Yeah those wild hooligans, those mini hell raisers
What was their motive? to be trail blazers?
  
They're smoking squares, and sneaking out
Facing alota scares, but never cry a shout

They're simply cool, calm and destructive
Shoutin out obscenities, and being abruptive

Yeah the boys remain true, to themselves and their crew
Simply bein themselves, and  askin who are you?

Infant hands
gripping thumbs.
Tired arms encircling adult neck.
Your first smile,
first laugh—
first tooth, step, and word, our
first shared glance.
Moments, landmarks of your life, the
joy of my own.

Infant eyes so full
of wonder,
even the meagre astounds.
Constellations,
planets and moons, asteroids
creeping through space,
world destroyers and raisers of new.
The universe, its
infinitely vast magnificence, at
molecular level iris comprised.
The pupil—centre ajar
serving soul's route,
a window into 'nother realm, the
place of spirit's hailing.
True self temporarily encased,
the pathway to which
in resides of corporeal existence
the pith of life.
Your eyes—as much wonder possessed
as perceive.

A wish;
you might stay young forever, each
day spent together, that
your innocence,
your heart, may
never know break's suffering.
That cheek, tear might never dampness vandalize.
Your life—unspoiled joy,
mere childish disappointment to claim,
might always remain.

A shelter from hate,
from hunger and strife.
The broadcasts of the world
that their weighty burden might never
find home upon tiny shoulder.
In my palm, Atlas' strength I possess,
to keep at bay
war—its further result.
Disaster.
Death,
thunder wind lightning,
the monster under your bed.
The fear of all things fear inciting,
a paladin whom you I serve.

But in that wish
I might deprive,
an incalculable love—life's
blessed comprise.
The force by which
a patriarch's drive—
the reason for being.
By selfish pinning of youth,
fulfilment you may never know

As much to protect you,
I do myself.
A fear of my own finale.
Residing forever in this happy dream.
Terror realized,
contrary to that my inevitable absence—that
I might never leave you, but
that you might never leave me.
My son, I love you, and
in time you will see.

This is not a poem, well maybe it is, but it isn’t a poem about streetlights and butterflies and metaphors about metaphors. It is about weak men and strong women and places where lost souls practice bravery.

I don’t know what she felt
I don’t dare claim to
But I know she cried, I know she fought, I know she broke in places she didn’t know she had, I know she scrubbed hard all the time praying her skin was the memory, I know she prayed, I know she prayed hard, I know it rained, both inside and outside.
But I don’t know what she felt.

I’m tired of excuses and stories about how men are built like tsunamis raised between rock and hard place leaving broken bodies in their wake. I betrothed the knife under my pillow to the souls of men like you, men like me.

Is there a crack in my spine, why can’t I understand that women are nothing but a sum of their body parts. Is it my fault for seeing them as everything we can’t be, from wishing well belly buttons where life comes from to men raisers and once in a while they beat us at our own games just to remind us that they can rustle at the top also but foundation is key. I’m tired of apologizing for men that cradle in the arms of a woman but still reach for her neck with their arms forgetting the reason he is off the ground.

But even if she was none of these. Even if she was built like a tsunami raised between rock and hard place. In his eyes her body will still always be a temple for his sins and sacrifices.

My finger's on the fritz
On your door step, ding **** ditch
In that frame of mind during that time frame
Spewing gibberish
Sirens blare
Attention ****** with ulterior motives
Pick up the gauntlet
Surpass the bar raisers that got too big for their britches
Face the predicament with courage
Trot through the bible belt
Sort out the sugar coated *******
That right state of mind and the right time period
Attached at the hip
Tip top, ship shape
I see all the old tricks in the book
I smile and put it back on the shelf
I got a new one, don't look
For my eyes only, keeping this for myself
Withheld from the industrial fans, investors, blood ******* insects
At a loss for words
What you see is what you get
You get what you get and you don't get upset
But give what you get
So get going
With your selective hearing
And your selective memory
Do it for the down trodden
Don't settle for the consolation prize
Drum roll please
      -Tommy Johnson

I watch cooking for joy
I love it
When vapours rise
The scintillating smell
Fills and arouses my nostrils
And my mundane mind
I like being blown away by this juggernaut of joy,aroma
Sensual satisfaction
I enjoy
The spurt of cumin
In rich oil
I love the
Dance of
Mustard crackling
How asafoetida
Sets the stage on fire
How curry leaves sound
Being sauteed
Only to come out
In an enchanting form
The fairies take centrestage
In this cooking dream
In vegetables
As they simmer
And get coated
With raisers of
Your taste buds
And assume
Magnified beauty
The *** turns into
A flurry of colours
You seem to get lost
As you gaze in wonder
Then the splash
Of tangy lemon
Juiced to Glory
Comes only
To leave you amazed
Fresh coriander
Basking in glory
Of it's green leaves
Makes it's debut
To leave you amazed
Your senses overflow
And in case you're
Not done
With this
Mesmerizing magnificence
The Majesty of food
Has more to offer
Your mouth starts watering
And you slurp it down
Enjoying every moment
Attaining some containment
In the form of good food!!

I am quiet in a line of on-lookers, big-thinkers, hell-raisers
I sing a song to a corner in the room
It winks and blinks along the beat as
Large shadows confidently raise their arms in triumph.

I am sitting still, a floating ocean depth silence
Watching waves crash and clatter miles overhead--
What fun they must be having out there in the world!
Where the blue is sometimes yellow or pink and
All one knows is not only the dark, deafening hush of
Blue--Where
The colors really taste like they advertise:
Savory sweet honey orange, supple plump green melon,
Ripe for the picking, these--

These are the pickers.
With their power-tool loudness, their "I can fix it!"
The red-runners, the green-makers.
Their lawns rolling out like gold ****** dresses
Reveling in their own chaste gold underskirts under a matching
Gold sun
The earth bowing her shoulders to make room

I am the crisp subtle crunch between bites
The shamed blouse of the *****
The sufficiently watered bud among a field of tall daisies
The pause in your breath
The silence of an empty house

The quiet lemon shavings left on
The quiet cutting board,
Bleeding rind by way of knife

The metaphor in a poem -- waiting in quiet verse
To rear its head to the reader

How many empty glass bottles can you shove into a bag
Before it all leaks out the bottom
I am the bottom
A soft reflection in the train-car window

I see you all.
I hear you.

I don't know quite yet if
I understand you
Rambling on in high buildings with your
***** reared high.
Whether love is just temporary obsession or
If one can make it to death without truly living.

But I do know, quite often, that there is meaning
In complete
Silence.

--
c

Flourishes amidst freedom
once invisible (alice in) chains shucked
when soul no longer kept linkedin
to jane's addiction
with corporeal duty, entity, fealty...
while formerly shed body electric
gendered as former googly eyed hotmail
actually a prodigy, whose outlook
arouses suspicions regarding him
as person of pinterest living social
in a webbed, wide world of uncertainty

precariously perched atop pinnacle
pirouetting at light speed,
nevertheless defying the laws
of centrifugal and centripetal force
as spirit blithely ushers forth
along a straight line
of orthodox dogmatism, idealism
opportunism, and volunteerism
hemorrhaging, purging, and xing
staunch archconservative
punishing outdated edicts.

When after the final countdown
to the global apocalypse,
(according to Doomsday Clock
January two thousand twenty three  
ninety seconds to midnight)
one beatle browed, foo fighting nebbish
departs the land of the living
and joins rank and file
among the grateful dead,

he (more specifically
the physical and spiritual
embodiments incorporating him
will separate) at long last,
thence latter day sainted essence
can freely exit from the cares
and concerns of an uncertain tomorrow  
no longer plagued by earthly travails
particularly the necessity of money.

Within heliocentric/ Copernican theory
broached sixteenth century promotion
sans scientific paradigm
dogmatically hefty, kinetically lofty,
and poetically thoroughly,
xyz beliefs misalign
wherein mechanistic Ptolemaic,
static venerated yin yang benign
choreography describing elementary forces
governing heavens inviting jinxed, kooky,
loopy measures necessitating

normalization, pacification, rectification,
transformation, validation
to guarantee spatial objects remain in line
which notions trotted out
a cosmic deal with invisible ink
omnipresent, omniscient omnipotent
benevolent creator linkedin
synonymously affixed terrestrial
firmament (planet Earth) nsync
with bedrock as Fred Flintstone
beatified, certified, deified,

edified, fortified, glorified Gibraltar
until undisputed supposedly
figuratively hermetically sealed
fostered religious (church) fathers
to do more than blink
when inquisitive minds (undaunted
though invoked as heretical martyrs)
blaspheming solidly entrenched
blind faith no more functioning with charm
mingly quaint association
with amulets, churinga,
exquisite fetishisms guiding humanity

innumerable journeys kickstarting
legendary modus operandi initially harm
less lee sounding out,
what manifested into a schismatic alarm
regarding millennial questions
undermining liturgical moorings
strong lance heaving arm
irrevocably toppled geocentric mindset,
nonetheless this oblate spheroid dance
sing with the stars redoubled
devout hangers-on fixed

with barnacle cleaving
devotion stalwart stance
populace behooved
(as would be expected),
when Doubting Thomas'
(Paine) revolutionary screeds
threatened (prior to unending)
universal schema just by chance
and despite proclamations pronunciations,
and provocations roiling status quo
hashtagged as evil rants

eventually zealous warfare between
growing heliocentric individuals  
with sacrilegiously blatantly deranged
fiendishly gnarly heathens –
perhaps the Renaissance own
groovy, nutty, and trippy Timothy Leary
the dawn of a quantifiable, explainable theory
(minus all those concentric
embedded orbital paths)
diktat preachers eventually became weary
to challenge recalcitrant

(purported hell raisers
****, I would have fit right in
as a rebel rouser)
whereby agents provocateurs
spout vestigial claim
to Gaea remaining front
and center of galaxy
on par clubbing with Mother Mary.

a model of hatred is better kept
outside your home.
little known
it is like a cancer
that can even spread
from those closest
when under false characters.
love and forgiveness.
are the answers best for
most questions.
drive and influence
are the best question raisers,
the questions everyone should answer
in their own silence.

His words that written is soothing.
Some very amusing with the ability to heal.
So let God touch your heart.

If they expose your guilt.
Get not upset for there's a message he's trying to give.
If his love shines more upon you.
Accept it as a blessing level upon you.
Just let God touch your heart.

When others places you into a prison state of mind.
Break through those walls trying to hold you back.
If others just think they right when they completely wrong.
Stay calm and let God touch your heart(with his spirit).

Some people born to do Satan work.
Yes, even in every church.(Hell raisers)
But remember your strength that is within you.
And let God touch your heart.

As i grab another cup of coffee , i throw the newspaper into the disposal and continue about my day. Once I've arrived in my office i open the blinds letting the sun shine onto my desk. * Placing my coffee perfectly on to the coaster, i sit down in my chair and begin to search the internet. Checking my emails, (although I'm on vacation), i come upon 10 of the latest, mostly about renewing my Netflix account and some coupons for my local grocery store, i view one that reaches my attention.
       * "Who is the killer of Woods-bury? Want to help? Contact 1-800-7363 for further info." I chuckle at the sight of that website. Some dweeb really thinks he's going to catch the killer. Although, the cops are bad at their job, so maybe a civilian can do it. Just maybe.
   *       So i click on the link. It leads me to an exponential website where i have to enter my details to create an account. After doing so i'm taken to this page of online videos and users who are actively chatting about serial killers and clues that lead up to the most recent.
     *      I join into a convo within the one that sent me the request via email, and agree that i too am searching for the killer.

* 'I saw that email about serial killers of Woods-bury and i'd like to help'
'Really, have any thoughts?'
'None at the moment , I just wanna help.'
"* Great you've came to the right place, we already have a lead and any insight is a massive help!*'
  *       Way too easy for them to eat out  palm of my hands. I mean who could ever imagine me, a well known decorated veteran, served in the military as a Marine for the past 20 years. I appeared in local schools on Veterans Day, (so cliche i know), as well as helping in the community and fund raisers. I even donated to homeless. *
     *     But of course, that is all a part of my identity, my one of a few masks, if you will. You see , i know you're reading this but i have yet to question if you follow my mind and actions as they take place. So, in this introduction, perhaps if you may, I would like to formally introduce myself.
         Now of course i may be dead when this gets published, or perhaps they would have finally captured me, nonetheles