I thought that
I was in love
with a girl
I hardly knew.
Certain I could do
things her current boo
couldn’t ever come close to,

And yes she was a beauty
but she was clever
and kind to boot
a special quality
that deserved
to be pursued.

But that dude
was a good man to,
hard working,
good father,
adequate lover
put in his dues,
proved that he
truly loved her
as far as I observed.

I respect that.
I can't imagine
that I could
do much better.

It was a superficial affection,
an unrealistic fiction.
Their shared friendship
was so much better
then what my lustful
ego ever imagined.

How grand it is to be excited
seeing another poet in this city,
knowing we are artistic kin
family that lets what’s within
flow out and come back in again.

I move up, certain we will be friends.
She speaks grand versus
and I stand in awe
waiting alone as always.
She stops. I move to intercept,
smile to engage.

But I must be some 2d
creature
cause she walks away
with so much ease
leaving me so displeased.

I thought we could be friends.
How stupid of me.
Now, I return to my pathetic poetry
as she heads happily away from
this paper thin poetic reality.

I sit observing all those strangers scurrying from events occurring during the day. Still stuck in place, I guard this space securing the most unsecured spots. In a daze I look away to see nature ruling the distant landscape.
Trees with no leaves only spindly fingers form wooden web like structures, competing for space with their sisters and brothers who sport full bodied broccoli colors. White cumulus clouds streak across a turquoise sky racing other grayer layered stratus and cirrus vapors. I long to follow, flying as fast or faster than those amorphous beauties.

My pupils contract coming back quickly so I can focus on where my attention is supposed to be. However, my mind wanders and my eyes follow. Weird humming wires bisect the skies. Gone for a moment, I force myself to return.

I hear next to nothing. My sight affirms said silence. Closer than my cloudy kin a flattop building mimics blacktop shapes and colors. Cars clutter the cigarette strewn parking surface. The gravely parking lot cracks like a fault line leaving little fractures where thin green plants perk their heads up and out, sprouting from the concrete covered earth.

Near day’s end I find my focus again. Strange reflections wobble in dark windows as employees drive in to replace their almost friends. The shift ends and I follow strangers out. The herd thins as we diverge on different streets taking our own roads home. Nature follows me back to the hotel sweet, then to sleep, and finally into my dreams.

I was sitting quietly
just outside the city
beneath a starry sky,
contemplating all that is
in this strange 3d life
and enjoying a cool night.

Knowing that once
the night ate the day.
Then the sun ascended
in an orange expanding blaze,
reaching out to touch the blackness,
allowing the dark streaks
to sneak away.

I was slightly blinded;
Dry eyes sore and blurry
from the light a shining
as people hustled by.
It was a change you see
from my normal
nightly duties
of guarding empty factories.

Even so,
I still know
they are both
great places
to ponder the briefness
of our human existence.

This tangled web
of red nerves divide
and separate
into strange vines.
Their throbbing heat
blocks my sleep
with surges of
pain and anger.
Roots work their way
to the broken tooth
and gums inflamed.
**** builds
its own bulge
then explodes
a yellow, thick,
viscous, poisonous
liquid.
My face swollen.
In defeat
forces me to seek
a dentist.
whom I distrust
because of
the previous ones.
I do not want to
but I must
or this ****
fueled folly
will be the death of me.

So many artists struggle to find their style.
Then fully become said style.
As writers work to find their voice
and fully become that voice,
but I have no voice or style
I am multitudinous,
multi-dimensional.
There is an infinite variety
of possible and impossible realities
which exist inside of me.
So I express such diversity
with almost the same variety
of verbal and visual tools provided for me;
Not confined to how you define I should write
but free to discover everything.

It is another work day.
Cold curling winds
cover my exposed skin
dulling but not destroying
the rage that dwells within.

It is a dollar less than
the clichéd inkling
but still a little beast
stirs inside of me
spouting the lie
called jealousy.

As if such a love
could ever belong to me
as if the world
could ever appreciate
what I give each day.

The suitcase cracks
and little folds of red
slip between the two
holes in my head
bleeding out into the world that
spawned those stained shirts.

The solar flare
surges here
and subsides over there.
The anger fades
as does the day
becoming a lonely and cool
nights remembrance
barely imprinted
upon my once again
preoccupied brain.

It is a pittance
but for such kind words
I send remittance.
Though the distance
denies me thy presence,
I gift the with
more than mere affections
sending love and a deep
seas worth of respect.

Come forth to dance my fairy kin
For long have I grieved the loss of innocence
Fluttering wings of fanciful dreams
Where children and cherubs sing
Where teddy bears parade and play
Till the picnic prepared is displayed
and they can devour delicious honey treats
Where goblins conceal themselves admiring
The playful Pegasus’s acrobatic flying
Where guardians with soft pearly feathered wings
Protect all young and saintly human beings
Where spirits offer solace to combat the grief
Of knowing that all things living will be deceased
It is a land of legends, fairytales, and myths
Where only children, fools, and dreamers visit
And I miss it dearly
For in adulthood I have been many years
Separated from that fantastic realm

It seems to be the consensus
that we weary hearted workers
spent this work week imprisoned
in a system that does not value
the human condition.

It is a lonely kind of quiet
unfamiliar too most
social hearted beings,
but I prefer that silence
to the discordant apathy
of a professional work environment.

I fill my bowl
with a wicked
word stew
stirring stirring
words
supping up
delicious verbs,
spilling some nouns
while savoring
other sounds
then packing them all
in my current
favorite notepad.
Then onto my laptop.

I love all avenues
of human advancement
as long as they
seek the expansion
of knowledge, wisdom,
and compassion.

Give way to this sorry state
and if you claim
that life is but a dream
then I dread the wakening.

For if these scenes
are my unconsciousness fantasy
how horrible
this reality must be.

Poor pools form
with black swirls
of dirt and oil.
Puddles push out
expanding
as water works
its way down
from the broken
ceiling.
One envisions
drowning in
the sludge and poison
or imagines
that a crackling
electrical surge
might break
those old bulbs,
but the sparks
never come
and the days go on
wetter for the water.
but, not as deadly
as I thought
they would be.
Like me
they merely are.

Tears from the tree;
The sapling cries
as little vines
bleed pain
for fellow fauna
that have fallen
never to rise again.

To understand alone
is to be a reckless observer,
a sea faring adventurer
on a leaky boat
that floats
across the cosmos.

It is to be a materialist
who claims to be spiritual,
seeing specters
in his reflection
not in the natural world.

It is to be well trained
in the art of
escaping the trappings
of temporary love,
wrapping oneself up in
sweet affections
which you know
can be so easily discarded.

It is driving undirected,
Impulsive,
Obsessive,
the searching
for something
you have never seen
and in the finding
knowing there is
so much more to learn.

It is nihilistic, fatalistic,
franticly selfish
even in the most
unselfish acts.

In the end
it is the loneliest
journey into oblivion.

There is something in her body
that longs for compassion.
As a black hole breaks
beneath her chest
causing her to implode with grief
collapsing like a star
there is an innate longing
for the mercy of a soft touch.
A touch that might not negate
instead ease the destruction
that dwells within
the infinite pain
that has become her life.

So as she trembles
on the verge of cracking
like fancy china
of being unable to
hold anything ever again
let someone hold her hand,
let some hug her tightly,
or gently as she needs.
It will not end such sorrow
but it may soften that
jagged rock of pain.

I am disconnected.
Though I long
to be a part
of the collective heart
that binds all,
I do not feel
its tangible will.
I do not see
the helping hand.
Apathy stands.
Dullness fills
this ill fed
fawning,
yawning body.
The heat saps,
makes me
want naps
more then
human
connections.
Today dies
the dullest death of all.
nothing ventured,
nothing gained,
and only a
small poem
to mark this
mundane Monday.

I long to
recover
the soft quilted covers
that strange lovers
once laid under.

It is over a simplified
and symbolized
love *****.

The heart beats
constricting
and expanding
demanding
proper blood flow,

But how does
your body know
how much it needs.

As impulses electrical
shock ventricles
palpitations play
uneven.

Even though
this is the first
percussion instrument
I still stumble
and stutter
wondering about
the wonder
of that vital
evolved *****.

Like Plath said
“dying is an art”
and though someday
we will all be
masters of such
a sad and sweet artistry
It is an art form
for which I would
happily delay
my graduation day.

The sky is turquois
blue beyond blue,
but that hue
is not the truth
past the atmosphere illusion
there is a black infinity
with Christmas lights
blinking beyond our
light year conception.

Time is
flexible glass
that reflects our painful past
showing transparent shades
of our better angels
bending to pressure.
If we push forward hard
we break the glass
lose the illusion
of our troubled past
and have a chance
to move on.

I fear that like climate change
we have already lost
and all that remains
is to succumb to the thumb
of greed and this
broiling summer heat.

The wealthy will not
cede their political power,
nor give a single inch
now that they are
completely entrenched.

Let the wind come sprinting in
to sweep away the free markets
though some say
these capitalistic edifices are great,
when enacted in opposition
of those regulated positions
that protect our environment
our health and liberty
free market philosophy
either seeks to diminish
or destroys by incompetency.

Since they only value profits
their actions are caustic
to our natural inclinations
towards fostering social good.

So through corruption
and Orwellian manipulation
they have us claiming that
the industrial war complex
encourages and creates peace,
while the prison industry
helps keep us free.

You bought your house with a loan
so it’s a place that you don’t own
but a place you still call home.

And to keep up the bills
you go in to a job that kills
any kind of happiness you have.

You crack your knuckles and your back,
work for wages that don’t keep up
with inflation, health costs, and
other things this consumer life’s demands.
So with your sweat and stress
you barely scratch the surface.

And the education that you got
cost you even more then
the home you just bought.
Fifty thousand plus debt
hangs heavy like an anvil
over your head.

So you keep on working
till you are the walking dead,
Till, the stiffness in your arms
and the tightness in your chest
explodes like a terrorist’s vest.

But if you make to seventy
when you were planning to retire
and take a holiday retreat
well, the market lost your cash
so you will be working untill
you finally collapse.

His hands were a solar state
that could never be sated
by cools pools of hydrations.
The same summer heat
could be found
down where desire meets
extending flesh.
His lips parched.
Eyes dry with desire
crusted from waking
finding another day unfulfilled.
But in his mind
a body swam,
soft feline curves
black hair, thin waist
eyes young
heart immature.
Still, he denied himself
even the hope
of being drenched
by her soft water body:
Because he knew
that with the slightest
touch
she would drown him
and he would be grateful
to die in such a manner.

I searched the streets uncertain
corners and alleyways
to find my escape,
a place where
some mythical
love sits and waits.

I looked in libraries,
comic book shops.
not barrooms
where normal people stop,
but everywhere
I might dare
find the other half
of this lonely pair,

Because songs, tv shows,
movies and books
promised me
there was love
somewhere
out there.

But, I am slowly
learning
that that promise
is a cruel lie,
that the only love
I will ever know
is fictional
small fantasies
in paperbacks
or tv screen,

or sometime
in my mind
where I find
only I can touch myself
while dreaming of
a make believe love
that is nowhere to be seen.

The lines don’t cross. They never cross. Like connecting the dots, he pulls one string to the next. This is the only way he knows how to make sense of a senseless world. It is geometric. He points at the points placed by the power of his imagination. Then he twirls them in every possible angle. “There is a deeper truth in this,” he swears.
For fifteen hours he has stared at the puzzle. Cursing, and circling, every corner he could conceive of, seeking ultimate truth. His blues eyes blink with the powerful pulse of unrelenting fatigue. Soon he will succumb to slumber. This obsession may wane for the night. Although, he fears that in the morning he will lose the patience to pursue this line of reasoning.
Loose leaf papers filled with colored equations lay scattered across the room. He mumbles, “Sleep would be good.”  Instead of going to bed he clears the clutter from the frigid floor. Pushing his papers to the side. Then watches as they lift off the ground and float gently to the left and right. Dust particulates dance in the air, swirling and glittering in the morning glow.
The white t-shirt he was wearing comes off then his tight blue jeans go as well. “This will allow the free flow of blood to pass unconstricted throughout my entire body” he thinks.
“The answer is somewhere here,” he stutters. Slowly he seats himself on the floor, shivering as his naked flesh settles on the cold concrete. His legs curl and cross each other. Closing his now reddening eyes, he begins to breathe slowly. In and out and back again repeating and repeating the same breathing patterns, he focuses. Letting his consciousness float inches away from sleep, uncertain on which side of slumber he is sitting on.
Smooth round stones of various colors and sizes fill and form a shore in his mind. Then a pool of glimmering water appears from nothing. No scent exists here.  Aluminum foil wrapped potatoes are scattered all around him coinciding with an itch forming on his left foreman, diverting his attention for a minute. The landscape begins to dissolve, and he struggles to regain control. Bit by bit he regains control breathing in and out and back again.
His skin vibrates, or twitches, he is uncertain. The rhythm remains consistent. Thin lines of blood cross his entire inner body. In and out and back again. The shape from his room reappears with a white glowing sphere circling it. In and out and back again.
Inside the sphere a speck forms then disappears then forms again. In and out and back again. He wonders were this is going. Where does all the meaning in the universe come from? In and out and back again.
Is flesh the meaning or is it spirit. In and out and back again. Is life death and death life. In and out and back again. Is time a true measure of my existence? In and out and back again. Dam, what does the shape mean?
A small hand pushes his shoulder jerking him to the left. The world shifts colors. They pool and rock phasing into a grey scale then return to their original color, then shift back and forth for a few minutes until they settle into the original color scale. “That was like adjusting the color in a tv,” he muses.
Suddenly, a thin white light explodes piercing his retina, causing him to shudder in pain. In and out and back again. Why? What? Why? How? In and out and back again. The pain of uncertainty gnaws at is being. Fear begins to tighten its grip but he is too deep to withdraw.
Every book he has ever read appears fluttering freakishly fast opening and closing like a strange mousetrap. In and out and back again. Every experience he has ever had replays and is reintegrated into his being as he struggle to return to true consciousness. In and out and back again.
For a second the breaths stop. He can hear the words “in and out and back again.” A finger of light pushes its way into his mind pulling out strings of lights. He forgets all that he is and was. The strings explode and spread like a million lasers. Each lasers latches on to a book and pulls every words into him. Then he becomes himself again. Another round of lasers explode from his brain. This time these strings of his being reach out. Each one exploring the world around him. Just as he begins to feels like there is nothing of his being left the lights fling back like an overstretched rubber band and smack his brain with even more information.
After what feels like hours of this exploding and reforming he opens his eyes. The shape no longer cloud his thoughts. He jots down a few notes. After a couple days of intense study he adds to and passes the notes on to a friend. The friend reads them then passes them to, and again and again. Someone adds something new reshaping the ideas, then passes them on as well.
Years later the ideas comes back to their beginning. The young man reads a new book. He smiles as he absorbs the new ideas that linger in the mix with his old ideas. He sits down to breathe in and out and back again assimilating and integrating these new things into his being. In and out and back again.

Broad generalizations frequently decrease the fluidity of human understanding and growth.

The roads diverge
merge then re-emerge
somewhere I have never been,
so I follow them,
from the same point of origin
to the same destination
but following impulsive tangents.
The country road novelty
builds new neural pathways.

I know these are not the roads
that my grandpa drove
but I think he did
the same thing.
From the past
I can almost feel
his parallel curiosity.

We are two travelers
in different times
on different roads
with the same heart
to drive away
but always find
our roads homes.

As I drop my drawers
to drain my ****
of yellow ****
I see this
flickering ****
and I am afraid
it might cause
an epileptic fit.

Afraid that I might
drop and hit
the white porcelain tip
that is covered
with a little bit of ****.

I am afraid that
exhaustion
has made me hallucinate,
but it is just a large cylinder bulb
about to burnout.

Yesterday was a winter road
with frosty figures lining up
to dam a young soul to limbo,
not quite hell but purgatory.

Now they all change
their gory stories
so they can feel better
and in their tales
they make themselves
sainted knights.

But we outsiders
know the harsh facts.
We do not make ourselves
the heroes of our tales
but journeyman
of varied skills
seeking the truths
and speaking it to
despite how painful
it might feel.

I know it is not much, but I give to the people on the side of the road. If I have an apple or three, a couple of bananas, avocadoes, or anything that I can afford to pass on without making it so I do not have something to eat that day, anything in my car at the time that is not already been chewed on is fair game for my compassion, in passing it on to someone who might not have had anything to eat.
I do not feel pride for this actions, because to many times I rush by in a hurry to somewhere else, or all I have is my lunch for work. It hurts me to know that this stranger on the side of the road may not get anything to eat.
So, here are two things that rub me the wrong way. Firstly, when people think someone else will help. It is so easy just to walk, or drive by cause you think the next guy will help, but what if they don’t? What if that extra apple that you ended up tossing away anyways could have assuaged someone’s pain even for an hour or so. What if despite not being enough to fill that person’s stomach up your kindness was the light that slightly brightened an otherwise painful and lonely day? Secondly, when people say that this person is probably trying to scam you. So what if they are, their potential deceit will not lessen my overall desire to be compassionate, because what if they next person I would have helped truly needed it and I refused because I was jaded? Hell, how about if that person that you were so suspicious of was truly needy? This fog of distrust of those in need has clouded our communities, cities, states, and this country that some claim they desire to make great again.
Maybe my heart bleeds a little too much because I have been hungry, and alone before. But haven’t you ever been hungry, scared, lonely, or in pain? Why dismiss the suffering of others when you know pain? It is our capacity for creativity, and compassion that makes us great. It is the art of reading, seeing, or merely thinking that allows us to switch places and to a degree feel what other’s feels that makes us human. Please find that part of yourself and once you do, do not allow that part of yourself to be lost.

Does time exist
because of this
gravity we feel
and if our universe
ceases to exist
would it quit
continue, or
stand deathly still?

I do
Oh, I do
enjoy the blessing
that I have.
Though few
they are
more then
most have been
given.

Someone whispers to him “calm your heart,” but the crimson streaked flesh that beats soft wet palpitations hastens his impatience to face what’s coming. He has no armor or weapon only the determination to do what is right.
      Four chambers are thudding like the boots a coming. Men in black garbs marching with fully loaded chambers, clear plastic shields up, and black sticks ready to bludgeon. Their anger is oppositional to their opponent’s fog of fear, fatigue, and determination.

“Breath my child,” a gentle voice says. A sharp pain pierces on the back of his head. A thin line begins to ride down his neck. Someone yells “get down!”
One row of men raise their hands, eyes turned upward. The soft voice in his head says” be strong.”
Billows of grey smoke spew from a black canister. Strangers and familiars choke and gasp, eyes watering. Dreams of a bygone era play out in his mind. A tall thin brown sweaty woman smiles, moving down the road while singing we shall overcome. Dogs snap viscously at her compatriots. A fire pushes her siblings back with skin scraping pressure. A few of them fall, and couple falter in the struggle but most keep marching. Her brother, who is tall slightly bulky but wears the well-earned muscles of a man who labored hard all his life, clenches his fists, preparing to strike. She pulls him back. “Be strong, and gentle baby brother.”

They continue to sing “We shall overcome.”

       In his mind the young man sees his mother smiling, saying “"Be calm, saith my heart. I am a warrior. I have seen far worse than this." He smiles through the pain stands up and chants “Hands up don’t shoot. Hands up don’t shoot.” Another brother rises behind him yelling “Black lives matter. Black lives matter.” A thin nerdy pale white guy cries we shall overcome, not in a singing tone, but it still rings beautifully. The struggle continues.

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.

This is just half a memory
A quarter of a daydream
Remembered fondly
As I stare blankly
Through arches to nowhere
Looking back to the past
Where a vine tree
Fought against me fiercely
With whipping strings
That rapidly snapped
Sharp sounding cracks
Opposite of the thunder
Landing in the distance
My feet found mud and water
Then sunk in muddied water
As I fought hard
Against an unseen foe
Kicks that cut the storm
With well practiced punches
That followed in perfect form
Yet each droplet
Was a mighty blow
From some dumb thunder god
That I was fighting off
Till, I finally lost
Because no mere mortal
Can beat an imaginary deity

Self-crucified am I
saw a red flower fall and bloom,
one rose in an abandoned road
unfurling its petals before noon.
I made myself a modern martyr
sacrificed purely for the god of me;
hanging from a bleeding tree
singing psalms of redemption
that no one else ever heard.

Look at that
Humans are
Dust motes
Dancing on
A cosmic scale
Burning behind
The comet’s tail
Too important to notice
That they are
Less than a particle
In a universe
That is an electron
In an atom
Of a larger universe

Oh how cruel the day is.
Slant rays invade my space
because the curtained covered
windows can only bend them
not completely conceal
the light that I feel on my skin.

Partially piercing my eyelids
daylight becomes a strange shade
Of red, orange, and annoyed.

Warmth trumps cool sheets.
Sunny Sunday sounds sneak in
with the interrupting day.
I wish it all would go away.

Bring back the melatonin moments.
Bring back the colors of the night
dark, quiet, and tranquil as death
with my memories still intact.

But if I brought the evening back
I would want to stay awake
cause I love that silent night
and hate that ******* sunlit day.

My memory is a sea
of dark debris
swishing dangerously
all around me,
sinking ships
with vomited bits
of metal, and wood
leaving plastic that strangles
strangers whom I’ve met.

My identity
is redefined
with fractured parts
that my past selves
multiplied and supplied;
Tiny truths of perception
that fade then solidify,
liquid lightning broth
that breaks like glass
to fill a cracked jar.

I am shattered
and reconstructed
every single day
when I go from
a conscious state to
sleeping then
back to awake.

There’ll be days
precious moments
see them sunning
by the bay
till, the sea
sees the star light,
blinking angels
dissipate.

There’ll be years
yarn unspinning
as we stumble
towards our graves,
but the seconds
in-between breaths
are what make
this life so great,

and the children
that we leave
littles daughters
full grown son
are like blooms
that lose their trees
as our roots
wither and flee.

Till, the song
that I am singing
becomes the song
that they passed on
and the love
that I was bringing
are the wheels
that just roll on.

So goodnight
little planet
precious place
that I lived on.
I know you wont
miss me one bit
but I was grateful
to call you home.

I’ve been your noble knight
salt white marble pillar
holding you up carefully
while other lovers crumble
under the weight of
your kind of love.

Today is dull
practically
colorless.
I am dumbfounded
and dolorous
as I ponder these
tragic bits
of alternating
emotional states.

At least my disposition
is greatly improved
by exercise, which is why
I am moved to move more.

Little boy who runs away
Know the truth of pain
Better the most

The young mom
Starving
Struggling to make ends meet
Dealing with
A bureaucracy
That hates what it made her into
So it punishes her
For their failing policies
And she sees
Her family in poverty
Discarded
By the ignorant hearted

How many times
Can you arrest a man
For existing
Because that is
The only crime
He was committing
Because he could not
Predict which way
Your whims and quota
Will send him

How many spouses
Can you detach from
The ones you claim
Are the victims
Of foreign systems
So you keep some
And split them
Take her and send him
Back to where
He they both came from

The writer sees
The reader hears
The person feels
But the republican
Forget to be human
The democrat
Sits back
And distorts facts
Claiming that they
Will help those
Who needed the most
But the money flows
From the rich to the politician
And back around again
That’s a revolving door

This country was founded
By the wealthy for the wealthy
And does not cede the power
Does not tell the truth
Pay fair wages by the hours
Only consumes those who do
Taking the fair minded
And turning them towards
Business dreams
And get rich quick
Lottery dreams

And if I had the power
To change the world
If they suspected
That I really could
They would try
To buy me out
****** or discredit me
Luckily they don’t read
As much as me
Or a single thing from me
So I am free to tell the truth