Tell me in your odd socks
how it rained when
you left the stationery store,

a child you saw
mesmerised by newborn puddles,
their trembling reflection,

how you later caught your own
in a slippery window,
an empty office, gossipless,

droplets almost washing
you away, what you were
into a newer you, just more wet.

I still dream about you
All the things we did
And all we haven’t done
I dream of us lying in bed talking
Or cooking in the kitchen together
I dream of us travelling
And staying up all night because we don’t want to sleep
You are in nearly all of my dreams
And I wake up sadder each morning

They stood.....
Monolithic,
Dark canopy allowed no growth.  

Ancient timbers of ironwood.....



Buckle the land ,
Fell by my axe in hand
bark and limb......
Used to build the funeral pyre,
Ring the knell and set it ablaze
Flames licking nights sky,
Torrent fed by my pain.
Cyclones  of scorching winds
Driving  everyone away,
Through the plumes of smoke ,....
Crackling sparks illuminated my way
Power induced by trauma. ....
Channeled without fear .....
Focused to a beam
Intention set to redemption.....
My word is my world
Safety features shattered ......
Laboured unimpeded.....
Coals melting rock ......
No way to control
Fixed gaze .......gritting teeth
Fists gripped so tight skin splits,
Bearing weight causing shin splints
Feeding on back biting and chiding
Insatiable thirst

Kept only by tears wept

Rendering this forest glen
Into inhabitable zone
One by one I alone
Drug these timbers across  barren sands of the dunes...
Drove them into bedrock...
Under a blood red moon......
And the clouds loom burgundy with traces of gold ...
pungent musky plumes of revenge
Like the kind of scars that tell the tales
Which will never be spoken .....
Secrets that
Change everything.
Take away something
You never get back ....
I weep not for my acts .......
Lachrymose   most tears fall for what I've done to me ...
I grieve for the way life used to be.
Machiavellian monster  
With the trees I built a panic room.....
Because of ways I faced a future of doom ....
Imprisoned within this personal tomb....
I pace ,
reflect .
In retrospect ....
I pontificate.   Round the clock ....
I squander everything to ponder In quandary. .....
Ist there a difference between fate  and destiny ...
Is this preconcieved.......
Birth to grave?
I wander and wonder .....
For I know if I can start over again ...
I wouldn't change a ******* thing .

My unreachable
mother, new

and unreachable.

All the bodies I’m sent into are in pain.
A caterpillar bellies across an hour that’s been touched

by the last
butterfly’s
moment…

I know that’s easy. I’m not here
for the writing.

when you trim your ***** and your mustache with the same pair of scissors
when you hand over your entire paycheck to the bartender of doom and glee
when you write a bounced check at the grocery store
when you sleep with a girl who isn’t clean
when you’re young, lost, broken and poor
when your childhood runs hard and your luck runs out
when your best friend is dead and your other friend is ******* your girl
when your dog sleeps in the afternoon and dreams of the neighborhood *****
when your nutrients gets replaced with Xanax bars over the one who just left
when your tired eyes meet the brick & mortar of strenuous labor
when the smile is so fake that it appears genuine
when you go all in on someone you weren’t 100% sure of
when you wait on bleeding knees for the unreliable god
when you bet on the boxer that crashed to the canvas
when the interest is high and the banks are closed and the creditors don’t care about grace periods
when you understand very little and you expel a whole lot
when the cord of anxiety strangles your very essence
when you turn out to be just as everyone expected

don’t worry

it’ll all turn around

and find you again

someway

somehow.

The words don't form in my head like they used to.

There's nothing lucid anymore.
Nothing eloquent.

Just half aborted thoughts.
Too ugly to be born.
A constant stream of non sequiturs.

Frustration.
Intermingled with the constant state of depression.
A sad sorry excuse for a human being.
Little old misanthropic me.


Resigned to obfuscated imagery.
To broken thoughts.
To feeble ideas.
To the self loathing negative confirmation bias.
To the absolute state of my mind.