
   Every lust that ever brought me to an end,
   the absolute to my doubt, straight to my bend.
   Be my broken vows and promises forgiven.
   Be my gentle ending when I'm done livin'.

You can't read my mind.
You've no idea what it's
like being close to you.
I'm stunned by your beauty.
Your laugh infects me.
Your wild hair brings me
to my knees in adoration.
I cower in fear of my love.
I'm quiet. I'm distant. I dream
of you that night. I write this.

It's always a casual see you later,
  then somehow you leave forever.
  I see your obit on google and wish
  I'd reached out when I still could.
  Here's to our shared misery and joy
  sharing secrets and keeping them.
  Here's to ******* pants laughter
  and a broke piece you left in me.

We've been beat near to death.
  Irish mules pull English plows
  rocks and clay our last breath.
  You steal our milk, eat our cows.

  Steal our island as you might.
  Ireland is Our emerald sacred
  We keep our dignity and fight.
  Pubs crawl with pure hatred.

I was 9. The circus was coming that summer.
  It promised to bring life to the cornfields.
  4th of July. Circus matinee and evening
  fireworks!Daddy had it all planned out.
  Mama smelled pretty. Papa looked fancy.
  I wore my favorite white church dress.

  We were in the biggest tent I ever saw
  with people everywhere. Louder than
  anything I ever heard. I never felt like
  this. So much energy in so much space
  and my skin was electric, my eyes wide
  with the wonder of it all. Magical.

  It really was the Greatest Show on Earth!
  Girls swinging on trapeze and men balanced
  100 feet above us on a wire. Elephants huge
  powerful beasts tame as puppies on the farm.
  Clowns silly and mute and lovely made us laugh.
  It was heaven. We were suspended in a moment.

  I smelled smoke. I saw smoke and fire and panic.
  8000 people wanted out now. I wanted to see the
  fireworks in the dark. So many died. Animals died.
  Mama and Daddy died. They smelled like cooked meat.
  I died from smoke. I was found perfect in my dress.
  I'm unknown. I'm called body #1565. I love the circus.

God always delivers justice.
We might not believe in it.
Fear it as you feared the
whippings of your youth
or wronged lovers later
never happy with it all.
Truth is absolute and
time gets away from us.

Autumn turns nature more intense.
     Peasants harvest Burnt sienna and
     other shades of red while black crows
     crawl across the French blue sky.
     Leaves catch fire briefly before
     ending in winters Payne grey grave.
     I clutch hope in my lonely winter.
     Please visit soon, Lad. Love, Vincent.

Strings bent left and right
that touch me never touched.
Baptize me one last time as I
should have been before I
lost my way and found you
in a bar we found paradise.

Don't break me like a toy
or a long forgotten boy
yesterday's mistake
tomorrow's deadly snake
a heart drowned from tears
spilled over many years.

I sit on the curb at the liquor store
until 9 am when it finally serves,
wait for desperate beauty queen.
I talk smooth settle her nerves.
We share a bottle and queen bed
*** was just a lost cause at best.
I sit on the curb at the liquor store
until 9 am when it finally serves.

Youth's ignorance neglects
grey old men and kissing
women nursed their parents
1930 yearbook is missing.
Listen as they whisper a
warning to live for today
for tomorrow we all die.
Class pictures on display.

Winds of change
always blowing
breathing strange
never knowing
what tomorrow
will finally bring
joy or sorrow
songbirds sing!

The ice rattles in my glass as my
hands tremble needing another sip.
I'm calm and forget the terrible times.
We're all beat, spat upon, sentenced.
I drink too much of Christ's blood.
I'm fraught with devotion, nail myself
to your cross, losing my mind. I pray.
I don't think I can wait that long.

I saw you on the subway
  lost you in the crowd
  love you like yesterday
  alone in the party cloud
  backstairs naked chance
  touch hearts and parts
  we make our music dance
  I drink to love's starts.

Is apathy
ever free
civil war
in the bar
drunks fight
for the right
take a stand
**** the band
bury the hate
never too late
bury our dead
drink instead.

Furious flash of His anger
puts the fear of God in us.
We hope magic beads and chants
will save us from the ignorance.
Science will explain it all away.
The planets spin madly around
our sun and we eat dinner and the
wine doesn't spill in ocean waves?
We are frozen in our life frame to
frame while everything around
us is complete chaos in dreams
that we can never understand.

My brother who let me climb
upon his back to save myself.
It's a debt I can never repay.
If you needed a liver I'd give
you mine but you'd not want it
knowing I needed yours anyway.

He's dying in his bed above his bar.
    The jukebox plays soundtracks
    of life and people live out loud
    drinking and laughing in fierce
    lives below. Life on fire!
Sharks circle his lifetime
where the sun don't shine.
He dies smiling above it all.

I steal what I need.
    The sun and moon and
    your heart and stars
    time and beauty and
    God's grandiose plans.
    I'll build a universe.
    We'll be the King and
    Queen. We steal dreams.

I have a poet's vision
rhyme your flaws
with laser precision.
Many poets have claws.
Suckle poem's milk
it means everything.
Just wear your **** silk,
careful what you bring.

Am I bulbous?
Am I purple?
Am I throbbing?
Might I *******?
Will I disappoint?
too soon too late?

I work the streets at night
dressed for business in cars.
I do my best to look pretty.
Makeup hides my scars.
They always pay in cash.
They hate perfume's scent.
We never kiss goodnight.
It's what I do for rent.

I love my Katie and Sean
Michigan Avenue red light
dogs are barking 'til dawn.
French leave take my flight.
Kids left as nun's orphans
while I exit my stage right
it bleeds into tear's plans.

What kind of dust
will my remains be?
What worms taste
in my funeral waste.
Humorous and kind
angry and cruel blind.
Hedonist pleasure
my ultimate treasure.

In the Mojave in a sandstorm
monsters are back in town
slow burn alcohol stove
keeps its water boiling
ready to blow this place
to hell any minute now.
I've been drinking
with kind strangers.
You're my mute ghost.
Please, answer me.
Who must we **** on
your cruel altar?

I'm poor. All I have
is a bouquet of poems
I wrote for you that
won't die if neglected.

We're ratted out
bullet holes our
tame acquiescence
we're finished now
posed unflattering
on all front pages

We all died that night.
November storm's fright.
Pray in the water's ****
for deliverance escape.

Death is ill timed, never expected
  and awkward for those left behind.
  Funerals are Death's surreal plays.
  Tears won't always come on cue.

  It's bad luck to talk about death.
  We speak kind of the dead. We don't
  talk of their human frailties.
  We deny our own sins and theirs.

  We forgive the world for our sins.
  If we never lived in your creation
  with temptations forbidden we'd
  never suffer birth and death.

I just wish you knew me
before I lost humanity
before I lost my sanity
before war changed me.
You are me at that age.
Violence births rage.
Wash pain away with
tears I sob. I'm sorry.

Blood from a barely beating heart
drips down the neck to the fingers
in the dirt back to the finite start
dying sees life while it lingers
behind blind eyes as a spirit soars.
The living water graves with tears
not knowing God's sacred open doors
when their time is due in the years.

In the tock of the tick
we live our brief life
broken sacraments
vows die by a knife.
Run faster stay alive
another moment
long enough for
another torment.
I promise there
really is an end
time evades but
it refuses to bend.

Seagulls argue over who knows what
   riding ocean breezes we'd all die for.
   We fight drunk in our room, a prelude
   to ******* on the sheets with anchors.
   I hear the 9th symphony when we mend.
   We lie as one and hear the seagulls laugh.

Do you know these people
  dirt poor with joyful eyes?
  No tears or pity asked they
  work hell's cloudless fields
  every meal fatback and beans  
  sharecropper hands of stone.
  Sunday overalls starched go
  to Church praise Jesus, atone.
  Saturday nights there's music
  and moonshine and slow dance
  they give up the ghost midnight
  still clutching in fierce romance.