My mind is wed to
weird worlds
no one else can view,
fantasy realities,
and nightmare realms
that haunt me,
such terrible
terrors taunting,
like stairways
to primordial days
or ancient ages
were massive
sea monsters
raged beneath
the deep seas.

I walk through
windows to
grassy fields
that yield
fond fairytales.

In my daydreams,
I am pursuing
my own undoing
ungluing
all that held
me to myself.

Ancient pines,
as close as I
can hope to find
to the divine,
run rings around
the years I’ve found.

I am dying,
whilst trying,
intensifying
the neural firing
of my overactive
spastic synapses,
these bio electric
responses.

Tender digits
from children
who fidget,
take the rose stem
and grab it,
pricked and bleeding
while delicate petals,
fall and float away
fleeing the dying flower.

Waking or sleeping
it is all a dream to me.

Even though, I know that a
multiplicity of alternate realities
is not a certainty but has a minor probability;
I have an affinity for infinity and eternity
with all the weird entities therein.

If time is linear
then any human error
becomes inevitable
when the time is here
and gone.

Sorrow spilt silk streams,
thin lines of pain falling.
They are like old fuzzy dreams,
tiny inklings, hints to a puzzle
that I’m not trying to solve.

A spark of a memory
which I no longer recall,
a place in my brain
I don’t visit at all,
but once in a while
a shadow creeps
from the closets that keep
little pieces, jagged edges,
sharp parts of my heart
that have been shattering
for as long as I have been
living in this cruel world.

Tears come but I disregard,
hit reset so I can restart.
After all I’ve come so far,
too many miles to be hindered
by the chains of a ghost
I don’t want to remember.

Like a frozen dead bird
that refuses to rot,
just sits under permafrost,
I hope I never thaw
because spring will bring
all the sorrows of lonely.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

to be like icarus
to taste the clouds
to reach for the sun

to fall
as your wings melt
down your back
then on your skin

My modern masked queen,
writing word warrior
with flowing prose
as beautiful as the growing rose,
whispering inspiration,
forming a glowing sphere,
a secret sacred space where
I long to go to but
she will not let me in there.

A goddess of nature who owns the air,
vibrating and bending all the ears near,
piercing hearts who hear clear
what wonders my Amazonian friend brings here.

So many stories to tell,
so many things she keeps to herself.
Chaotic but she keeps it under wraps,
as she covers all her scars with laughs.

Layers upon beautiful layers,
multiple masks that overlap,
sometimes they come a little loose,
but she always puts them back.

I wish the façade would crack,
and I could see behind the armor,
that she would let me be
the sharer of strength that she lacks,
so she could finally relax.

My modern mask Queen
would probably have to ****** me
if I ever got to close.
It would be a strange exchange,
but part of me wouldn’t mind that trade.

There’s a multitude
of other dudes,
who look like me
but do not do
the exact same thing
or have a matching
attitude;

Parallels
played out in
lyrical fashion,
as I sit napping.
I hear them yapping
passing something
unseen
as strange beings
from different realities.

It’s not mimicry,
or fancy imagery
that I see
but endless possibilities
of what ifs
that will never be.

An athlete,
teacher, painter,
preacher, dancer,
fittest novelist,
world traveler
who volunteers
to help the suffering.

Such strange daydreams
that sometimes even leans
towards more fantastic things,
like a superhero or an
eager young
training cadet
trying to be
in Starfleet
on Star Trek,
trying to make
first contact,
and get to spaces
we haven’t even
imagined yet.

Of all the alternate
dimensions,
that float out and in
by miles, light years
or even mere inches,

the one that never fails
to stir my strange inner self,
is the one where I get my wish
meeting that finest fairytale figure,
that most beautiful myth.

Looking in the eyes of my
truest companion
after struggling for so long to find them,
and finally settling down with
my soulmate.

From the time when she was
a little girl with an orange bow,
she liked to dance and
put on a great show.

Tapping all her toes,
laughing as her smile grows.

Blues eyes,
short hair,
long braids.

Till the day
time took her youth away,
and it was more hours at her job
and less time to play.

Dress up to go to work,
stress out until her
heart really hurts,
and date another ****.

But underneath the years,
a beautiful ballerina danced,
sweet swans sang songs
as pink fire swam along;
No matter how old she got
she never lost that part.

I may never be
a mainstream
attraction,
marvelous
man of steel
and heroic action,
or a midnight
web swinging
theme song singing
warrior bringing
hope back in.

I know I am not
the villain laughing
at human suffering,
never bothering
to try and solve
anything.

I hope I’m not adding
anything bad
and perhaps
putting back
a little good in
this human equation.

Maybe, I am
over explaining
struggling without
really saying
anything.

I’m pretty much
a middling,
poet spewing
verses that
are not doing
much of anything
but falsely inflating
my tiny ego.

This poet is not divine,
but some may find
the lyrical mind
omnipresent.

All bodies in
conversation
are a manifestation
of his unconscious.

First person,
second person,
or third person
narrator,

in the world
of words
the poet is
the greatest creator.

Not magical,
though it feels
that way sometimes.

Not perfect
that is why
lines fly
but sometimes
even angels
stumble in the sky.

Working verses,
fixing impressions,
twisting perspectives
while being introspective.

It is all a part
of the art
and creative process.

A sickly-sweet sea of brown tea,
and soft caramel treats
were placed before me
in my candied dreams.

A dark pool
of oil slick
black goo
inched ever closer
smelling ever grosser,

As ninja turtles
hopped over hurdles,
and captian Kirk
acted like a ****,
in the final frontier
a spot where I thought
it would be clear
that we could be better.

My body was bruised
as browns spots oozed
blood and ****,
but someone chased me,
so I pushed softly
and walls became doors
to a restaurant I used to
work at. I was
actually late for my shift,
and I had already missed
my favorite college classes.

My car was invisible
as I drove in it,
and when I woke from
my nap of merely one minute
it was gone.

Senseless, I watched this
all from different angles.
If this was supposed  
some sort of story
it was incoherent,
and I couldn’t rearrange it
into a workable plot.

Dreams are so weird.