You're mean.
You're nasty.
That's why God put me on this Earth.

You're full of hate.
How can you live with yourself?
A question I ask twice a week,
maybe three times.

When the sky opens up
and rays of sun blanket the homeless
sleeping on park benches.
I feel nothing.

Putting a sea shell to my ear and
listening for the tsunami to crash down.

Yep,
pessimism did **** the cat.
Curiosity was just a cover up.

I'd like to think that
I am mean,
nasty,
and full of hate.

Standing up to the sun and
shouting out clouds.
Tomorrow will forgive my sins
and give me false hope.

The world will spin backwards
and tonight I will lose myself.
The clock doesn't stop the child from crying
and neither will I.

In a world that is warm,
I am mean, nasty, and full of hate.

Walking around the dead grass and up through the trees
the bell rings and they
scatter.
Not to the winds,
but to ground.
Looking around with wild in their eyes,
they want the world to end.
Then they can be kings.
Dodging a society that chained them to small strips of lands.
The map is drafted in blood and cold.
They never look up the heavens,
for fear of hope.
Hope is something to be earned,
not for everyone.
The sun forgets to shine,
waiting for the moon to die.

So old,
they have forgotten their names.
The flames of reality burn their skin,
scorched earth and flesh.

The angels look down from Heaven and
scream.
This is the chosen people.
One day,
The monsters will come out of their trees,
rise from the dead grass.
Walk this Earth as they once did.
Until then,
their eyes will pierce the ground
and their feet will float.

For every one that loves the mountains
snow-capped, drenched in soft clouds
rising high, jutting into the open air.
There is another full of hatred for the mountains.
They obscure the view of that which they love.
The open sky.
A horizon stretching out, hidden by a rocky wall.
Recede! Part your peaks!
Let us gaze upon the falling horizon with ease,
basking in Apollo's warm glow.
The mountains are selfish, the sun is afraid.
However, one only needs to climb this foe to see,
that together two becomes one.

Oh yes,
the end is coming.
Never fear,
you'll be too drunk to realize.

Watching the concrete waves
overtake the painted yellow lines
adrift in a sea of construction and
chaos.
Head swirling with
diluted dreams of grandeur.
The world is starring at the stars,
hoping
that they dont shoot across the sky.
No one wants wishes to come true.
What would humanity have to strive for
if all the magic became reality?
The veil pulled off
and the grass changes colors.
Just remember
chaos was once
order.

The door won't open.
Wood that has chipped and
screams secrets.
It used to be white.
A shadow of its former self.
The **** has a tarnished reputation.
It holds a small face,
saddened by years of abuse.
The skeleton key remains in the closet.
Please,
kick the door in.
The room is less interesting.
Patterns that fade,
colors dull,
love fails.
This door is cracking,
breaking,
hiding,
all the world's secrets.
The hinges hold tight.
Swinging open,
engulfing the world in light.
All will be okay.

There are stains on the walls and mattress.
The linens have more holes than a cheese grater.
Spent cigs burned into the dresser and
the light is dim.
Oh, Flophouse
you are truly great.
The Holy Bible would be ashamed.
The moans and groans fill the room with one night pleasure.
The walls are cracking and the carpet is cheap.
For a couple bucks,
there is a hour of
"What just happened?"

It has been said by many
that  
practice makes perfect.
Do not force it.
It usually comes out horribly.
Many people have told me,
"keep writing, you need to write everyday."
The problem is...
I have nothing to write.
I would rather get day drunk and
watch reality TV.
Sip on a Seven and Seven
wacth the day pass me by and
misspell words, not giving a ****.
Yes, watch is misspelled...
That's the funny part.
I won't pretend that I am an even a decent writer.
I get drunk,
**** people off,
make bad decisions,
regret those decisions,
promise myself that I will do better,
plead with the Almighty that it will
never happen again.
In the end,
I have stories to tell,
but no voice.
Start on a poem
and walk away.
Read the last chapter of a book
because I am a literary rebel.
No.
I am just lazy
and I hate surprises.
I am not a starving artist.
My waistband has expanded.
Let's be honest
I'll never be famous
and this is the longest poem
I will write in the coming week.

Driving
rolling over humanity
paying more attention to
my directions than
life.
Stopped at the corner,
onto
the Highway of Kings.
You're wearing khakis and a blazer,
brown loafers and a green derby cap.
Rolling your floral print luggage,
the only flowers in the area.
A knock off Louis V.
What is in that suitcase?
Your life?
Do you notice me stare?
I am looking for my right turn lane.
Forgotten tomorrow.

Sleezy Santa
drinking honey flavored
Jack,
straight from the bottle.
Ruining your Childhood
one large gulp at a time.
Chasing it with
Natural Light.
Oh the weather outside is frightful.
***** snow falling on
a ***** town.
The only way that drunkard got on the roof
is through liquid courage.
That **** is slippery
and one misstep means
** ** Hospital
for Jolly ole St. Nick.
The holiday season would be thrown through a loop
with Kris Kringle stuck in a coma.
Mrs. Claus is filling the papers for sole custody of the elves.
Happy Holidays.

Old King Cole needs no introduction.
The lands cheer when he rises from his throne.
Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul.
He fancied wine and women,
Merlot and money.
Feasts fit for a king can always be found in his halls.
There once was fiddlers four.
That is until Old King Cole found one using his pipe and wife.
He is very protective of that pipe.
No,
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
Step out of line and you'd face the gallows.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
who ruled with an iron fist.
Old King Cole believed it was better to be feared than loved.
His garments were made of the finest textiles and jewels.
His people starved and he had more bowls.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
Indeed.

Young man,
young man.
Don't walk through the sunbeams.
If they catch you,
it'll be your head.
But,
what use is a head,
if there is no body.

Whisper through the cracks in the painted tiles,
tell the preacher your sins.
He is the only one that can help you
through this trying time.
What if the times aren't trying?
The clock is broken.
Stuck
at a quarter til twelve.

I am feeling faded,
like looking through the eye of a needle.
Watching the brave men
charge into the abyss.
This is their greatest pleasure.
This is my worst nightmare.

We are greater
than the clock
the sun
the abyss.

I heard once that when you stare into the abyss,
it stares back.

I hope that my abyss is blind.
I hope that the tiles are not cracked.
I hope that the clouds block the sun.
I hope.

Old man,
old man.
What do you know?

The devil is whispering
through white plaster,
pock-marked walls.
The window's eyes are watching
every movement of the
hardwood floors, sending out
dust.
A front door with four locks,
but one is broken.
A back down with four locks,
but never opened.
The devil can't get out,
the demons can't get in.
Waiting for the chance
for redemption,
riding on the back of a cockroach.
Close the French doors to the bedroom,
shut out the world,
bathed in darkness,
hidden,
secluded,
perfect
for one more day.

I am
eternally
listening to
a symphony of
coffee pots,
gossip,
and cheap ***.

A red coffee cup
chipped,
sits on my desk,
half full.

Where is this going?

I can be filthy.
However,
I find it to be cheap,
a play.
Oh, sure,
use another idiotic
graphic in your
mess of a poem.

Where is this going?

A wise man once told me,
"Son, a million dollars is worth
a million dollars. "
That was the last time I saw him.
It has been six years and
I still can seem to find enough money,
to make him proud.

Once I saw lightning strike a field.
It was magnificent.
I could have sworn the Earth stopped.
It didn't.
Life never stops.

Do you want to know a secret?
The wise man was a fool and
life does end.
Shocking revelations from the fool's student.

When does the student,
become the teacher?
When the fool becomes intelligent
the world will know peace
or
burn.

A wise man once told me,
"Son,
live your hours day by day."

I still hold on to the knowledge and
live my life day by hour.

Hell hath no fury like
a stapler jammed.

If you want real love,
get drunk and cry into a mirror.
The broken shards are like...
Okay...sorry...
That was about to be really cliche.
It was going to rip out your heart and
be so emotional.
Instead,
it just makes me look cold and heartless.
Which shows you my broken soul.
Now I am just coming off as pretentious and
I am okay with that.

Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.

Voyage of the ******.
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.

Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.

Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.

If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?

The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.

Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.

The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.

The man dies.

So,
now there are two.

Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.

What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.

Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.

Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.

Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.

Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.

Rock n’ Roll
lightning.

Shot through from

head to
toe
better to

burn

out than
fade,

fade away.

Floatin’ down
Whiskey river

on
silica burned
canoes.

Fast paced
Holy City
conversations
left wanting

more.

Oh, don’t say
that this might be
the end of
our time here.

It has
only just begun
to hurt.

This is
why dreams
are built
on top of
nightmares.

Because we are
too ****** up
to feel that

This has happened
Before.

This collapse.

Slowly,
the trick is
becoming
more complex.

What more can be done?
Than to laugh.

Laughing.

As the walls crumble
into inner
thoughts of…

If only we would
look to
both sides
before crossing.

Oh everything is supposed
to turn out right.
If only right was
right.

Hahahahahahaha.

Run,
Run,
as fast as you can.
Greed is closing in.
Dragging you down the
rabbit's hole.
However,
there is no vacancy here.
No quarter will be given to your kind.
You have
forgotten your senses,
given into
worldly pleasures.
There is a special place in this world
for people like you.
Counting coins until
the gold becomes flesh.
Trading life for life.
This system has broken you.
The beast is off the chain,
attacking at random.
Showing no remorse for it's actions.
Why should it?
It has done nothing wrong.
You fed the beast,
gave it a home.
Now it is time to pay the piper,
with interest.
You have woven this tale,
and you alone must draft it's ending.
It is coming undone.
It was foolish to think there would be no repercussions.
Only,
nothing can save you.
It is simple really.
The ending will show your true nature.
Make you want to believe again,
that this is a worthwhile cause.
Try to escape from Neverland.
Oh yes,
run,
run,
as fast as you can.

Lets do this
before the fire fight.
Hard, piercing eyes
blindfolded.
Awaiting time to
show one
the
way
to where they
came from.
Final moments flash
pseudo-relief.
This is all just
a trip down
an unfamiliar road.
The wait
is worse than
the event.
This isn't Heavens gate.
Thunderous
black heat
for
cold blood.
White hot reminders
piercing
through tired spirit.
The past breeds
tainted memories.
It's empty when
the world ends.
Lets do this.

I like short poems.
Second only to ****.
They make me feel like I have accomplished something.
When I really...

I feel my head exploding,
splitting really,
into a thousand clouds of
silver.
An uncharted breakdown
that is so very familiar.
People should be held accountable for
the actions of others.
The pressure lessens its grip on
my spinal cord.
The musical adaptation of my life
blossoms before my very eyes.
Seen through a dream catcher
that is broken with
nightmares of fallen ancestors.
Please,
forgive me for rambling.
Words are hypnotic and
let me forget about
the ringing in my head.
A thousand decibels of silence,
shattered.
They are forgotten by society.
Forced to live in gangways with cockroaches and
the pages of old leather bound books.
They leave on
a wing and
a prayer.
Bathed in dust and dirt,
they hear the barking of the pitbull
inside my head.
Brought down by the blade.
I once observed a church being boarded up,
blocking out the elements and homeless.
It was calming.
Does that make me a horrible person?
Eerily beautiful.
I wish I could go back to that moment in time,
frozen in place.
My head explodes.
Can you hear the bell tower ringing Quasimodo?
Chimes louder than a bomb,
falling through the rotted out wood.
It's for the best.
The Horseman didn't need a head.
The silence will bring me back.
Remember,
our actions now
are our actions now.
Ring the bell!

I have not put pen to paper in a good while.
It is probably for the better.
The blinds hide the world.
Listening to movie trailer music,
I write and hope.

What happens when you get older?
I hate it when people say they are "young".
You're 40 years young?
No.
You're an *******.
We are dying from the moment of birth.
Don't forget that.
Pessimistic and proud.

Sometimes I sleep with the T.V. on at night.
A constant reminder that my dreams can give way to
war,
famine,
Perez Hilton.
If this is how the World ends,
life was good.

You see...
This is why I don't write anymore.
Poems that give way to inner thoughts.
How deep and depressing.
I could write more...

I won't.
Maybe.

Poems that end like highway wrecks.
Leaving you wanting
nothing,
but a refund.

Slam.

I can feel the spiders crawling through the bed.
Hear the car horn,
keeping me up.
If this is how the world ends,
it will be annoying.
The empty wine bottles roll around,
crushing the cockroaches like Indiana Jones.
Only,
he escaped.
The snow surrounds my car.
Helping me forget that
the world is ending soon.
Oh,
the red wine is raining down on top of the bed.
The spiders are content sleeping at my feet.
It is a truce.
I can hear the upstairs neighbors fighting again.
Heel walkers,
they stomp and thrash about.
Scaring my spider friends.
*******!
We are trying to sleep!

I can see the snake slithering,
hissing at my feet.
Will it bite me?
Hopefully.

I can watch the stars
form patterns,
while laying on my stomach.
The sky's reflection is best seen,
while staring at the ground.
The Earth is causing my head to swirl.

I fear the day
the snake slithers through the core,
discovering all the World's secrets.
It is always watching,
waiting,
for the right time to strike.

Once,
I fell into a well and
nearly drowned.
My father lowered in a rope to pull me out.
It slithered down the hard,
cold,
rocky side.
I never wanted to leave the well.
The water kept it's promise.
I promised to one day return.

I can hear the hissing of the snake.
Waiting for the right time to strike.
One bite and
the stars will fall to Earth.
They will scorch the prairie and
blind the poor.
We are not used to seeing hope.

I hope that you will forgive me for my lack of understanding.
The cold-blooded killers are hiding in the shadows.
Time is ticking
through the ocean.
Forgive me for being hopeful.
The sky will auction off it's wonders.

And still,
our buildings will crumble,
the blind will hear,
the deaf will see,
and I will still be here...
Listening to the snake slither through my world,
trying to catch the wind.

One day,
I'll scrub to the bite.

Start with an idea and go from there.
Just let it flow,
like Titan strikes back at the dawn.
Always remember that the worst a person can be,
is when they are by themselves.
Sometimes,
staring at the sky,
nostalgia forgives me.
I would like to think that I am a good person.
Momma says never lie.
A lie will lie to the liar.
A thief will steal from a thief.
Once I saw Jack the Ripper,
asking for a favor.
"Come with me", he said.
So, I did.
Clocks ticking and tocking,
rocking to the rhythm of times to come.
I remember a time when happiness was a memory.
Please,
oh please,
travel the World and see the people,
not the sites.
Okay,
maybe see the sites.
I once saw The Fog,
moving swiftly across the pond.
Engulfing everything in his path.
Why is The Fog masculine?
I don't think he even knows the answer.
Yesterday,
there was an article describing the state of the World.
It has since been taken down.
Fitting really,
the World will end with a click of the mouse,
destroyed by the comment section.
Walking down the stairs into The Underground,
figuring out all of life's questions.
All aboard.
Do you realize?
I watched the sky fall.

Watch your back.
If you need evidence,
look in a mirror.
Spinning and spinning.
Until the clock drowns in
battery acid.
It will laugh no more.

The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.

Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
An ally.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.

What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.

The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.

My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.

To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.

I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
However,
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.

Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.

My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.

Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.

I've been away for a while and
I'm not quite ready to return.
Write me off with a red pen.
Poetry dripping in ink,
even though it is online.
Can you hear the voices singing?
Once more the lion roars and then
it falls silent.
The mouse is shifty character.
The villain of this poem.
Weaving it's way through the words,
hinting at destruction.
Did you miss me?
The villagers are growing restless.
I am content to fade away.
Oh,
please Lord help me.
As I become a poetic ghost
drifting through the world of words.

There is war.
There is fear.
There is hunger.
There is heartbreak.
There is anguish.
There is sadness.
There is death.
There is a change in the Dollar Menu at McDonalds.

Looking at the frozen rocks,
trying to decide what
is so beautiful about them.
There has to be something.
Beauty is in everything.
They glisten in this clear January day.
Thousands of them
sitting there.
Mysteries unsolved.
That is why the Gods
laugh at us.
We turn nothing into
nothing.
Our grasp on the infinite is
already so thin.
Every rock must be turned over.
The beauty is elusive.
That is the beauty.
Staring at these rocks
help make us understand what
might happen to us.
Carefully observing the universe spin,
traffic lights change,
birds fly overhead,
these rocks unfreeze.

I am a selfish poet.
I am a narcissist.
Yes,
I like to re-read my poetry.
Thinking to myself,
"Oh! You nailed it with that line!"
Then,
I won't write for months.
Don't want to give the people too much.
Keep them guessing,
wanting more.
What happens when they don't want more.
In a bright room,
I'm the dark center.
In a dark room,
I'm still the dark center.
That's the great thing about being a selfish poet.
I can always imagine being the center.

It's tragic.
How little I care about the screaming in my mind.
If I had to pick a point in my life
to go back.
I would pick the future.
It would be easier to see what is to come,
than what once was.

If I could I would stop the squealing that comes from the dark.
But then,
who would scare the day.
I wish it would consider me.
The wind and the stars
are friends.
Giving strength to the night.

The ways of the world are only known
by the sky.
Every day fire chases the water away.

One day,
I will master them all.

I wrote a short story once.
The villain was standing in the end.
Waiting for the sun to rise over the mountains and
the snakes fell through holes.
I can hear the sounds of silence.
I can see colors floating through clouds of liquor.
A bottle of wine and the whole world seems
flawless.
Maybe,
I am the flaw and the world is trying
to erase me.
The blood flowing through my veins is electric.
It is strange how the world turns,
yet these walls don't break.
Staring at the ceiling and I can hear the birds chirping.
Please,
God help me through this day.
I can not forgive myself.
Only the heroes remember the past.
It is simple nostalgia.
That is the key to destruction.
Love.
Maybe,
that is the key.
One
Two
Three
the trick is over and the spark ignites.
The Earth will one day turn to gold.
One day.
Stars sparkle in the night sky and
the pieces move about the chess board.
Only through capture is there hope for escape.
One day.

There are worse things
than those that go
bump
in the night.
When the stars are too afraid to
come out from behind their cloud captors.
That is when the demons rise.
Slithering around your feet,
keeping everyone bolted to
their barstool.
Don't worry,
this will only take a minute.
An instant transformation.
Rise my monsters!
Rise!
Poison will be your undoing
and help you reach
a true form.
This is pure.
There are no limitations.
Be afraid of these ghouls.
They whisper and float
through the stale smell of
paradise.
They sit in neon lights,
waiting for the next round.
Rattling chains
as heavy as reality,
the fire burns down.
It gives birth to a new monster.
Just one more.
The world can stop spinning,
for one more.
The transformation is taking hold, it is almost complete.
Blind stares into mirrored walls,
watching as the everything goes black.
No recollection of
your birth.
Rise my monsters,
rise.

Sitting in an abandoned lot,
listening to the screeches of
seagulls and freight trains.
I am staring at a condemned building.
Condemned to have more windows broken and
be marked with unoriginal graffiti.
YOLO and RIP TGB.
Bricks crumbling onto broken glass.
I guess you really do only live once.

Construction tape blows in the wind and
it is strangely terrifying.
This forgotten lot where
there is "absolutely no tailgaiting."
An owners car will be towed
A police car drives by and just stares.

I'm just doing my part.
Forgetting about this lot and all the events that took place here.
The asphalt hums with the highway traffic.
Click Clack goes trashcan
rustling around the fenced-in area in the back forty.
Progression marches on and
the picture fades away to ***** signage and power lines.

If there is beauty in this lot.
I have forgotten.

Tick Tock Little Mouse.
Have you already left?
This house is vacant.
Who is that knocking at the door?
It is the rent man.
Let's steal from Peter to pay Paul.
Little Mouse,
what have you gotten us into?

If lightning strikes the roof,
it will run down the gutters.
Shocking the grass into attention.
I feel the morning light begin to warm
the soul of dead ancestors.

The darkness is alone.
Staring through open windows
at former feelings.
What happens when your greatest wish comes true?
That is when we fall.

Let's face the truth.
Wishes are made up by the weak.
This house was built on a poor foundation.
Shake the walls until it crumbles.
One last time.
Watch this house become a home
and burn.

This is my chance to test
my abilities.
Drunken apologies.
Hung out on rose beads.
A forced ***** counter culture to

counter culture to

counter culture to

counter culture.

Decipher these words.
To show the world my isolated talents.
A fragmentation of  myself.
The way war is the rawest form of humanity.

At a crossroads of
bright city lights
and
gazing at the stars.
Clockwork ***.
A thousand beautiful diseases.
Words that knew what changes was.
Between reality and insanity.
Concealed.
Like an unfinished book.

Lets tell this never ending story.
Shoot first
And ask questions later.

We spend half our lives,
wishing the other half away.
Can I live?
If my mind is at ease, I’m not.
I just want to be a poet.
And these are my thoughts.
Spilled out into ink.
This is how I chase my dreams.

But don’t worry.
The best is yet to come.

I had a dream last night.
Yes, another of those poems.
Fooled you.
Unoriginal hack of a poet.
well,
deal with it.
Just listen.

Where was I?

The dream...
It started out well enough.
I was in an unfamiliar place,
walking down a city street.

I'm over this dream.
It's all the same.
Same experiences.
Same dreams.

Fast forward.

I woke up at 1:32 AM.
Yes, I always remember the exact times.
Thirsty as hell, I drained my orange juice.
Warm orange juice tastes like ****.
It didn't satisfy this craving.
It had to be the teriyaki chicken...
I wouldn't be able to sleep.

Fell back asleep.

2:34 AM, still
thirsty.
Drained two glass of what tasted like Fruit Punch.

Fell back asleep.

6:35 AM alarm starts going off.
Time to go about the day.
Remember what yesterday was,
what tomorrow could have been.

Maybe I will dream tonight.
Maybe,
It will be blank.
Wouldn't be the first time it happened.

Oh,
how emotional.

If you're wondering
the street turned into green fields,
wet with morning,
smelling of fresh life.
I ran by ___.

You make up the rest.
Not even my dreams are original.

Life is rough
when you make it.

Laundry spinning and the humming of
other tenants.
I am drinking wine again.
There is a pattern.
Don't let anyone tell you differently.
The world is made up of shape and sounds and colors and
clocks ticking towards the end of another day.
If this poem is depressing I am sorry.
My sincerest apology to the past and the future.
The present isn't looking for another sin.
Always genuflect before entering this house,
the owner watches.
Do what makes you happy and
watch the TV fade to another show.
Yesterday the curtains refused to open,
the weight of the world is on their shoulders.
Forget the candles burning,
hot with anxiety and
go to sleep.
Frame the world in dark wood and ask the God,
any God,
for strength.
Laundry spinning and I rock in the chair,
thinking of eternity and how mice fit through such small holes.
Flip the channel.
Pull back the sheets.
This could very well be the end.
No mints on the pillows,
no courtesy calls.
I'll let you be the judge today and remember the shapes of clouds.

Kneeling in the hallway,
in front of the Men's bathroom.
I hope no one comes out as I pray.
Please,
do not let my sins catch up with me.
Not now.
Never.
I can hear the church bells
ringing in my ears.
The path is laid out.
My choice is to have three crucifixes on my night stand,
use my finger to paint them in the soot on my car.
This will be my protection.

This is how love
flies through a needle.
Forgetting about the past and
running around the world.
All in a single leap.
This is how love
dies,
gasping for air in a fish tank.
Forget the future,
punch the mirror until it hurts.
Glass shards falling on the floor.
Reflecting on the all the world's sins.
There can only be one.
Sacrifices.
Betrayal.
Laughing at the clown,
that tries to tame the lions.
This will blur the lines
between forgiveness and anger.
Which will help you survive?
The Prince and the Pauper.
Oh,
this is how the fire
becomes a flame.
One wish at a time.
Innocence.
The lions are hungry.
They have been caged for the last time.
The music begins to play.
Mozart.
Dance to the beat of
a thousand soldiers,
flying into the sun.
One day,
in the very distant future,
this will still not make sense.
Hear,
touch,
taste,
electricity.
Please,
take solace in that fact.
Falling into mythology at break neck speed.
It is wonderful,
knowing that everything can fail.

Poetry flows from the heart,
revealing ones soul.
If one has neither of these criterion.
Fake it.

Poetically falling apart.
I really don't care.
Even if...
You should save yourself for this sinking ship.

To all of those
who consider me a writer.
You are only fooling yourself.

This looks like nature.
Standing on the edge on the edge of a bridge
above a man made pond
surrounded by asphalt trails
trees cracking under pressure.
I walk amongst the preplanned trails.
A pseudo-wilderness.
Parked my car in a designated spot.
The deep blue sly outlined
by artificial sounds and light.
Listening to the sounds of the Earth
thru headphones.

Runners cross by…
To my left is an old Hackberry
Celtis occidentalis.
I’ve learned about nature
in textbooks.
This particular Hackberry is covered in a vine.
It’s struggling to survive against an exotic species.
Further on down my path is humankind
“beautifying” nature
with preplanned gardens
gazebos
marble benches donated by nature loving proprietors
next to sawed off stumps
these benches give me a decent place to rest.

As I continue my walk I come across
an unsightly dead Black Cherry
Prunus serotina.
Soon it will be disposed of
by a chainsaw.
Nature’s blemishes.
Please help us keep the Gardens clean.
Trash around a metal can.
Why do human ***** monuments in monuments?
Dominance over nature.

The flowers will begin to bloom soon.
This family has come to soon to take pictures.
Spring has only begun to spring.

Please teach your children to appreciate nature.

I turn back towards my car.
Signs guide me on the path to return.
The road most taken.
Of to my right is an emergency station
push for help
nature is being taken.
I pass by a stream pristine
if you do not count the five plastic bottle, crumbles of paper and shoe.
The trees above me blow in a soft breeze
which reminds me of air conditioning.
There are areas marked off for protection.
Protection from whom?
We’ve already safeguarded it in gaudy surveying tape.

Resting upon a donated bench I watch a maintenance man
raking gumballs.
Continuing down my path I think
“How long have I walked?”
Suddenly,
A golf cart coming around the corner overtakes me.
Pushing me onto the grass.
My feet sink into the muddy ground.
I’ll have to wash my shoes tonight.

Coming across native grass still smoldering
a controlled burn.
I realize
humankind has learned to perform the duties of our mother
better than she can.

I pause

lose myself for a moment
before I remember
I have things to do
and
there’s a two-hour parking limit.
On my way out I discard my trash in a dumpster
rolling my window down
to feel the breeze once more.

Faster and faster the poem spins.
It can see the curvature of the Earth.
Memories escaping into the fire.
The pen moves too rapidly and
the ink flows backwards.
Waves crashing onto bricks and mortar,
filled with the brightest stars.
What happens when the continents collide?
Home sweet home.
Forget about the fire and ice,
remember the feeling of
holding hands with a stranger.
Under a blanket of guilt and anxiety
the night will come to a close.
Birds flying overhead
reminding society of their ethical dilemmas.
What is right and wrong,
when you have unlimited power?
We have made it through the night.
Throw caution to the wind.
Swirling around in an electric cyclone,
this is
an environmental disaster.
Unlimited power.
Let it drop.

Sometimes the hero must die
masking the hopeful vision.
A blanket of black.

Not all tales begin with “once upon a time
and end with twilight.
The villain will win.
Ushering in an unholy time.
Happily ever after?
Consider it dead.
This may not work out in the end.
The only question is
How will it end?
Will it end?
How long can this last?

To Death,
roses smell like
spirits
six feet deep.

Life is spent searching for life.

St. Michael,
The Archangel
Defend us in battle.

The oppressed will rise,
only to be crushed again.
Never forget…

Hope takes time.

But what if hope never comes.

That
is how stories end.

And if the story has to end,
at least the beginning can be remembered.

Tonight, I will
begin drafting
the most amazing poem.

The poem that will define
not just my age,
but myself.

Wait.

No, I wont.
I have other
priorities to attend to.

This section of my life
will have to wait.