The winds are increasing,
Black clouds are forming,
Thunder crashes,
And the rain starts pouring.

Surrounded by darkness,
Can't find your way out,
It seems never-ending,
And your hope dwindles down.

But you're stronger than your problems,
You're brighter than your storms,
You're higher than your downfall,
And you're better than your harm.

It's okay, it's alright,
No matter what you do,
Don't give up your fight.

The winds are increasing,
Black clouds are forming,
Thunder crashes,
And again, it's storming.

But it's okay, it's alright,
No matter what you do,
Don't give up your fight.

You're stronger, brighter, higher, better.
No matter what you do, don't you give up - ever.

I heard a woman today
Through her subtitles.
She was on a documentary
About the dangers of
Holy conflict.

She said to the world,
Eyes storming with warning paleness,
"If they" the selfish, unholy Palestines,
"Had taken my son,
I would have destroyed the world."
She was as old as my
(Frailer, softer)
grandmother.
(Who has never heard a gunshot
Or seen a temple burning
Or beheld a crushed glass message
On a cold German night.)

On an old porch she sat,
Wrapped in moth-worn
Fabric thinner than my shirt
Without a shiver of fear
Or doubt,
And stated this cold fact.
She would have destroyed the world.

Later in the thinly white day
Her son visits her, bringing cigarettes.
"For later," he insists, but
She makes use of one immediately,
Gripping with the firmness of
A woman who needs nothing more
Than a son and a cigarette.

His face and the tip light at the same time.
The fire (in his eyes) burns discordantly.
"You know I don't like the
Smell of your cigarettes."
He snatches it from her
And sends it to a dusty grave with his heel.

Ungrateful *******!
I was standing now,
Shouting him down through my
Emotionless flat-screen television.
A thousand miles away
And every heartbeat breaking with
That worn and aged face
That betrayed nothing.

What pain must contempt be
From one who is in her eyes
More precious than the world?
The stupid, unthinking, unwitting
Cruelty of it strangles me.

But then she smiles with knowing eyes,
And waits a few more heartbeats than I can bear,
To say,
"Just one more?"
The worthless (world-worthy?) son,
Prideful and ashamed,
Scratches his temple and
Shakes his head.
"No," he says,

And hands her another.

(the more knowledge
gleaned
the less instinct
weaned)

once witches
small perhaps
eccentric somewhat
and followed
by thrush
sang
spied by curious
mice
sat on by old
ticks
munched the
fly agaric
and roamed
the nightly forest..

or flew into
great red skies
howling through
storming cries
screaming to fell
or styled vertical
with  two
black tusks
glinting
to caste hex
upon foe
and scatter the dead
to  perform abomination
with here little cat
perched behind
skull and moon
bat and croon
o the wind wild
o ancient chile
evil prays so
the great eye
the **** crow
the spite
and soon
o baal
sired the morn..

You failed to take your Drone Control Command Kit
as you hurried  off at dawn for work this early morn.

Unmindful, I mistook it for a fancy Xbox game contraption,
so commenced a match of Shock and Awe to while away the time
and with the joystick, hot and pulsing, quickly opened fire
at some evil  bad-guy villains lurking down below
(nearby, a bus with random kids
confused, in fear and hiding).

Left quite a bit of childish crimson carnage flowing
on congested streets inside a city storming
somewhere…
thank goodness, very far away from here.

Please forgive me, for I think it was
your very last remaining
smart-precision missile…
yes, that pretty one you’d kept so long,
and meant to use some day to sanctify
a humble wedding-day reception…
but as you know I've always had a hang
for children's senseless macho playthings.

Every day is the same thing, the same routine. Every morning I wake up earlier than I would like too, and waste my daylight inside a confined concrete building that feeds off of conformed thinking and dead end ideas. Seated at desks, row after row, are robots in training being programmed by words written on white walls with various colors, coded for correction.
          We walk the halls of so- called "social structure" like veins and arteries with no source of life. Sit. Stand. Strut. No strolling. We must coagulate with the clicks of the clock. Strive. They cut our wires and reroute them periodically. Don't soar. Stay. They have us tied down by the laces of our shoes to keep us here, to keep us from wandering, because wandering leads to wondering. We are each a 12 point letter, of the same font, standing, double spaced, staring at the same blank paper in front of us.
          Except every now and then, there's someone that gives off a little more reception than is acceptable. Between the cords connecting our control panels is cartilage, flowing through our system software is life and thoughts and memory. When our thumb drive is hooked up to our monitor, our eyes open bigger, with three cones, we see a spectrum that was once incapable. When we leave our daily life with a wrong, or right, turn we feel the drops of water falling from the sky on our hands and we don't immediately go up in flames, instead we let out a sigh of relief.
          The next day I try to install this into others, but only to be told I am simply short circuited. But I know better now, I am not malfunctioning. I was struck by lightning and now my brain is storming.

The thing about growing up is
you never asked to be a grown up
in fact
you never asked to be anything
not even to be born
and yeah yeah yeah
I know
your parents gave you a life with potential
a roof
and three square meals maybe
but they also gave you
expectations to avoid resentment
to burn brighter
and maybe you prefer the dark
or to spark up whatever drug you can get your hands on
they would really like it if you were responsible
but it is that possible when the thought of letting people down
has you not getting out of bed until 1pm
I'd rather see you smile than frown
but this clown is running out of jokes about how patience kind of sounds like patients
and this bottle isn't doing the trick
and the tricks I work to make this all come together
now seems a whole lot less important
the apathy can sneak up on you
guerrilla commando trekking through the jungle of your doubts
it was one hundred degrees when I went to work
and storming when I left
****, did I forget to close the windows on my car?
are my phone, cigs, and lighter still breathing?
am I?

poetry started out as venting
became something more
something fingers can never quite grasp
the word always on the tip of my tongue
so I always lose the plot halfway through
and end up rambling like the drunk closing down the corner stool
do my words fall on deaf ears
or do they spark the ignition of emotional explosions
so big they measure on the Richter scale?
Time will tell
I only hope that by the time
time catches up with me to tell me
I will be gone
far away
off on my next big thing

We danced to a new year
in the utopia of the music
and the Golden Oldie
songs of love, longing
and sorrow that live
in our lungs

and emerge unpredictably
all of a sudden from the depths
of our breath
caressing or storming full
of experiences that make us
feel who we are

and what it's all about, seize
the eternity of our lives
in the stream of our breath
which is also the breath of others
while we are completely
engrossed in our presence

Instantly I can feel the heat
not like a rush but a pleasant snaking
hits my cheeks and my hands are shaking
brain is at critical overload
hormones surging, thoughts overflowed

Instantly I can feel the beat
your heart like a train storming into my ears
open lips, close eyes, lose all my fears
almost losing my head to this fire
feeling you melt into my skin with desire

Instantly the sensation of falling down
Instantly I clutch you to me to avoid the ground
Delicious Vertigo.

I hold the rays that light the bay
Early in the morning
I smell the salt and taste the air
as the day is forming
The gulls turn wing and then they fling
their Feathers to the sea
The clouds peer pink as they sink
lighting comes a storming
The air picks up and cools my cup
of coffee that remains
I step in the boat that's sure to float
knowing the journey's waiting
The planks are sound , the masks come round
the ropes and fibers straining
A chop that blows , the tide it flows
the ebb of life has past
The sea's dark gray and appears to say
your albatross awaits you
Whatever's to be is alright with me
I'm not captive to this world
I drop my sails , ring three bells
Here ye , here ye , here ye
I set my course without remorse
destined for eternity