‘Tis the eyes of the Lobster: all beady and black
Little black pearls; but luster they lack
They stare and stare with nary a blink.
And heavens to Betsy if you know what they think!
With pinchers and crushers and blood of blue
I’m not so sure I’d want one in my stew!
The new year dawns and here am I
Writing of lobsters and I’m not sure why!
Oh, but I jest and of course I do!
‘Twas a bet! I lost! And now pay my due.
Sincere apologies to those who read.
I know it’s rough. I must complete this deed.
          I hope this ditty; whatever it be
          Fits the bill and you’re more than pleased, --!

"Gladly lost in the depths of you"
What depths?
How am I lost?
I'm lost in a puddle.
I'm standing ankle deep in fluff; in disappointment.
Some days, I wish things were different
Some days, I wish we were two of a kind
Some days..
But I fear loving someone just like me would be terrible.
We would be a twister; a ball of flames-- so destructive, that we would burn everyone in our wake.
We would break every bed, and smash every hope and dream our parents' had for us.
We would scream and yell and decimate each other to the brink of permanent dislocation, but never over the cliff.
My, what a cliff that would be..
We would break every bone in our bodies violently explaining how "right" one of us was, but only proving how fatally stubborn we really are.
We would ride the waves of life *******.
We would shoot up the night, and drink up the tragedies like a drunk fresh out of a failed rehab stint, as they roll over us like rock crushers-- hair of the dog that bit you; it's good for poetry, they say.
Never a dull moment for us
Never a craving
Never a quiet moment
Never left wanting more
Never a deeper sadness than what we create together

But perhaps it's a mistake wanting more than you
Perhaps you're keeping me from destruction
Perhaps your holding me back is a blessing
Perhaps I need you more than my heart realizes
Perhaps it's better this way
Perhaps I don't need to ever fall in love with someone like me
Lord knows I can't seem to love myself
What makes me think I would love my true other half?

This is a letter to everyone who said,
“You can’t.” or “You're not good enough.”
To all the dream-crushers and the life-suckers,
this is to you:

When I was six, I was happy.
The world was my oyster and the other kids were just,
playing around, harmless and innocent.
They didn’t mean anything.

Then I was ten;
starting to realize that those words weren’t jokes and games.
And although the light of hope was still burning, those words,
those blatant lies and stories that you spun purely to mess with my mind-
I was ten.

By twelve, I had gotten good at lying.
“Surely,” I thought,
“one friend doesn’t mean you’re lonely.”
“books are more fun than people anyway!”
“they just don’t have the time, it’s not that they hate you.”
“it’s not that bad, they’ll be back.”
“everything is fine.”
“no friends doesn’t mean you’re lonely.”
“next year will be a clean slate.”

Fourteen.
My mind was filled with Hate and Love and Death.
Love,
for the girl once best friend, now girlfriend.
Hate,
rarely for those who hurt me and exclusively for myself.
I blamed myself for those words they had spoken.
Death.
I was tired of the hate and the pain.
I just wanted to sleep.
To rest.

15
My mind is still plagued by shadows, but the is filled with light once more.
The Hate and Death still haunt like pale unwelcome specters,
but hope and home and love shine them out.
Love,
grown even stronger for the girl who has been there for me for hard day,
who I still sometimes cannot believe I am fortunate enough to call my girlfriend.
Home,
for the new friends with pasts like my own that care and support.
Hope.
Because even though this battle is won, the fight isn’t over.
There’s still going to be days when summoning the will to get out of bed is a victory.
There are still going to be days when people say,
“You can’t.” or “You’re not good enough.”
But that doesn’t mean there won’t be days
when a smile and laughter are true, and not just a mask for the pain.
When there are days I am filled with such happiness that I could

Live.

If there is one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s that
life is a series of hills.
For every up, there might be a down,
but there is always going to be another hill.

So, this is a letter to everyone who said,
“You can’t.” or “You're not good enough.”
To all the dream-crushers and the life-suckers;
this is to you:

This is my story, and its only the beginning.

They pull the strings behind the scenes, they think themselves queens and kings controlling everything.
And we're the poor pawns that fawn on and on and on, day to day, from dusk til dawn.
We need to stop the cycle. No, we HAVE to stop this cycle. Get off the bike, though, we might not like to, Because we're prisoners and though we're lacking actual shackles, our rights are *** backwards, and the rulers are money-hungry psychos.
We the people pay the price,
The price for living paid in pain and constant suffering,
Nothing's really what it Seems,
And no one Sees because We numb ourselves through drugs and Vicodins,
Pill-poppers, downers, uppers,
Blunt-puffers, paint huffers,
Wrist cutters, coke snuffers,
Methamphetamine intravenously-injecting stupid *******.
Drug smugglers, crack stuffers,
Mother struggles, baby suffers,
Speed lovers, glass crushers,
We numb it all so no one bothers.
but sitting comfy at the summit,
Watching the planet plummet,
Are the ones pulling the strings behind the show.
The ones without a soul.
The ones behind it all, yet few of us do know.
It's time we all wake up, stop confirming to the rules, it's time we cut these strings and put the people in control.

No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.

In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)

But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.

A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.

In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.

World of sinners
filled with killers
dream crushers and
heart breakers

Lived with lies
no mercy
of children's cries

The heavens whimper
hearts  locked forever
in an obsidian cage
forever to be undiscoverd

This is earth
the world of humankind
Politics and Religion
bear in mind
stop the crisis
while we still have the time

I weep for the breakers of things.
I cry for the destroyers
I mourn for the burners,
the crushers,
the warriors;
My heart breaks for the breakers of things.

From some timid landmark of dawn
From some futile cry of a mother in morning
From one tired yelp at the breaking of day
Arising despising the darkness descending
From some sparrows soaring
Where mansions are shining
And we with the warmth of hellfire opining
Weep yonder, we breakers of things.

They bled their red, their lines drawn deep
They poured their pots to wine
They gave the evil lonely sun
some bricks to bake
some backs to burn,
They sizzled, swaddled, and in air remembered
what life means to the withered, breakers of things.

Tarry not longing for some Ebenezer
Tarry not healing and balming the wicked
Tarry not over these dreams of ash
forming cracking among the sickest
secret heros of these verses
Won't weep for you, you breakers of things.

We fly with the fortunate
We jet high on the vastest expanses
a geography of sorrow
charting the grief of the waters
We dive deep down among broken things.
We lament holy breakers of things.

Break rules,
Burn houses,
Let them hate you,
Cause they already are going to,
Be wild,
Be messy,
Don't let them tell you what you can and cannot do,
When they go left,
Go right,
Make a path,
Unbridle your soul,
And hurt,
Don't be so **** afraid,
This earth is so young,
Have fun,
And don't listen to all the dream crushers,
The teachers, the professors,
Rip out pages of books,
And run wild, be an untamable life,
Enlightened those surrounded you,
Nobody got anything done by following laws,
They followed the stars and won

The lure of gold brought Fifty-Niner’s in droves
     to the Kansas-Nebraska territory
laden with packs, picks, pans and shovels -
      hell-bound for adventure and facile wealth.

Placer miners squatted beside frigid streams,
    dipping their pans and filling their sacks
with nuggets bound for the assayer's verdict.

Mine towns sprang up where the veins were strong.
    In ******* Creek, Leadville, Independence and Central City,
the valleys rang with the strident cacaphony of
     drills and explosives - burrowing shafts deep
into the ore-rich valleys and mountain slopes.

Headlamps lit and shadowed mazes of timbered tunnels
     where men piled rock high into mine cars
headed for the mammoth crushers at Idaho Springs.

Whiskey freely flowed in saloons and hotels
     where raucous miners let off steam with
every mode and cast of ***** talk pleasures

In time, the veins were spent and profits dwindled.
     When the drama ended and the curtain fell,
the miners vanished - leaving only ghost towns behind
      and a new state named for its reddish river – Colorado.

the truth crushers on emergency call
quick as a bolt, out comes the dowsers
get to it fast, erase all, put out all those confirmations
it burns and hurts our ears, put it out before we die

Quick pour the falsehood on that flaming truth
bring out the slug of delusions, pour it on fast
erase it all, don't let it live, we don't want that around
it blinds us in it's brilliant glow, we can't handle that

Phone for the Truth Crushers Brigade, do it quick
don't let it spread, **** it quick, please hurry up
don't let it spread, it will **** our inspirations and drives
don't open our eyes, we do not court realities and facts
it's too painful for us, to know  about our adequateness

We cover every truth with lies and mockery
throw them out those harbingers of what is real
I don't want to know I'm three or four and another is 9
I hate to know others do better than me, let's all just lie
put out all truths, **** the truth it makes us so sick and pale

Live or Die, there is no in between.  

Contemplate and hold in disgust the doings of everyday experiences, tis a chore, not a celebrated ritual.  

Often times, my ears are spoiled by the noise of whimpers of weakness, those who speak much about nothing squirm to find comfort in their own skin, critics of lived experiences, less than divine judgment givers, soul crushers, spirit thieves, those ******* body despisers.  

The pursuit of happiness is only an exercise in futility, with exception of accepting, just be.  

Those unsatisfied the with the sacredness of breath, those that dwell in the abyss and wonder about the unquenchable thirst of an alcoholic palate, or yearn to taste uami from digesting chemistry sets, such ugliness that is exudes from an attitude so pristine.  

I dare to die each day in that way I would know what it is like to live.  Today, I sped past by the flock of sheep, going only 110 miles per hour

(old lovers, and old gods i wish were lovers)

my body is the event center. it is nearly empty, except for the pain maker and his team of flower pickers. team of egg crushers. angels. they’re angels, and they crowd the pain maker. they touch his oiled horns. light touches, like a kiss. i see entire worlds between them, but i am quiet. the event center is nearly empty. i am lost in the middle, dripping confusion like backwards hunger from my many mouths. the angels dip to drink. they are so thirsty. it has been months since we last drained the lake of my body. our thirst is so loud the pain maker can hear it through his hooves. he calls me a hydra. his angels lay me down.