She was a vile venom sac
Poisonous black widow
A spider spinning webs
In my back bedroom window

I cut my teeth
On sapphires
Not pacifiers
Sweet chunks
Of painful beauty
****** gums
And bleeding teeth
Broken drums
Still playing
In my heartbeats
With no repeats

The brown mound of earth
slightly elevated
to support the tree
the children played with
but our parents hated.

The big old gnarly thing
outer skin
always barking
rough against
my young flesh,
but I still climbed it.

The thick branch
that hung out
and let me lay back
to read a book
in privacy,
despite the threat
of gravity.

The way I relaxed
free from all below
an unobtrusive
lonely ******
who was outside
to escape
the black hole
of a home
where darkness reigned.

The pleasant wooden memory
like a ship at sea
which carried me
to my present
where all those
childhood dreams
are obscured
by time’s
unalterable course.

Could we break it down to an algorithm
Brain chemistry working like mathematics
Measured and predicted with perfect precision
Calculating the chemistry down to the last molecule
Timing the firing with pharmaceutical accuracy
Flip a switch to fix that ****
So pain only exists if you want it
Machine men and women
Flesh formed robots
Modern nanobots
Becoming more assembly line
Then we already are at this time
Sure, but let’s not

I drive while I am overthinking,
watching as I run through
a hundred thousand
floating firefly butts
that lessen the darkness of
the highway I’ve been
driving;
  
Reflecting on
the corruption
of politicians,
and businessmen
who are war
profiteering,
arming up soldiers,
and bringing military
grade gear
for policemen
to use here
within our own borders.

How these thugs
take their orders
from the rot at top
and brutally torture,
hearts once hopeful
that now turn to dust.

I am amazed by
the ease at which
I see all that ****
but keep on
swimming through
the gross cesspool.
I know I can walk away
but I am fool
who has something to say.

Evan though,
there are no great
ways to demarcate
stages of human pain. cont.

I have been furnished
with a burning furnace,
a form famished for
seeing those justice ignored
even the score.

I got no patience
for these agents
of deliberate corporate contagions,
or the minefield that yields
the bootstrap philosophy
that never actually worked
in this society.

While you were swallowing
the t.v. news
that the corporations use
to sell sick perspectives
that get sales projections
and stock market values
going up,

I was back here loving you,
watching while you choked on
the pricey drugs you use,
to numb those American blues.

While you were slinging the gospel
casting your almighty god spell
so, no one would buy in
to that fact that you are trying
to deny facts in favor
of your favorite brand of lying,

I was trying to learn
the lessons you spurned,
so, I could take science and poetry
combine them in this flow you see
to share our shared humanity
and help us be better human beings.

I’m holding onto
the abused child
who used to
play in realms
of fairytales,
myths, legends,
comics
movies, tv shows,
and books.

I’m holding onto
the ones I long to
reunite with,
dead people
I still miss,
ghosts who painfully
wake me
from sleep,
crying.

I’m holding onto
the guy I always
wanted to be
stronger, more creative,
more compassionate
more patient,
more giving,
and a more intelligent
self-sacrificing gentleman.
Despite how easy it would be
to be greedy and deceive
I always strive to be
a better version of me.

I’m Holding on to
a silver sliver
Of slimmer hope
that glimmers
in the distance,
just a small chance
at a romance
with someone
I’ve loved
for almost twenty years.

I’m holding onto
slightly subdued
versions of dreams
I used to dream
for me
and all humanity.

Till, the end
I am holding onto
my friends
and this one life
we all get to live,
cause I’m not waiting
for the sequel
that is supposed to be
coming after this.

The lion is
lucky if
the lioness
doesn't give him
a violent kiss.

Fiction informed my compassion
Superheroes and story tellers
Poets and other daydreamers
Were my fellow schemers
In restoring and or creating
A more humane society
The kind of reality
I could get in sync with
Instead of this current
Hateful, political, and religious
*******



I wonder why her eyes
speaks of melancholia
while her work
speaks of wisdom
Beyond her age?
Perhaps, therein
lay my answer.


It’s unfair
that the night
gets to be there
with you
adoring your soul
with its silence
and beauty.



If the mirror reflected my truest nature
instead of this annoying shell
that everyone seems to think
is such an ugly thing,
I think I would smile more.

The falcon stole the sea
Soft pebbles broke
Beneath my blistered feet
Dark dreams of water
Black waves drowning
The very core of my being
Salt burning my last breath
The wet fire of fear and desire
Tempting the void
To claim its cheap carny prize

I got so many friends
Who’d be willing to stand
In an endless line
Just to find a sign
For the end of times

Bathroom reading
The left behind
******* propaganda

Pants wetting
While forgetting logic

Riling themselves up
With biblical justice
From a petulant deity

And that is just
An inkling of what
Is gnawing at me

Programed people
Getting brainwashed to believe
Far out fairly tales

Those poorly conceived
Spiritual explanations
For what we can see
Things that can be explained
If you studied diligently

I got a problem with
Guilt for built in sin
From a god who made men
An all-powerful being who condemns
My family and friends
For what comes naturally
For desires deep and genetic

When preacher teach things that are pathetic
Flood stories and tales of whales
With men living in them
Burning witches and the apostic
Because of some drunk prophet
Who is vile and caustic
Some slick wicked trickster
Who convince you to demean
Our sisters
Said all sin is their fault
And birth is the punishment
That the fruits of evolution
Are seeds of deceit

And this is just a sample
Of why religion is bothering me

I’ve been told or maybe it was just implied
That this life is just a short ride
On a one way rocky road to the other side
And this shell is more hell then heaven
That day is a better time than night
That I am mostly wrong and they are mostly right
Those mighty moral men of higher ideals
But my coolly clouded kin have very little trouble compromising
Adopting and adjusting ancient beliefs to support their greed
Toying and destroying this environment in favor of the next
Simplifying and denying the beauty of the complex
I have been told that learning is burning me up
And I should accept what is because it is
Makes we want to cry what the ****
I’ve been jeered at when expressing truth
Yet, those who sneered and called me queer accepted said truth later on
So I am the inferior one uninformed until that masses catch on
Maybe they lied maybe they tried to accept but rejected it in fear
That now is here and tomorrow may not make it there
I have been told many things
how I should not be me you see
And that everyone else knows better how to live my life
I guess it’s funny how I do the same thing to others
But I am just as certain that I am right

Why do we allow
these shallow
stubborn *******
to acquire annual annuities
on slick sick
investments;

Like oil refinement
or weapons,
such detriments
to our social health
and our environment.

Will we be able
to restrain
this barbaric disposition
that manufactures
guns and
environmental disasters
with our false bravado?

It bothers me
to want anything
unnecessary.

Desire seems
to be
compulsory
due to my
humanity,

a built in
glitch
in the
system.

I want
games, and
new clothing.

It is illogical,
wasteful
when pleasures
can be gain
freely.

Nature is open
to me.
The library
has all I can read
like a literary
all I can eat
word buffet
which is
intellectually sweet.

Then there is
the wanting
of someone
who is
unhealthy
for me.

Like a disease,
dangerous
and exhausting
costing
my sanity.

It bothers me
to have this
desire leash
tugged regularly,

but I know
with certainty
the only time
I will desire
nothing
will be
when death
takes me.

So, what
am I to do?

If desire was a wild white rose
Would you let me paint it pink
Slam your back against the wall
And grind you while you’re sitting in the sink
Take a handful of bubbles to wash
And consecrate your flesh
As the holy temple your body is
Feel the goosebumps on your skin
As my tongues slides deeply in
Twirling in a tornado fashion
As I take you beyond the rainbow
Till I know you have cummed
And when you think that I am done
Oh dear let’s be clear,
That’s when the real fun will begin.

When she sings I cry
I am stuck on stilts
Kissing clouds
Suckling on her voice
Supping up the gravy of her thighs
Her music
Makes me feel
The soft muscles
Her tight abs
Behind those glasses
Light eyes sparkle
White lies
Dancing in the lyrics
For anyone who wants to feel it
She is like ******
My addiction
And I keep coming
And coming back again
Running my hands through her hair
But that is in dreams
That is when dreams end
And I come back down to earth
Crashing
Comet cracking the crust
Spitting and spewing musical dust
And if lust isn’t enough
Then I must
Keep my distance

There are too many modern maladies
in our over stimulated society,
of social media junkies;

flexing for the next fix
likes for your muscle pics
or a salty dish of something
so delic.

Dopamine rewards
makes us want to scratch
that itch
so, we continue checking it
when we wake up for just a bit
then struggle to go back to sleep.

Like toxic metals
this mental poison
fills our techno prisons.
Until, we live in
little broken bubbles
of preconstructed biases
that fit whatever side of this
binary plague we are infested with.

So, to exit this
I take a trip
facing the space
where no one lives,
into nature
the multi-sensual cure for
technological toxification.

I listen to the sound of
wind rushing through
the leaves that move
and sound like rain.
In this summer heat
water fantasies
are such a tease,
but I feel at ease.

I follow muddy tracks
that turn and head back
then diverge
just in time to merge
with familiar patches of grass.

I see tons of green
and brown things
but hidden gems
of purple, white,
and yellow flowers
fall into my line of sight.

I breathe it in
then take a breath again
as my pulse quickens.
An hour and my sour
soul goes from dead
to enlivened
and I take the notes
of inspiration I am given
to write a poem
tomorrow.

No cell phone allowed
so I feel naked,
with just my notepad and pen,
back to the boring bank.
I am blocked by boredom
and for a while
all I see are blank faces.

“Would you like to add
a backup account to prevent
overcharges.”

Rain falling, black umbrella bobbing
like a limping parasol trying to escape
this mundane storm.
Not allowed to talk to the customers
for more than casual pleasantries.

“I have twenty calls to make
but they are the same people.”

Stranger in a black Toyota
parks in poor pools that reflect
the same cold dreariness
of this security shift work.

“She just walks in my office
while I am on the phone
trying to make my quotas.”

Balding ginger with a white streak
that cuts across his small beard
looks as tired as I feel.
Two grandmas hug and talk about
the same grandchild.
White paint covered man
comes in a with a wide grin,
and good greetings.

“I’m so tired of fake smiling.
Did you see the Lip Sync battle?
What are you reading?”

My fidgeting fingers ******
the notepad in my coat pocket.
I slip it in and out taking notes
on the people that come and go.
It is good for me to be without my phone,
but like an addict I am itching for
a distraction.

“Quiz me. I sort of passed.
Missed a few so  
I have to do an onsite test.
You know you can add
a checking account for free.
You only have fifty left in.
Do you want to deposit that?”

I bank each stranger.
saving them for later
racking up interest
in my interest of humanity.
I bank them in my little
red book, so I can write
about my basic observations.

“Where are you from?
Hey, where are you from?”

Oh me, nowhere important.
I am just a banker of stories.
Do you have one?

Tonight she is crying
calling via digital replies.
There are zeros and ones
clouding her eyes
as she types out why
she is hurting inside.

So, I reply
with kind hearted attempts
but it doesn’t seem right
when it’s just a couple
of zeros and ones.
I want to offer one hand
on her shoulder
one deep look
into her eyes
to take her pain
and truthfully reply.

Instead all I can do
is text back
“I am really sorry dude.”
According to
her zeros and ones
she understands
and appreciates
what I have done.

But it doesn’t seem
right to me.
I want to offer my condolences
in her presence
so she can see my eyes,
hear my tone,
then accept or decline
The hug I offer
when I ask her
if she wants to be alone.
I’d just like to give her that option.
Instead of giving her zeros and ones.

There was rage in her eyes, unfiltered fury and contempt. Violence was the tool of her salvation. I can forgive to a certain degree but I will never forget. Her face distorted with rage. Bottom lip curled under the top. Forehead wrinkled prematurely. No reason penetrating that thick shell. Shell of what I cannot say. Yet her eyes burnt with hell to pay.
Sometimes, when I am alone and the stillness of nights overcomes me I try to understand. I try to reason her rage out; hoping that by understanding hers I can prevent my own. Was it impotence in an aggressive world? Was it struggling to no avail, barely being able to feed and shelter us? Was it mental illness or ignorance? More than anything the fear of becoming that is what drove my desire to be better.
Very rarely I see an inkling of the thing. Some darkness hiding just out of the corner of my eyes. Some monster waiting to swallow me whole. Other times I can see the same horror in others.
The stars blur and bleed white light for me. A billion years of time passed and still I feel as though they burned for me. Twinkling lights needling their way into my brain. Then I ***** specks of perceptions and philosophy about the stars and how they relate to my existence. Their transient nature, nurtures my broken heart. That is how I turn pain into beauty.
They say Van Goh suffered greatly, but channeled his pain into beautiful works of art. Such agony surrendered to the canvass. No peace for him and little for me as well. This human hell is my sick shell of an existence. I have no canvass. I have no brushes nor paint to mask my wounds.
I do have love. Not as a matter of tangible fact, but as an abstract. I love the world, as I keep it safely at a distance. I love life, mine and all that progresses from single cell to the bipedal. Above all else I love words. This flesh and mind is a cage designed by evolution with no purpose in mind. Time is a linear progression that plagues me with uncertainty. There is no stillness or permanence. Only me walking backwards while I move forward, a contradictory *****. Pain is a plague of memories, things past never to be changed.  Agony and apathy dull the better heart of me.
So how do I turn the tragedy in to beauty? Last night I saw deer sitting on either side of the road. Perhaps they were siblings nervously awaiting the other. Eyes a radiant yellow, reflecting my oncoming headlight. I slowed to avoid startling them. The one on the right tried to conceal itself in the darkness of the ditch. The few on the left just sat and waited for it.
Then just as I passed the deer I saw a small possum casually crossing the road. I stayed my course but slowed. I watched his sly eyes turn towards me warily, then he finished his journey, safe and sound.
There was peace in those moments. The beauty and wonder of love and curiosity. I could almost sense the child in me glowing and grinning. The next six hours were rank with the loneliness of human existence. I could not drag contentment from it’s ***** corner.
Now the midnight sky gives way to a new day’s sky. Layers and shades of dark blue, prune purple, white, light blue, and back to dark blue paint the sky beautifully. I play some instrumental music to sooth me. But burning in my stomach is that same ache, the one that I can’t shake. I try to sustain the illusion to create something beautifully human and transcendent.
I wonder is this a lie or a worthy distraction.
I have watched the lines in time. A permanent progression pushing towards blackness. Each phase a shedding of something old, to be replaced by a younger older self. Forgetting to remember, remembering to forget. Shades and tense becoming jumbled in a trillion phases and transitions. Is this the vein that I mine gold from? Is this how I turn pain into beauty?

I always circumvent
The strings of fate
The wheels of time
Our mine to spin
To begin turning
Again and again
Twist the ties that bind
Because my life
Will always be mine
Because I will always find
A way to turn a negative
Into to a positive
Life is ten percent
What happens to me
And ninety percent
How I react
How I adapt
That is the only
Matter of fact

Dinners end
Table cloth must be put away
Butchered heart
Silver spoon
To mark this moment
People passing plates
Take their meals and look away
Hands touch only for a second
Charged by old memories
Lust
Confusion
The knife reflects
Tears not yet
Wiped away
The ****** beef
Salty and sweet
Oil caked skin
Digested grossly
Like lazy lovers we depart
The dinner with stomachs empty
Desires unfulfilled
Wasted day without a meal
Move on
Move on

In allowing love
to envelope us
we lose so much.

We become robots
preprogrammed to
procreate and create
another generation.

The veneration of
people who are
only fulfilled
by the ******
they spilled.

There are other
ways to be,
other versions
you can see,
of struggling
to set yourself
free.

But most want
to abdicate
their responsibility
in favor of
the love they savor
that craving addiction
an easy prediction.

Tv and literature,
movies and songs,
got the good stuff
all wrong.
We are more
then halves
of a whole.
We are unique
people who
always have
room to grow.
You have
a million memory doors
to walk through
and gain the lessons
from the things
I never knew
you went through to.

So, please write something
deeper than your cliché
heartache
and romantic fantasies.

Desire is the ocean’s distance between us
Ethereal fingers that long to touch
Lips of dust and smoky lust
Deep blue and green oceanic eyes
That gaze upon winters
Windy white and cold landscapes

Desire is wondering what words inspire
Knowing when eyes are not cast
Toward nature’s wonder
They are down deep dipping into other wordy worlds
Absorbing all their majesty

Desire is blonde hair falling past
Her soft and desirous shoulders
Curves that cut like a silhouette
Leaving a powerful impression
Of the feminine form

Desire is a daydream of
A stone fireplace that crackles
Keeping us warm while we read poetry
Uttering each verse to one another
Full red loving lips softly mouthing
Old odes of love, and philosophy
Closing the books with
Purple blooms as bookmarks
To remind my heart that nature is love

Desire is the unreachable
Fair skin and brilliance within
Imagining that what I am seeing
Could be close enough to touch
But knowing that what I want
Might as well be Mars distance away

Desire is waiting to read what she wrote
First thing in the morning
Hoping her passions have become
Another cold fusion Estonian sun
Full of the soft natural beauty
The grey roads, the foggy mornings
The white frosty plains that adorn her horizons

If I told you my desire was purely ******
Than that would be a lie
My Eros lies closer to the other side
Halfway between erotica and love
Pushing me curiously towards
Wondering what a smile looks like
On that face

Desire is warm hand to rid myself
Holding her heartfelt image in my mind
I find time to cleanse my being
Of that ache full lust
Parting with ****** passion
And returning to calmer and deeper affections

There is something there
in the downtown square,
an angel statue
with statuesque hair.

On my way to work
the nightshift,
I stop and stare
at the strange
stationary beauty,

whispering secrets
in her ear
that she’ll never share,
cause she doesn’t care.

She is as hard as metal
but the last beautiful girl
staring up at the stars,
while loud cars
blast by
destroying the peaceful night.

Like Pygmalion
I am in love
with a statue,
but unfortunately
for little old me
there is no
Aphrodite
to bring my beloved to life.

It is a porcelain battlefield
and I hear the
brown bodies drop
with a wet thwap.

I push and strain
against the pain
to purge this
unpleasant thang.

Prickly peanuts
thick and hard
tearing me up
as I yell
“Arrrrggggh.”

Hold on tight,
it’s one hell
of a fight.

A fearsome foe
falls once more.

Then I hear
civilians holler,
“God no
that’s so gross!”

“Oh no,
collateral damage!”
I think as
puffs of spray
are spritzed my way,
cause in the heat
of this hard-won battle,
I forgot to
shut the door.

I want to be unfettered
Loose the clutter of clothes
That confine my flesh
Swim naked beneath
The open evening
Let the salty seaweed
Exfoliate my feet
While scaring skittering *****
Away from me
Mostly I just want to be
A freer version of me

You birth is an invitation
Few received from quintillion plus
Possible people
A gift to exist
A choice given
The variables
A ticket to the freak show
Or to the joy ride
Of expanding life
And human consciousness
It was not stamped for approval
Nor is it dependent on the permission
From those in power
Who required you
To live by their patterns
Why would you
When you can build a better loom

Perched perfectly on tumblr and facebook
For everyone to get a good look
At how I felt a month ago
But why wait so long
Because words need trimming
Stanzas need perfecting
Lines need to find their proper place
And that takes time
And in my mind
A thirty day cycle will suffice

We do the right thing for the right reasons
Struggling with moral questions
Questing for truth beyond misconceptions
The poet, philosopher, heart seeker
The speaker, social worker, Teacher
Without weapons and violence
Our hearts bleed as much as our bodies
Locked in love marching on
To be better, to be an example
Even when they trample us
Beneath their steel toed injustice
Pushed by pulpit pedophiles
and political predators
When they say fear and hate
We say hope and love

The clouds come
Cause there must be balance
With highs must come lows
Great joy costs great sorrow

Understanding creates empathy
Empathy leads to compassion
Compassion compounded by
Societies failures makes me cry

I question how before I get to why
I pose probable possibilities
Before I get to the revolutionary changes
Exchanges must be made
To improve the way we live

And for each failure each falling foot that stumbles
Each time another human suffers
Cause another human was indifferent
I crack exposing the back of my black and bitter heart

The void is an infinite empty expanse
Waiting to be filled with stars and solar heat
Waiting to warm the numbed shoeless feet

I see the streets I was there to
Violence, fear, aggression, intimidation, ignorance

The clouds come in again
But swimming in the cold grey thinning veil
The stark dark hearted self
Serves only to sicken my soul

It never softens the blows
Or helps me to expose
The true depths in either direction

Laughter breaks the silence
A smile interrupts the bleakness
A conversation during breakfast
A librarian or other friends
I break the balancing boards
And swim towards happier shores
Discarding my depression and
Other dreadful expectations

I am not a werewolf but there is a beast buried deep beneath my chest
Howling raging and trying to escape this thin veneer of human flesh
Everyday day I find myself shifting and changing as I grow
But what will become of it I never really know
My bones may crack, shift front to back but the monster never shows
It lurks inside my bitter mind waiting to rip off all of my clothes
The rage of disappointment the heartbreak of regret
Are the only feelings that I long to forget
They feed the freak until I’m too weak to resist the beast
And one day it will make its great escape the monster will be unleashed
I shudder to think that even on the brink I can vaguely recall
That the vulgarity of all the violence and desire is such a human flaw
Maybe the thing that lives inside me is not what I should fear
But the thing that I should worry about is if it disappears

Though I wish it was
like the long-lost love
that I still miss,
or the sweet mist
of soft citrus
squished fruit
that squirted in my mouth
in my youth.

Time is a snake
devouring itself,
scouring souring seconds,
and removing buildings.
Till, thirty years later
I cannot recognize
any of the lost landmarks
from my long-ago life.

Retrace the waking mind
Retract the black steps
Back towards the first breath
Lips opened for first air
No memory exists there
Only a glimmering
A fraction of emotion
Then further back
The burst of light
The watery life
The swelling inside
The chicken becomes the egg
The egg becomes the chicken
Flesh of her flesh
Cycling back
And back to uncertain beginnings
If only we could see the truth
Peer deep into some sort of
Genetic or sonic remembrance

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.

It feels like we live in separate realities.
In your world the pop songs sparkle.
Shiny things bring a better quality
and the invisible hand of greed
is always the best option.

In my world there is anger and tears;
thirty-six years of disappointment
peppered with worldwide violence.
There is hunger and desperation
where it could be avoided.
There is aggression where compassion
would be better served.

In your world SUVs and mansions
seem to be the golden standard,
and everyone dreams of
acquiring enough new stuff
to beat the other consumers.

In my world there is war
There are people just beyond
my fingers reach,
children outside my door
still suffering.
While upper middle class mothers
are setting up scheduled playdates,
daughters are out getting date *****.

People making choices
that no one should have to make
like water, or electricity
like food or heating
like gas to get to work
or a non-holey t-shirt
like killing your own mother
or someone will **** you
and your little brother
like selling drugs to make ends meet
or working a job that does not
provide any real stability.

In your world
bland statements stir the masses,
simpletons lead
the desperate, separate
but same factions
and your identity
is a prepackaged
commodity.

In my world
I rage against stupidity
but this anger is
slowly killing me.
Chest tightening,
it is frightening
how the wealth is passed on
how success is passed around
how art is watered down
to the most basic
and remedial bits of
repetitive ****.

In your world;
You do not see what I see
but I still see you
and right now
you are breaking my heart.

Do not write to me
of the white blossom tree
when you never look up to see
the bright daylight
that reflects off
the bleached white petals.

Do not write to me
of the horrors of war.
Do not explore
the picture you
place before
the face you hate
much more,
when you have
never ever even
gone to war.

Do not write to me
of love and love lost
when you refuse
to yield to the blues
of loving someone
who will never love you
or that you will eventually lose.

Do not write to me
of humanity
when you seclude yourself
in a shaded corner,
sitting in cemeteries,
dreaming of heroes,
trolls, and beautiful fairies
while life goes on
without your participation.

Do not write to me.
Go out and live
to be free,
expressing only the things
that you live through and see
because every other poem
is just a fiction,
a projection
of the emotions
as you think they are
or believe they should be
not necessarily partially punctuated
stanzas of reality.

We lay down so low
let go so slow.

Till, the tremors in
their voices
mirror our own.

Congested in fear
as we hear clear
the final call,

Green swamps
see sinking dreams
of stinking sewage
and hear our horrors
as we scream.

The earth is softened.
Till, brown mounds are moved
to cover your corpse
from their sorrow filled view.

It is what we fear most.
So, we claim heavenly hosts
will come for us.
We trust the lust
of a white collared thief
who sales us relief
from our fear and grief,

but we all go down
into the ground in the end.

Intensity was the face he wore.
That grave and gravel voice
that made such guttural noises.
Face scratched with a thin greying beard.
Razors that cut against the grain.
A ***** that bled him.
The red that wet him
was not the barber’s blade
but bullets biting fiercely
dropping bodies near him.
Hearing nightly pleas,
Young boys cry
“Please, please let me survive.
Let me make it out alive”
While they dig their own grave;
In holes that tare both ways.
And on the other side
of the barbed wired enemy line
Other young men cry
“Ich will nicht sterben”
Still as stone and twice as stern,
he watches the world
and both sides burn.
Each rose plucked,
each stem broken,
replanted permanently in the battlefield
to feed the fierce war machine
which is never satiated.

They are always bearers words of love I will not know,
poems in the secret chamber of my heart,
each beat uneven but electrical.
Percussion playing at life's rhythm
tragedy and sorrow heartbreak and forgiveness.
Though I live in this reality
I still feel their fingers clutch the core of me.
Separately we are time and distance apart
In words we are married to such sweet shared meaning.
My veins run with their blood
unfinished photos, moving still life portraits.
I am unintentionally discarded by the hearts
I treasure most.
Still, they're always just
one page of prose and poetry away from me.

Death is not fair.
It does not care
or breath.
It does not take
what bleeds
leaving seeds
to spring into
a lighter view
of the heavenly
some days.
It discriminates
against the poor
taking them more
other day it plays
with the wealthy.
It does not balance
or think
grow or shrink.
It is not a tangible being
or a solid thing.
It will not make a deal
no matter how deep you feel.
It is not your enemy or friend.
It is simply the end.

The leaves have fallen.
Once brave soldiers
vital and firm
now old paratroopers
wrinkled with
the expectation of
winters rough war.
One by one
these daughters
And sons
fall to the Earth
to die.
The tree stands naked,
until winter’s war is over
and green life is restored

I do not rush
I let the day find me
Still
Breathing slowly
Waking from the illusion
Not sleepy eyes
But wearing eyes of wonder
The water drips and drops
Pooling into a puddle
The wind wooshing
Through my coat
Through my hair
The air is cool
A dog barks in the distance
The ground is soft
Giving slightly beneath my feet
I indulge the forgotten feat
Of stopping
Seeing, feeling, hearing
Still as a stone
Well almost still as a stone

The light changes
Shifting shades
Slip across
His weary face
Shadows sweep
The sun away
Leaving the cool day
Under the tree
He rests peaceful
With one eye open
Just barely
The breeze hits
Just a bit
Leaves flutter
In unison
The sun returns
To my skin
Now he is wide awake
Again

Warring walls let men condemn
Other nations we might call friend
Thin boundaries made of leaves and death
Imagined markers that separate state and self
The illusion stands stronger than any borderline
Humanity so easily defined as the other
Cause the enemy outside the gates
Is supposed to be worse than the beast inside that waits
Withering intellects that debate merits and levels of hate
While class warfare does exist
The upper puppeteering the middle class
While the bottom is dismissed

It was long ago
when I wept
with the wind swept
children of
human wreckage,

When bare feet
felt soft soil
and muddy pools
squished themselves
between my toes,

When dark dreams
danced dangerously
inside of me
pushing
death tolls
and grim reaper schemes,

When family
was something imagined
and love was a desert,
or a half empty silver flagon
with dragon’s flames,
fiery liquid burning my
already parched lips,

When the church
claimed my soul
until I finally said
hell no,

When in vain
I tried to explain
a stranger’s pain
to another stranger,

When I slept
and woke in tears
or sat in the dark hallways
because I had no home,

Though many years
have proceeded old pains
the child of humanity
still remains
with red veins
ready to be ripped
to bleed out our shared pain,
stored in the library of my brain
and written
upon these crimson
stained poetry pages.

Night after night
laughter just feels right,
cuz it brings with it the light,
that relief of delight.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

I met a monster
and I called her mother,
dangerous to no one other
than myself.

Every night she would berate me
make me think that she hates me
as she violently laid her hands on me.

I feel like I would have been safer
in the arms of any stranger,
cuz a decent person
wouldn't put that kind of hurting
on someone they claimed to love.

All the years that I lived with her
I learned how to suffer
indignities like they were trivialities,
and with each verbal and physical attack
I learned how to turn my mind black
and inwards towards
my own sharpened sword
as I skewered myself.