I’ve been to the dark.
I’ve swam in that river,
seen the cold and aching,
sit stare and quiver.

I’ve looked into
the eyes of a man
more suited to slither,
and watched good women
tell him to come hither.

I’ve been in the shadows.
I’ve heard hatred speaking,
fat faces stretched in rage
with slick saliva leaking,

and all the light
that I used to believe in,
becomes my last shreds
of hope, finally, up and leaving.

Now, I walk into the end,
write the world’s last chapter,
cause this isn’t a Disney movie
and there’s no happily ever afters.

When I go back to the night
that we all sprang from,
I’ll be grateful for the ending
of my personal hell kingdom.

If I came across
the pain of loss
and the grievous
wounds you are wearing,

saw the stain fall and flow
on the floor and go slow
like marching ants
across the off-white tiles,

I would try to
get down and
invite you
back into this life,

but even I know
sometimes the night
is far more appealing
than the light.

Sometimes,
even a hundred
good reasons to stay
can’t overcome the one
that makes you want to run away.

Gemini burns bright tonight,
sees a powerful light
piercing our gentle lives.

Twins skies scorched
by ice fire,
torched
by a devastating desire
to not expire.

Turquois to orange blazes
that guide us through
these strange mazes;

with sad glances
one twin fades
as the other one faces
grief,
and a similar onset
of eternal sleep.

Gemini falls quiet,
and her children blush
with the final flush,
then sees sweet shades
slip slowly away
from our face
and like ashes
we all fall down.

The director,
stage setter
for this actor;

What matters
is the placard
that they place there
to mark a space
for time to air
a multi-verse
of unanswered prayers.

Axe dropped,
action stopped,
“Cut!”
I hear,
because we are
being very clear
that every movement
is staged,
played for some purpose.

Perhaps to breaks us
of the meaning we love
to make out of chaos
or maybe the design
to help us find
the opposite
of chaotic.

Razor shifts,
cutting through the mist
of madness
as we paint this
world with a stained plaid dress
that turns from two shades
to darker wet reds.

What a mess this **** is.
I say we edit it at the end.

Its work time and I am
earning my pay
by seeing the day
fade quickly away,
while I am forced to
stay glued to
the CCTV
I watch for security.

Camera distortions
of strange changing proportions
shift from shades of blue
to blobs of green,

as my fatigued brain is sprained
trying to come up with
some sort of quiet game.

I listen to the cooling system.
I listen to the elevator.
I listen to the world outside
wishing that it was so much later.

The best artistry enraptures its creator in a fugue of furious activity that is almost beyond his/her control. They are overcome with inspiration and must follow it. It is the unconscious mind ripping and taring at the fabric of the creators mind, and it is is the closest thing to ecstasy I know.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

As the blackness is dispelled
and the cold weather retreats,

As the winter returns
all that lost spring heat,

As the bird begin their seasoned production
of life’s renewal,

I will recall your small gentle smile
and how it was a glimmering jewel.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

Tomorrow does not exist
and yesterday will not be missed
there is only these fleeting moments,
let me enjoy them while I can.

Till the light I see collapses
and my body cannot move.
Till all my memories are lapses
and I never find the missing clues
to glue them back together.

Then the light will retreat,
and the shadows will descend
and there will be no more whispers
or softs breaths from any friends.

Not a country simpleton,
not the typical bumpkin.
Don’t have time to try and fit in
this redneck city I’ve been
living in
since before I was ten.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Devoured too many books to count,
searching for the fount
of knowledge and compassion,
searching for new question
to great unknown answers.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lost myself in star lit skies,
with clouds that stretch back
far enough to revisit my past,
admired the massive black tapestry
that seems to be punctured by
light holes from some unknown
set of new realities,
each one having its own star’s
worth of gravity.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Not looking for the eternal soul,
and any form of immortality
just seems like a sick joke.
Instead I keep pushing on.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

I’ll keep going on till this particular
configuration of particles
ceases seeking
new ideas that keep speaking
poetry into my being.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.