A man shouting at the distant sky:
ridicule the futility of such an act.
Witness untethered anger,
for a cloud begins to pass through.

Hear weeping as the cloud departs,
its loss unnoticed by the sky.
Confused at the insanity displayed,
ignorant to the rhythm of nature.

Mock the one who mocks,
blind to the drifting sky within.
Shed tears for his scattered echoes of frustration,
caught in his own storm, yet unaware of the calm.

Mumbling a prayer,
a man may save his fleeting breath.
Blind to the rhythm nature weaves,
one day, your voice will ride the breeze.

I'm on a Bukowskesque roll,
pounding the poems out
seven or eight a night.
I know it won't last.
It's like a fast.
It's the hunger that
drives you.
And when you're starving,
you eat--then rest.
Not today, though;

I've hit
my stride.
And the night is mine for
the taking.

And the words are mine for
the ******.
And my heart, I am staking
on the fact
that
I will stay
hungry.

What a kind curse I have. I am built in my biological design to observe the world around me. To process and be able to understand concepts, how to use the information to benefit. My visual acuity to discern the physical world with clarity and capture as much floating light information that is ambiently around. A dissociated portion of my own psych that is constantly observing me and my mental state giving a pseudo "objective" view of whatever I'm actually doing. Even when inebriated, woozy, or having ***, being directly still aware of what I'm doing and what is happening to me. I am kind enough and seem to be attractive enough that people enjoy my company, want me around, and sometimes kiss me. I have a strong enough imagination to **** a little with my perceived reality. With a degree of fact, narcissim, and uncertainty, these are gifts.

I have such a poor memory. There is so little I retain from the information I receive. I regularly can not remember to do things. It takes a long time, with considerable effort, to commit something to memory. I lose grasp on a running thread if distracted. The gifts I have are wasted for doing anything to accurately and fully benefit those around me and myself. Even selfishly it is difficult for me to substantially gain from it. This is the curse.

I have no distraction from the exact moment I am in and what is happening right then. I am always present. I have the greatest capacity to observe the exactness of the life I live. I have nothing to do with what I have, other than enjoy it. To see the grandeur of the fact that is existence. That anything exists at all is a marvel and I am here to see it.

Breathe in, breathe out, a gentle flow,
Shifts in posture, let the tension go.
Adjust the level, find your place,
Acceptance blooms in this sacred space.
Pain may linger, but here we stand,
With open hearts and open hands.
Acceptance goes a long, long way,
In this place, we find our stay.

Among each other

no more fighting, just going --


with the flow, the flood.

Fish and waterfowl,

swaying algae in the shapes --


of statue remnants.

You don't have to force anything.

My love sent me to dig two graves,
One for her, one for me,
When our eternity has passed.
But instead I dug three.
One for her,
One for me,
One for my temptations,
That I’m tempted to take you see.
Even if I love her,
I still love the thrills.
So when I am old,
And life brings drafts and chills.
I will hold her close to me, to the grave,
But I will bring all the thrills,
They just don’t seem to leave me.