On the drive to my mother's house
I noticed the streets were alive.
The rural dead was lit up
with sedans and vans on a drive
I thought it strange on this road
when usually, I saw not a soul.
Many mothers just like mine,
must stay in the rural gold.
And I thought myself not quite wrong,
But not quite right, when I saw the cause
They turned to the cemetery on the left
While I myself drove on.  
Many years later, I used my signal,
to tell those behind me of my woe
as I made a left on mother's day
with no where else to go.
I felt the pity of the drivers,
as they drove on past me.
I looked in the rearview one last time,
Full of wisdom, but full of envy.

I swim through tremendous oceans,
through waters of worry and crisis shoals
paranoia forms a tidal wave,
that threatens to swallow me whole.
The currents are strong against me
to swim, I try my best
and soon I am tired and lost,
and ****** into the depths.
I see anger's buoy beckon,
but I know that is no better.
I can cling to it for long,
but I cannot cling forever
My arms would soon tire
and away, I'd soon be swept
Once more gasping and fighting
Against the gravity of the depths
Lost at sea, is the sailor
who did not follow the sun.
And if he looks down in shame,
He will not see the stars point on.
When rescue ships are far and few
and supplies are back on beach
I sigh and think of shorelines,
that I know are out of reach.
I want to float on my back,
and let the waves take me home,
The search party stopped looking,
For too long I've been gone.
But it takes a strong swimmer
to make it back to shore,
when one is this far out,
and I cannot swim anymore.
As the waves roll beneath,
and try to pull me under
while the gale whips salt
to tear me asunder
The pull grows stronger
and the water surrounds me
and what I long for most,
is that I did not fear drowning.

In my darkest moments
Of loneliness and loss
A vision did intervene
On my journey to the cross
And this beacon gave me cause
to for once stop and turn
I averted my eyes from my path
Unsure of what I'd learn
Light shone through a prism
and filled me like wanting reservoir
each color took my breath away
A light glaring from afar
With trepidation I did move
my feet from intended course
and my desire for the light
overcame my fear of remorse
I begged for the rays to bathe me
in their holy hue
More and more I felt it's warmth,
More and more it grew.
I yearn for it arms outstretched
to revolve in it's cosmic pull
I surrendered my ego to the footpath
and then I surrendered my soul.
I kneel in wistful worship
as solemn as a stone
I've waited for this all my life,
a light to guide me home.

The ***** addict has change it's face,
but not it's disease.
It is me.
It is your mother.
It is you.
"It is not."
It is.
And it is infinite.
For so long as people
are burdened by the illusion,
so they seek to disperse the fog.
What they seek is not distortion,
but clarity.
What they seek is not fantasy,
but reality.
A new reality
that works for them.
Where they don't work for it.
Where they don't participate
as a rusted cog
spinning in perpetual circles
to power a machine
that lights a projection
of what ought to be,
and what ought not to be
for all the the world to watch
on hamster wheels.
But  the ***** addict knows risk.
That each time could be
the last time.
But this world has only
two types of people.
Participants.
And non-cooperatives.
There is not room for both.
The ***** addict is offered
a consolation package
of pharmaceutical bonbons
but given the same soap opera
each time.
So they fade into the black
I know it is no cure,
because they are not sick.
It is not addiction,
that they seek to fulfill.
It is peace.
And the current reality
does not allow for peace.
And I just wonder to myself,
if maybe
they are not wrong.

Propaganda pills
dutifully swallowed
to preserve the integrity
of a world proven hollow
To sieve the spirit
through regulation holes
To protect the body
and to dissolve the soul
To maintain the order
To profit off the rotten
The white man seeks the answer
The native has not forgotten.

How can man create
by sight or thought or sound
the gentle Buddha's smile
but wear Christ's thorny crown?

For embrace or crucifixion
Do my arms spread wide
Do I live for peace,
or for peace, will I die?

Buddha smiles in agony
Christ suffers euphoric
And man himself then decides
What to **** and what to worship.

The words hang heavy
choking, a thick smog,
caught in our throats
while we stumble in fog.
the static is visual,
the answers are not.  
Uncertainty is clarity
when the soul starts to rot
The babble of birds
become songs of gods.
The creek still croaks
that man became fraud

the day the keyboards came with no question marks
and grammar books grew one chapter shorter
and the 'w's dripped off language
and it all puddled to tar
to seal the cracks
of purpose
and of
man

If I have ever
stared into the eyes of our lord,
I know I have seen it

in my son's hand grasping my finger.

And if I ever felt His smile
I know it was
            when I opened my arms wide
            and felt the sun's warmth on tender skin


and I know I felt His mercy
when I awoke
to a brand new day
made just for me.

Made just for me.

I and you,
You and me
Tangled, tousled
Thrown off sheets

Unraveled, unwrapped,
untame.
Understand?
Uncontrolled, under me
under spell,
and under hand.

Don't lie to me,
but lie for sleep
let morning pass,
and leave us be.

we live in a time,
where tradition trumps mind.

where habit defeats virtue,
where old conquers new.

Mankind is looking dire
So it seems I now admire

the quitters most of all.

wine spill on a carpet
cigarette burn on a car seat
rings on a coffee table
crumbs on a stove
jelly fingerprint
toothpaste spittle
sauce dribble
nicotine stain
**** pants

we are just
a little accident
someone is waiting to
clean up
insignificant yet
troublesome.

"If only, if only!"
The tired writer cries
"I was paid not in dollars,
but only in pride!
After all these years
I have come to find
That truly nothing is
as rare and finite
As the fickle currency
Of true, honest pride.
Some spend it quickly,
Some let it hide
Some people take it
From other folks' lives
You've watched it go
After believing a lie
You've seen it stolen
In the defeated man's sigh
Some people waste it,
And I don't know why.
I may not remember it,
But I'd rather die!
Than to do something as foolish
as to swallow my pride!"

What we ******
Through tongue and teeth
Weaves the truth of reality
And what we say, comes to be
But never with any certainty.
If you change what you speak
What you are, will cease to be
What remains, a memory
Just the way, that you believe.

All the world, a stage
And all the stage, an act
And all the act, a script
And all the script, a lie
And all the lie, the world!
The audience directs
while the actors watch
The globe theater of
ever-changing roles
Auditioning for parts
Without knowing their lines.

I'm so in love with you,
and all the little things, that you do
It wasn't too long ago
When times weren't so low,
At a time when you loved me too.

Why don't you come and stay for a while?
I'd **** just to see your bright smile,
We'll lay in the shade
and without thinking I'd say
Why couldn't you pick up and dial?

I know that you're so far away,
It'd be ludicrous to ask you to stay
I know that that you're gone
That my boy's been moved on
And he has no more time for play.

It must have been a tough call
because somewhere between summer and fall
You've found a new girl
with Goldilocks curls
and she doesn't look like me at all.

I don't need to hear your sad pity
but you used to say I was so pretty.
You don't miss me one bit,
so on branches I'll sit
and think of trees in New York City.

Your son's face looks just like your own
and god, I've never felt so alone,
The weeds cover the flowers
where we'd chat for hours
My arms were always your first home.

There on my chest
And the valley below
Lay before me a man
Who himself was a window

A peek through that window
Would let me see
All the things I wanted
For him and for me

So when I discovered
I thought it queer,
that I was the window,
and he was a mirror.

I'd rest my mind
On bouncing knee
Use polish rag,
to make it clean
Every nook,
clean with bleach
Each idea
and memory
And although I know
I'd love it's shine
Without tarnished thought
It's a brain not mine.

The divine DNA,
the handcrafted man,
the miniature God,
of his father's hand.
One may start to ponder
As we cut down trees
that we chose instead
to become worker bees.
We could have been gods
Mount Olympus would dance
We sacrificed Eden
to become little ants

I write in hopes that someone,
Somewhere in time
Has neurons moving
In the pattern of mine.

Hollow words haunt hallowed halls
Of holocausts and hostile walls
The divine demise of dictated opinion
The resentful repulsed by resilient religion
Wrapped in wrath, whispers writhe wildly
Holy hiding henchmen hear idly

Pete and Pauline Porker
Speaking through their snorkles
Double-chinned, wet-lipped
Checking out Facebook fibs
Snarled, yellow,
Tinted-teeth
Buys fudgie-bars
And potpourri
Their greasy-mouths
Spew forth and give
Fountain sodas
of commercial spit.

O' Liquored Escutcheon!
Please aid me in my plight!
I came for a beer,
and now I fear
I'm here for another night.
While the jukebox is puking
the disease-riddled bodies are movin'
I take a bow,
and I fall down
Someone, somewhere was right.

On a sticky counter somewhere,
two friends speak
chewing the fat
and spitting the meat.
They'd like to **** girls,
but they'd rather **** dreams.
They tell me so through
whiskey-stained teeth
And I laugh because
It's just a Tuesday to me.
Yes, I've been a dream
and yeah, I've been a tease.
I can tell they want somethin'
But they're getting nothing from me.

I am a setting
Retired to
At the end of day
and end of life.
I am an ear drum.
Banged on by irritants,
long stories,
bad jokes.
I am a reservoir
for your seed and your sweat
The pocket for your
primitive exertions.
I may be encompassing
But I am not all.
Scenery is never captured
By written word well,
But the artist has been trying to catch
it's smirk for a thousand years.