If you want to get your soul
stole by some swolle bro
then I know a place where you can go,  
but if you're looking for something
more like a lover who wants to
explore new venues with you,
to dance on distant shores,
those soft sandy beaches,
see swirling sea storms
and similarly moving whirlpools,
volcanic expulsions of passion’s ecstasy,
or the insatiability
of the cosmic spectrums and eternity
mingling with infinity,
if you want poetry to try to see
everything that is beyond belief,

then I highly recommend me.

In my desire to understand,
I have questioned everything
out of existence.
The very essence
of my being
has become a flickering thing
struggling to remain present.

All passions, pains, and pleasant
memories
are just flutterings
from a dying butterfly’s wings,
fading faster than I can react.

We could be just a dream,
or a simulation within
another very well written
simulation, ad infinitum.

I think therefore I am,
and I am certain that I can,
at least I think I think
or are all thoughts merely
unrestrained subconscious
reactions that become conscious.

So, what more can I expect of you
because in my pursuit
of knowledge
I cannot say for certain if I exist
and in that strange context
I have questioned you
right out of existence
as well.

I want justice,
trying to fight against
the violence
of greedy politicians,
but instead of righteous
they give us the virus
of injustice,
promote the imbalance
of crime versus punishment.
Oppression is persistent
despite the insistent activists
who are resisting the ignorance
the rich keeps creating.

I want goodness
not in the abstract,
future, or way back past,
but right now
because there is
no reason for waiting.
The time for debating
has long since passed
and if you have to ask
don't bother just act.

Empathy equals truth and compassion
multiplied by action
and brings a better world.

I want justice but not the kind
lazy men claim to serve,
then swerve
to spin a fiction that prevents it.

Don’t get caught in her eyes
cause that is where
her mysteries lie,
where the tiger hides
are waiting to pounce,
and devour every ounce
of the essence you have,
to satisfy the beast that resides
in her ever-enduring hunger.

You are a not a partner
just a hundred shades
of pretty little prey
that she craves,
and you will easily cave
to the charade that she parades,
to the play which she plays,
because you are desperate
in the perfect way
for her cruel love game.

Unprepared,
I sat and stared,
saw the despair
you shared,
not outright
but by the
fractures in your skin.

How your porcelain
starting cracking
and shattering,
how the weight
of everything
that was mattering
was just a smattering
expanding
and being pulled in,
an explosion, implosion,
finally denoting the eroding
of all that was once
your granite composure.

Life is as slick
as the sand in which
your hand slipped
and now you fall
sinking in it all,
wailing in a pain
for which you
are not to blame.

So, when you’re feeling
tense and full of doubt,
I can be your armchair.
You can put your arm there,
rest your head on me,
knowing that I really care.

I got two good ears
ready to listen to you my dear.
Yes, I’m here to hear
whatever you wish to reveal,
cause I am a comforter.

I am of
something that
once sparkled
fiercely and far above.

I am earth and mud,
cells and atoms
all that particle stuff
that doesn’t measure up
to enough
to stop all the pain in
the world.

I am of love.
Peace and poetry baring
sharing my caring
and creative heart
a pebble to start,
a ripple that turns to
tear apart oceans,
with emotions in motion
that will eventually stop.

I am life
bound for death,
not remembering
how or why
children cry
or when I decide
this is my right
to live or die.

I am.

These fallen leaves
echo strange tragedies,
as roots rot, on the spot
and time’s fury does not
seem kind enough to stop.

Tiny green things, browning
and disintegrating,
as humans move to change
despite the desire to stay the same,
shedding memories like a lamb’s coat,
losing layers and layers to
our own frailty.
Mortality is the knife at our throat.

Fear is the thief of time,
and time is the rogue
who pilfers everything
we think we know or own.

The tree will go on but we won’t
leaves will come and go,
like the season’s melting snow
and all the rings inside the tree
will marks the passing of everything
including me.

Time from before the big bang
has not been seen or measured
in any significant way
that I am aware of.

So, I am wondering,
based on converging hypotheses
did all of this matter and energy
from our universe which appears to be
expanding and is projected to do so eternally
due to dark matter, come from a less compressed state of being,
space that had massive materials swallowed by a black hole
and became the clay and the mold
of our soon to explode
reality.

It’s a trade in
as wage men
are trading
their time
and health
to earn themselves
a reprieve
from being
deprived
of what they need
to stay alive.

But the clock
is boiling them,
slowly cooking
working men
in a stew of
exhaustion.

Good health
and happiness,
is exchanged for
lots of stress,
anxiousness,
and a mess
of repetitive
movement
impairment
paired with
pain.

Body withering
along with
a dithering
mind that
subtracts facts daily.

In aging
the dark corridor
comes closer
and the coroner
is waiting
just outside
the late night
shift life
door.

You don't bend
or work to make amends
with old friends.
You just muddle through
to the bitter end
cause it's a quitter's trend
that's got you shuffling
from one day to the next,
one nap with no rest
blank sheets cause your tests
are nothing.

I'm looking at branches
With baby buds
Waiting to bubble open
Above seeded and fertilized lawns,
Growing lush between our toes,
Soft beneath reclining heads
Interpreting whales and camels above.

Moons rise. Suns set.

Our first home
Was a skeleton with skin shingles;
Floors with no sounds;
Rooms with no emotions.
The car, all shiny and new,
Left an oil stain on the asphalt.

Wheels are turning.

My innocent, wide-eyed believers
Now share the same blameless lies
With innocent, wide-eyed believers.

Suns rise. Moons set.

Don't eat that or drink this.
Roll up your sleeve.

Astronauts blasted off for the ISS
Wearing masks.
Before their return,
We will cut, rake, bag and burn.