Shivering arms

I got the bug
The poison
It's spreading throughout my veins
I let so much go and did not give it a bother
The selfies
Narcissism
Materialism
Destruction and decay
Civil unrest and misguided violent action and its messaged buried in the rubble from the fires they made
Famine Poverty
Homeless addicts at the age of 16
Suicides and lost souls
So sad
They cut their wrist with razor blades and hang themselves with belts
To top it all off
Still all the ones who can help
Do nothing
Say nothing
To help the people of which its power is derived
While men die
Children are shot dead
And families sleep on concrete beds in the tundra of winter with shivering arms

Tomorrow's today

I need to sedate my brain
Shut it off
Re-begin
On tomorrow's today
Reboot return to yesterday
When all was merry and gay
To leaves turning color and the sun saying Hey!
Shutdown
Goodnight
See you on the sun's return for tomorrow's today

Where do I go?

Where do minds go when they have no place?
Where do they go for work without wax paper degrees?
Without affluenza and family money?
Without connections from mommy and daddy?
Where do I go?
When society dictates my future with predicates for joining their club?
With membership occurring of my own volition under coerced societal conditions?
Where is it that we intellectuals
Artist, rebels, anti-conformists, against the grain, walk your own path
                           Where do we go other than death?

A growl

This summer’s harvest has come and gone

The fruits of my labors have been picked clean

The fall has begun and already

The places where juicy fruits once stood have been taken and eaten

Each bite of the delectable fruit

Of its own origination

Of its own color

Of its own flavor

Of its own texture

Of its own size

All different

Yet grew the same

I remember when I walked the garden and spoke to the heavens for bounty

For harvest to be plentiful and it yielded

A gratifying answer to my supplications

With which I have been fed well

Now the garden is naked and my belly is empty and echoes...

A growl 

Thief in the night

I broke into the store at night

Its sparkling light of guidance amongst the darkness

I see it twinkle and I must have this thing

I wish I could see it as I do

The room is dancing and the sparkling lights refract off all surfaces

Hitting all of the things light can dance off of

It is shark and cold to touch at first

Drawing blood

Upon more exploration with my fingertips

It is smooth and warm

Now it is smiling and I inch closer

I must have it

A thief like myself

Only picks the most of delicate locks

Each click vibrates down her skin

Trembling and shaking from my touch

Holding her all night and she is mine

Shining so bright

Light glistens of her skin

This blessing I will not

squander

I wonder

I wonder if she is smiling red

I wonder if she is laughing with others having a great day

I wonder if she is wearing something for me to grab on to when I kiss her

I wonder if she gets caught texting me and blushing

I wonder if I were there would she be affectionate and colorful

Will she drag me from here to there when she takes me to parties in the desert

I wonder when she is in bed at night

She is wearing clothes or is nude

I wonder when I join her

If it will matter either way

I wonder

I wonder

Until I can longer think

If she thinks of me like I think

To and fro

Their minds are scrambled red by escape

With their needles of hope and deaths

Strung out through

Pitch black nights of hallucination

Dancing merry men

Tra-la-la-ing through the dunes

So tall and rounded

The granules of sand so small and dispersed amongst their comrades

With pills to pop

Weed to smoke

Steeped in the juices for stars and angels made devils to drink

To see

Seeing their friends killed and martyred by escape

Pushed up

On uppers

Swollen shut on downers

Pushed close to the ground

Its so hot

I can hear them sizzle

Fried eggs with their odor to resinate in my nostrils

Filled with a putrid stink

Of rotting corpses sitting

In front of me

Twinkle-eyed

Fixed on the ceiling

Arms stuck

A needle dangling from their arms

Mad men laughing

Women stark raving mad

Cackling to the moon

Dancing through the lunar light

Pulling them to and fro

bullseye

If riches are all you seek in this world

You miss the point of existence

You have missed the mark

Where your love lies on the bull’s eye

You throw the dart a jar

Hitting the wall with so many holes

Not even on the board

Beaten and battered

The wall is almost all holes from the darts that missed their mark

The bullseye shows few marks on target

For those who came down from their mountain top to see what the people down below have made of it

Looking down at the games the people play and not quite hitting the target

For wealth is heavy and staggers the thrower to imbalance

Diluted love for things and more things

Used once and thrown away

Like old ragged game pieces they throw them about

But like all games

The pieces must go back in the box

All the cars

All the houses

The sparkling jewelry

All of it back in the box

For more players to step and play and take their turn

Will they miss the mark too?

48hrs long

It was long

Dreary and sad

Forgettable

I’d leave any second now

To do other things

To think

To ponder

To wonder on the self

The great big whatever

We are

What is life?

What is any of it?

To find out searching

Yearning

48hr long

The ones who die young

This is the story of the ones who die young

Exalted by their deeds

They had done

The people come to be in the presence of their worlds

A discovery repeated through time

They burn bright and go boom

Like the stars as light

Their bodies lay dead in the ground

Yet it still moves

Dragging across the earth

They take too much and don’t leave enough

To those in need

They covet and want

So much

Leaving the dying young to be left above the ground wandering

Fucking

Drugging up

Boozing

Until the light gone black

Return to light and they die young

Death dealers

The death dealers are all around us

Held in hands and fired with sulfur and gun powder

The tools of children

The things of teenagers

The dealings they do inhabit

Across seas

In schools

In houses

On the streets

All around slinging death to the youth

To rip through flesh and bone

Tearing spinning at hot velocity

Death has been dealt and a life is gone

A young boy

Unassuming of the shadows at work

Where the death dealers hide

Or in waistbands

Or in holsters

In a flash

The metal shards of the bullet bouncing off the road

With the body still warm

With the blood and life of this young boy

Fading fast and then he is gone

Again and again

Things that have changed me

Drugs and alcohol

Love and heartache

Poverty and homelessness

All laid a foundation to metamorphosis

For which now has inhabited the inner most crevices of my mind and by this time tomorrow

I will be changed and by this time on the next day

I will be changed

Again and again

Until I am who I will be

Such things to be true

Between the devil and the deepest of blue seas

A voice calls out in loud sharpness

Licking my ear with a needle

Piercing through with honesty

Of life

Of love

Hardships endured through the most of inconvenient of times

Thus spells a word out of nothing  

Only with poetry

Shall such things be true

Into the stones

The dusty road beneath me

Led me on

Like a pre-set path

All the history

All the old stories to be told

Surrounded me

In the brick walls

The forgotten stones

The faces dead and gone to pass

What do they say?

What have they seen in time?

The brick colored faces on the wall and with a flash

History was and is being made and has been made

As it was always to be

Each second

Each minute

Each hour

Each day

History is etched into the stones

Slowly writing the pages of a book that is thick and leather bound

Just as my pages are being written so are these words on this very page

Up in the trees

It’s in my hair way up in the trees

Way up in the trees I can see it all

The couple arguing in the sunshine and making up in the rain

The poor boy scared shaking

Under a gazebo in the breeze

The people who suffered and strained

I can see this all up in the trees

Walking along the sidewalk

I can see the new family out walking in old rain puddles as the sun breaks and shines

The church across the street

The park goes

Enjoying the new spring and the falling leaves

I can see all this way up in these trees

Void noise

I remember being in a car with my mother and siblings

Driving and the radio was on

My mother screamed at us

SHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

She shouted and we listened

The radio blathered on

My siblings and I tuned it out as if it was static on the radio

Void noise from which our ears would pick up

An empty station

Just as we were empty

Without knowledge of war

Without knowledge of tragedy

We sat in the car quiet as my mother veered off the road and stopped just as many others did

We heard as the buildings smashed into a fiery ball

Depictions of debris and people falling were retold

Over and over again

Over and over again

We heard something

In which

We should have cried

Wept for the others who had died

Yet we laughed and giggled like any other day

Too young to know of the horrors

Of an event too far outside our car

The station went dark and my mother gasped and turned

My siblings and I were laughing and playing

Our ears closed off from the empty station playing void noise

Loneliness

Loneliness spreading

Fast like a gas fire

The more I breathe

The more it feeds

My heart pumping fast

It feeds

Tears fall from eye

Lost lovers and failure all too familiar

It feeds

Its covering all of the house now

On the blinds and couches

The walls and picture frames

It feeds

Melted plastic toys

Slowly falling to a pool of nothingness

It feeds

The ways of an ant

I don’t want to be an ant

Neither do I want to be an ant talking to a branch

Unable to communicate back

Walking from place to place

Plugged in and plugged out

To an electric guitar or some profound blues

Passing people by like ants do

To school

To work

To anywhere

The people all pass by

Blurred and foggy

I cannot see faces

Like ants moving to their own

Single-slotted-pre determined place

I don’t want to be an ant

I want to be seen

I want to be heard

I want to be felt

I don’t want to be discounted

As ants are

When I go to each place that I go

From school to work and back home again

An uninterrupted schedule

I want it to be disturbed interrupted

Distract me

Send me on a detour

I am so tired of living in the ways ants do

Electricity bouncing off the walls

I saw its beauty

Leather bound and wrapped

The wooden knob

Pulled tight against

Its skin

The tree covering the cover

Engraved roots and branches large

Intertwining in each other

I can feel the indentations in the leather cover

I open it

I can feel its pages sticking together

Like a boy grabbing onto its mother before it leaves the nest

They part

And the page is crisp and pure

My palm drapes down its surface

I christened it with precious words

I have chosen intentions of adoration to its wonder

Its mystifying nature

That leaves me outside of time

When I indulge in her whims

Seduced by her

Into long evenings of timeless electricity bouncing off the walls and back again

Poetry spoken with friends

There is this idea in poetry

To write as you would speak to your friends

Say fuck if you say fuck

Say pussy if you say pussy

Say whatever you wish

But do it your way

Do not

Deceive self of courage

When cowards only do so

Do not

Do as my words say

If you yourself would not do them

Much in poetry’s language it your clay as it is for a sculptor

You must contort it to your purpose

Just as you would in conversations with your friends

If you are to be a romantic

As I am

Say what you would do with your lovers and do it with the passion that you make love

Make you words count

Make your poetry count

Make your life count

Silence and solitude

I walked in from a good smoke and deodorized for these other whiny cats

You can hear their hallowed half moans throughout the night

It is like a bad memory that you wish was a dream

I sat down to write

Only when silence and solitude would allow

True silence

True solitude

These kinds of luxuries

Are not common enough

Where influence or any other man made thing

Can make me

Not me

These thoughts are my own

Just as these words

Are of my keeping and my own volition

This is the time to think

Only then can poetry be done

Can life be done

No, existence can be done

It is just a matter of silence and solitude

Gabby

I arrived to the party and looked around the at the faces in this basement

A sofa next to a keg and filled with some snoody beer

I have grown to like

Working around others who like micro-brews

I sat down and time after time someone would sit next to me and I would get to know them

Time after time

I was present in each conversation

Present amongst my inebriation from beer and other things

I looked into their eyes and saw the torrential horrors that devastated their youth

The abuses

The mistreatments

The heartache

The pain and their suffering

I could see it all as their heart pounding against the walls of their chest

The echo pierced my ears

As I could hear their hearts beating

Everyone’s heart beat

As we sat their making human noise and indulging in the human experience

I could hear everything they had to say

I could see everything they were and would be

The greatness in their hearts and the flaws that marked them

Each scar and scab

Told me of their wounds in life

I could feel their voices with mine and I was lost in time

I would come to

After they had gotten up and walked away

Another would approach and sit

Except this one was different

Her name was gabby and we talked and talked all night

When the morning came she was sleeping quietly on my chest

I

Had a smile on my face so wide

For the human noise we made all night and the human experience we shared

I could hear her heart beating

Even as the room went dark

I could hear her heart beating

For the people

The work of a poet must be done

No matter the ailments

No matter the injuries

No matter the death

The work of a poet must be done

The poet mustn’t shield his eyes from the critters in his closet

Or the peering golden eyes under the bed

He must look

The must be courageous

In order for him to survive his battles

Of love

Of life

Of man

Of this world

It must be done

So the people knows

What it means to be alive

The poet must do this work in the streets with the people

He must do it in the gutter

To see truth

He must struggle to know liberation

The poet’s work cannot be squandered

Take time with your voice

For it is for the people

Take time in your message

For it is for the people

Take time in the work of poets

For it is for the people

I am young they say

I am young and that is my crutch

I am young and so more time to do things

Will come

I am young and that is my burden

Overcome

Only by time

I am young so I can procrastinate for later

That amazing novel I will write

Put it down for tomorrow

That poem that leaves me breathless

Put it on the books for next week

The screenplay that will astound

I’ll get to it some day

I am young they say

This I know

If I am ever to be in love

She will be the most extraordinary girl of her gender and the most unique, that like me no twin exists

She will be beautiful in my eyes

Reflecting back into mine

She will be smarter than me

Of that I am sure

She will set me right and most of all she will make me better

She will be hilarious and I will cherish each laugh and giggle

She will be courageous

Telling me that she loved me on the first day we met and I said the same

She will be spontaneous

As we will travel at three ‘o’ three in the morning

From PDX to a spot on the globe

Picked by her blind finger

She will be all of these things and none of them

But she will be here

One day soon she will be here

This I know

Nobody knows anything

Nobody knows what is going to happen to any of us

Except the fore lorn rags of growing old

In the immensity of it

I Moan and groan for the things I must do in this weary world

Rolling my bones

Alone

Rounding around 7^th avenue

In these tragic hands I do see a tired old man in the calluses on my palms and the wrinkles in my skin

In America

Born alone and stupid

There must be an alternative to the American dream of capitalism and money grubbing

That consumes the west

The east

The north

The south and anything in between

Across golden folds of America

 I need a supplication in this dream

In all the road going

In the madness of my mind

I seek the end of my travels

To rest these tired feet

From all the searching

To end at the doorstop

Of the woman I love

Visiting prison

Every day before class I sit outside

On concrete in this building that could be

Mistaken for a prison

Only it has doors and windows

And they let us leave

But they still tell us

What is right and what is stupid

What is good and what is not

Every day before class I do this and stare outside the doors and see big rolling green hills and tall tress

I want to live in the deepness of the forest

Listen to the silence of crickets churping

Birds singing and other critter making their sounds

I would sleep in the trees and eat berries from branches

Hunt for my food with the respect

That this green earth gave to me

Using all that is given

The pelt for warmth

The bones for protection and the meat for the night’s sustenance

I would walk with wolves and fish with bears and be calmed by the river

Rushing by with the beauty of clear crystal blue roaring off rocks and down cliffs

That bounces the clouds reflection back to him

In the night

The moon and the stars guide me and cool me

Soothe me to bed with the creatures of forest that dwell under me

Alas, I am not residing in the brush

But in a prison that lets me return to my home when I have done my time for the day

Finish line

It is bright out there in tomorrow and most beautiful and alluring for adventures

I am on the precipice of departure

But yet there is this one thing

That eludes me and requires one last

Pursuit of mine

A challenge for which failure is my average grade

No triumphs yet and I wonder

It my bones need reshaping or my muscles aren’t quite right or if my spine goes straight up and down?

Or is it the object of my chase that needs a transformation of body and soul?

I wonder this with such a record in failure

I wonder and wonder and wonder

If this chase is…

Too long?

Too far myself to make it to an end?

The things I say everyday

I yearn for the things we will find when it is time

The love I hold in my bed at night

The lives I may have had created in such time

An accomplished something or other in my field

Fully realized and mostly happy with the life I have lived

I shall write poetry of my wife and read it to her in our bed

She is crying and tears run down her cheek and I kiss her and make love to her

Until the morning comes

My child in our bed waking us to the sun coming in our window

On this, the most beautiful of days

I yearn for this day

It haunts me

It soothes me

For one day it won’t be just words on the page but just the thing I say everyday and every night

Hurry,Hurry

It is almost nap time and the children will be put to their cribs and one of which in my room

So I must hurry

I have had this thought bearing

Down my neck

I can barely hold my head upright

I was thinking of love

It Is clearly the most wonderful thing to ponder on

Whether it be an abstract concept of love that can melt the icy hearts of the hardest men

It can literally change one’s life

Or it could even be the tangible touching kind of love

Like that of which I often reminisce on

I just wonder if that part of me has died or if I am even capable of doing so again?

The woodlands

There is this place I would go as a child and it was better than any hotel room with gigantic flat screen televisions and plush pillows among other amenities

Better than any roller coaster that went so fast you would lose your hat and glasses

Better than any book filled to the brim with adventures to lands foreign and domestic

This place that I went to is deep in the lush green forest in a place called the woodlands

The trees in this place scale the skyline

Removing the outside from your view and thrusting you into a world of its own

At night you would hear many creatures with eyes golden peering through the bushes moving along your path making rustlings you would hear throughout the evening

It was then that the lights came out shining on us as I would take across rocky waters and up the tallest of mountains

It was said that the mountains kissed the clouds and all I knew was that I wanted to as well, and to have many adventures as I could

So I did

To live like a child

I was just looking at the children at my mother’s daycare

They were starring at a fence and saying hello to pig, to bird, to cow, to all the farm animals their eyes could see

They wondered at the simplest things

I can’t even remember what it was like to do such awe of earthly things that seem so pedestrian and commonplace today

The children ran with such glee and are so merry and so happy by just running and playing and calling me to chase them as a monster

They live so purely

I am envious of such days

When I could as they do

To live like a child and be happy without much of a reason and be in bewilderment of the wind

Of the trees

Of the grass or of bees

Mr.Smiles

There was a gas attendant at a shell station on the corner of 72^nd avenue and upper boones ferry rd

He was smiling and singing with the sunshine on his back

To do this is no small thing

A man whom has done this deserves my upmost admiration

Worthy of emulation

I do not remember his name

I call him smiles

Because he did so

So wide that it could not be measured

No matter what happens or how bad it may get, if I can smile

I know everything will be alright 

Ink walls

There is a room in a tower

And as you

      Draw near

                Each step

                        Each stone

                               And floor

                                     And  

                                          At

                                          The

                                           Bottom

                                                Room

There was a table in the middle of the room

                            On the table

                        Was a typewriter

The walls were covered in ink

                                        In

                                          The

                                      Distance

                          Was being written

On the wall

 A plea

         For I was visible by someone’s eye

To love me forever and ever

                         Even when ink goes empty from my pen

To love her

I, the hopeless of hopeless men

     Who look for love

Could never refuse such a request

                   I was to wait

                   In this room and see…

Aging with her and we would live together

Yet she never appeared not once

But treasures arrived in rooms on random floors

                      With a

                      Single

                    Present

                     In the

                     Room

In another room empty

Filled with boxes of treasures bequeathed to me in times

I needed

I wait swinging along tress 170 years old

Outside the ink wall room

                                    To ones day

                                     See

                                    Whether

                                    What I have

                                   Wondered of love,

                                                 Is it

                                   Near or

                                      Far?

  

The doctor said

They said I need to go to the doctor

                       He gave me a bottle of pills

Dull the pain

Eradicate of sensory memories

Banish emotions evoked in pain

                                      To be normal he said

                                               What if I don’t wanna

                                                                be normal doc?

I am mad and forever stained

A burn so long it goes from my toes to my for amen magnum

All encompassing

              Cant you see doc?....

Your just a manifestation of my creation

Anymore

I need to read more Bukowski

More of him other poets and writers with his sentimentality and ramblings

Raving mad at the world

Because all this

    Government Political

           Dribble of idealism

 Need to stop

          It is doing me in

               I cannot take all of whys and whats

I just want a good woman in my bed

    We will make love each night before bed

Wake to her smile and he eyes that I stare into every night and every day

A smile draws across her face

For food in the kitchen is already made and fills our bellies a little too well

Something thing that would make me love like a boy once more

  As long as she is on my right

                              Or left

I don’t care which it is

As long as we meet sometime soon

                       In a bar

                          In a bookstore

                             Or starring me in the eye

Watching the very thing

          That I have lived without

                  For far too long and I won’t

Anymore.

Doing me in

I think that is enough of poetry…for now

A hole has been drilled out of my head

Bzzzzzz

   Bzzzzzzzzzz

There is bone and blood flying on the wall

On my books and paintings

       On my shoes and underwear

               On my weed and grinder

There is a mess of humanity

    done in

By poetry

    That relentless clammering

       ‘Bang’  ‘Bang’  ‘Bang’

All day and night

     This poetry must stop

Except that which thrusted

           This mess on my light and my dead

I love it

   I love it

I love it in my bed

    In my head

       To defeat the snores of ugly men

I was mad

I was mad

These girls like tyranny too much

I could feel it beneath my skin

These girls like being commander

It is going to their heads

From which they perceive as perfect

They strive to be without flaws

You cannot do what you say

Pious Proud Plentiful

These women are driving me mad

I wear a mask of idiocy

A grand deception I do adorn

The long con keeps playing

With a big loud horn

Schemes of their treachery

All planned

Ring out

Yet I was mad

I was mad

They look down on me

I am sad

For the suffering they must bury

Each night before bed

Grand Father Clock

Lawn mowers purring

As the radio keeps playing

Each engine and song

I have heard many times before always different

A circle with no plateau’s and low’s

The surface plotted

Peered through

Read by

Told of

All words

All knowing

All doing

Separate receptacles of perspective consciousness

The looking glass displays

What is to be done

To be said

To have been received

Implemented or achieved

Repeatedly by the record spinning around and around

Origination to destination

That which is where your feet lay

Buttocks sit

Back may rest and has rested

 A droplet in the pond rippled and never ceases to stop on the Grand Father Clock

Brittle cheese

A gavel slams onto the oak

Rippling sound

Decibels for your auditory tracks that echo in your head like a pinball bouncing off each

Bang

Hit

Boom

Thwat

Ting and jing-a-ling

Lights sparkle and songs play

It has been decided from which all that matters…matters and all that does not… does not

A panel was carefully meticulously selected in a room with no windows and a door

Days they met to come to the consensus that they have arrived at

A man who goes without too long

Loses that bit

Brittle like old cheese

Left out on the hillsides in France

Dry and rough

As the wind blow to crumble what was once strong

Reality

There is a revolver cold pressed to my temporal lobe

In magnesium burn

Bullets travel a path through my brain and out the other side for a hole in my head

Done my head right in then out with terrible hallucinations before death that have driven me mad

Fallacies of grandeur and arrogance blinding me to the truth that nothing has been broken

Yet the perspective of family

Helping me in ill times

This ravaging ailment in which I have lived in since I cannot remember

A habit of joints and whiskey may have hindered from which I can remember

But the statement remains still with delirium serums of perspective

Inducing thoughts of self contamination in this reality that I am hovering in the ozone

I can see the stars from here but sunlight has eluded my very sight

Drifting to the bottom where I see brothers gone this path of the mind

Utilizing the very things that make me see green on my skin and an alien that I am

I do not comprehend social convention of the serial conformist in front of me here and now

In every which way do they fit in

They dress alike

They seek normality

They seek career, marriage, children, and then death

From which I revel in the abnormalities that haunt their nightmares

I have wondrous dreams of the brush

Wild and free among the trees and I don’t have to worry if I fit in or succeed

Just exist in the tangential mist between my eyes and my brain

Present in the wakefulness of this plane

Sunday mornings

These are the Tuesday mornings that I love

The ones that feel like Sundays with long walks to the park with joints and jolly people laughing and smiling all around me

It is sunny as Sunday mornings are with a brisk air that holds you as you breathe it out so eyes can see

I know everything will be alright and I am doing what I should

These are the days when I smell that sticky smoke on my fingertips and my lower lips

That is wet and filled with flavors I adore

When I have no cares or worries

People who “only want the best for me” are not telling me so

I am free and I know I will be okay

These are the sunny days where pretty girls smile at me in lone for gasoline and I smile back and do nothing

By tomorrow I will wake and everything will be as it should and should be what it is

Bouncing off the ocean

It takes time for a community to rebuild after the storm

Buildings to pick up from the rubble

Bodies to bury laid down beneath as the cost

Nature was paid

The roads broken

No pass to, within, out, nor through

Repair is necessary to attempt from the loss that has come in its wake

People gone from their families in the abyss of aftermath

Far and wide

Near and right under our noses

Even though they knew of what was to come they set barriers and sandbags at the doors

Barring down the hatches for the bracing of the storm would do no good

It hit much to their expectations 

Ripped and torn

Flesh and blood for the wager struck in years past

During the storm brush and greens were projected, thrown, and destroyed

As the sun drew over the horizon

A great view was seen bouncing off the ocean from the heavens

I could see all the angels smiling down us

Who yesterday were next to us and now they shower us with their affections

For tomorrow’s dawn will be so great they cannot wait to see it

Just darkness

Nothing in this world is worth my impressed state of inspiration.  No man nor woman has shown a glimmer of that burst that put me down with 3 holes in my chest so long ago.  I remember who held the gun to my face as I blinked and it was all gone.  The pieces shattered with blood on the blinds and lamps broken with walls cracked.  I remember how much I wanted what would come next, but it didn't. A corpse walking in between cars, attending classes for some reason, going to work for some lifers, and all of it was for nothing and no more was I sure of going back to such a place.  It is no place for creative men with rebellious solutions, except I have no more wants and no more solutions.  A place in purgatory was set for me, and now I dwell there with no lights at the end of tunnels, just darkness.

Home

A home for me has been a dark and dreary spot for a man to dwell

Alone and cold hearted

Ice in my veins shaking these pale blue things from which warmth and love emanate from

A supplication I would have for this night

Is to get through it

Except I live in the darkness as other pass by

They would see my welcome mat with bright colored paintings 

Beautiful things

I miss the beautiful things that I found lost and found me in a dirty box

I miss how they drove this hand to pour blood and passion from a locked room to an open field

In this field people run as fast as they can with myopic vision of two

They retreat to the trees at night and hold their happiness with all their might

Warmer these trees grow higher than before

Swaying but staying as they move as one from now until they fall down to the floor

It never seems to be a possibility when you are flying so high and your wings flutter alongside angels’ wings

Once beautiful and new

Too long I have been in this kingdom of fools and slaves

Surrounded by the court jester as he laughs all day for others and never did you see such a humorous profession be sad

On some days you would see him around corners laughing for himself

True stories be told of his secret laughter

Kings and Queens run amuck in and out

I have seen pass in my time

Kings who were fat and rich with gold and love

Robbed beauty from the rest of us who live in this dreary dwelling

Warriors walk with large arms and fists and little brains

Rodents collect for hibernation and the cold winter ahead

Intellectuals….

Of scribe

Of science

Of mathematics

All share the same view down their noses on to us, the citizenry

We are the mob

We are the city

The one you hear

Its heart beat pound the cobblestone and dirt

This place too long, a change, has beseeched her with scars of oppression across her face

Once beautiful and new

War

When women are slain with the men

A devil sets his foot on the sands where his lie fuels bloodshed of children young and old

Buildings become rubble and debris for the newspapers to show the severity of war

A mockery of the lives lost to the hand of bombs and nation for the proportionality of securities unknown or otherwise

Others who hath lived in the wake of such devastation they are new story tellers for the generations to come into their home wasteland

Poetry mustn’t waver

It must push others to stand who lost the will with the loss of their uncle’s death and the three children bloodied for men far away sitting upon their thrown from which bodies built its comfort

Poetry must be more than enough

It would be the words of which people of war torn nations could speak without tongues but make noise loud enough for the mountaintops to hear

Poetry mustn’t leave the dead gone from this world but celebrate from the things they did in life

When tyrants go unfettered through murder and genocide

Only free men who do nothing are the devils I speak of

When good men omit action they leave women and children slain bloodies with hospitals turned to morgues

It is the duty of free men to do what is necessary to move on

Poetry is the way on

Words are the way on

Noise is the way on and they will hear me

Drifting side to side

Ahhh…The silence welcomes me as a brother and friend

A companion lost at sea

Drifting from side to side

Seagulls making noise in the back round

364 days a year

Today it has found me and made me home

Out in the middle dark blue abyss that bounces off the water from the sky

So dreary and vast

Yet today I am welcome by mother and father

Teased by my siblings

Uncle’s drunk giving unsolicited advice for future business plans not yet laid to rest

Grandmothers chatting in the corner of yesterday’s and tomorrow’s past

I am at home with the hospitality and warmth only they can give

Silence has given that to me

A calming of the rippled waters and sharp rocks cutting at my sides

Tomorrow they wait for me with mischievous eyes always fixed on me

As mine rest from tonight’s gift

Tomorrow waits and around each corner the bandits, they are laughing

Farther down the road I go

I could be remembered by my eyes or my arms or my chest that women cling to whenever we have come to that part of the night, when men and women love each other in the purity of their bodies.  Moving their bodies like they only can that drives us wild.  I could be remembered by the words used in my poetry and how it is eloquent and arrogant or passionate and filled with love.  I could be remembered for the things I have done in my time, in which ones could see me as a blunt asshole or just blunt.  I could be remembered as abrasive or passionate.  I do not know from which my memory will be displayed in the mind of those who choose to think back on me.  Right now I am alive and those who remember me can do so however they wish, but I couldn’t care less on the things rattling around in the droll sea of thoughts floating from side to side.  I am just trying to figure how I am going to live and die.  Love and cry from the love of that moment and how the music comes as it may.  I will create memories that I will be remembered however I am and right now I am making them.  Regardless how the world and people may see me, I am just going and going all day and all night until love may come when it will and so will the heartache.  Farther down the road I go.

I ain't it

They said give them the people and wipe away the debt

These people don’t even know they got a master

They don’t even know they got that leash tight around their throats

I could have just let it go but when they don’t keep their end like I know all greedy men don’t

This old traveling warrior scholar

Will set mind to pen and change

Give man power and you will sooner see it go to his head before it don’t

I wish I had left now that they got me fighting in their little revolution

Too bad for the other side I didn’t go because now I cannot stop

I will not step down from what needs doing

If that means paying the people and not the man…then so be it

Awoken of Father’s wrong doings

I do not know where to go but I know I can’t stay here

Where men go in circles to pay bills and work as to do it without stopping before the end

This world Father made for us is no world that can support humanity

Between cigarette burns and beatings of my mind

I cannot undo what has been done and led me to where I was always going

I have seen the truth and knowledge purity of them both

And such is that I cannot live like sheep

I will not

Live like cattle

Like prisoners

Who look the same and talk and walk the same according to the rules laid before them by their overlords

They best kill because I will not listen to what is not right and they are not right

I will not be lulled into a slumber with conformity playing the tune

Into enslavement these pieces of meat go but not I

Because that is death or something so much like it…I cannot tell the difference 

The Founders

In the hall of our heroes lie the dead men given to the record books

To tell their tales of courage rebellion and freedom

As we have come to a nation on this day in 2013

We have let the beasts run America

All the founders have died long ago who may have saved from this place we are in

I am not going out like this through doing what a good ole boy does

I will not go out like this

I shall stand tall for liberty

Stand tall for courage

Stand tall for rebellion

Stand tall for freedom

As does the free born

These men who never sit as to always be standing tall

Shouting

Screaming

Yelling

Howling for freedom

The people have been caste away by the government’s dime

I don’t know about the rest of y’all

But I aint going out like this

We free born men must rebel

As to illustrate the characteristics and features of freedom

From that pull your gaze to me and watch these hands burn it to the ground

Power control man government…all of it

To take kerosene to matches and as the wind carries my fiery message

To the so called politicians door step

They will know that the people will never be theirs for the taking again

Be love

Don’t be mad

Don’t be hate

Don’t be anything other than love

Love is warm in the cold summer nights lovers shroud themselves in

Be love not something else that may be other then you or I

Be love

To quell sorrow on the coming horizon

Do not be waiting

Darkness to cover you in a relentless storm

Be love that is the sun broken through the grey with yellow sunshine

Be love

I have never felt love before

I have never felt love before.  I have been with enough girls and women to know that by now.  I love my mother and my father and my siblings but that is a love you are born with and you just know.  Even though there hasn’t been one whom I could give myself to, I have lost myself in them and done what was needed.  I was transformed by the things we did and the things I felt.  I would call this time, localized insanity.  It happens frequently when I find someone that makes me feel nothing I have felt before.  Time and time again it would happen, and then I am obliterated.  I am not afraid of this, I welcome.  I do so, because it reminds me of my heart and how I hear it beating, even in the darkness it beats ever so loudly.  This cycle repeated and repeated and so I stopped.  I cannot and will not be the whimsy of young cowardly pretend lovers and neither will I give carnal embodiments of love.  No matter the grenade and the aftermath, I will love with the entirety of my heart.  The one who shall get my heart, body, and soul will be so great no female on this planet could measure to her prowess.  Until this person comes into my life and explodes all over the place, I will love fearlessly and be covered in the scars only lovers bear.  

I know love today

I have never loved like I have with you.  I never knew I loved someone like I love you.  It flows in all of me and I am beginning to think it may be possible to love someone so much that no matter what you do, you cannot die.  I never used to fear death not knowing what tomorrow would bring, and when it brought you suddenly I was petrified of what was to come on my deathbed if you were not here with me.  My heart never pounding against the bone and cartilage in my chest like this where bruises protrude onto my epidermis for the entire world to see like tattoos on the heart.  Except it kept spreading and spreading until my body was red from head to toe in passion.  When I was to see the next time, I would leap toward you and kiss you.  The stars would explode a merry dance across the sky that would leave me breathless in your arms as you clutch to my chest.  I never could feel so small in such small hands that could crush a grown man’s heart like yours could.  Each morning I would plead for you to stay and pull you to me hoping that today would not be the day for you to leave.  The coming days I would expect you to leave and when you were there each time, I could not imagine a more perfect woman.  I could not write or manifest such a lust and pursuit of anyone. Yet today on this day I know love and I know it with you and you alone.  

Lost and found

Can you imagine a time before now and you were bad and mean and angry, ugly as anything ever can be and then something happened…I used to be a thief, an enforcer, and filled with so much anger.  Slowly after each love I became softer still.  I only remembered one though that stuck out in my mind and she was so beautiful I could not imagine not looking into her big blue eyes.  Then one day she was just gone and no longer was I anything but broken fragmented and lost.  Nothing was left, not even me.  I lost my memory for years.  I couldn’t remember how to do it anymore.  I had forgotten my name, my life, my parents, and all of it was just gone.  Decades past I found something again leading me back to which I had come.  Yet I couldn’t have her, I couldn’t hold her, touch her or even speak with her.  Time had taken her from me just like my old childhood memories.  Were my parents loving or hating? Were my siblings similar or different colors upon the canvas? Was my love pure?  I would never know and yet I was given a second chance with all of these things.  Tears swelled up in my eye lids and felt a rush of a thousand horses running over my chest and with a bolt of lightning in the crowd, there she was once again and all I could do was stare as water filled my cheeks falling to the floor.  I belt out a scream crying loud and all the people looked at me and emotion of emotion shattered through the ice in my heart.  Engulfing me, surrounding me, devouring the fragmentation of my soul, that had been broken many years past.   I could hear my heart beating louder then I could remember, louder then hearts should beat.  I woke in the hospital to find a hand on mine and there she was.  I was stunned frozen by this miraculous reincarnation of my love.  I questioned her repeatedly as the delirium of a mad man, but she did not see a lunatic in a bed before her, just me.  No one had ever looked at me like this in my life and outside my window in the night fireworks burst over the peer as the manifestation of her touch to mine.  Machines buzzed and beeped and screamed loudly as the only way to interpret the evocation inside my skin raging.  The bulls of Pamplona running fast through the halls of the ICU as a bewildered trickle dropped down my spine.  Sensory after sensory overloading and imploding with the smile of this woman beside my bed.   

Eyes

How could you know what peers beyond the face of a man?

The guy in sweats and dirty with a 3 month beard

Or behind the eyes of a stoned out boy like me

That girl in a suit and tie

What does she think lovely thoughts of

Last night’s love rumble in her bed sheets and the screams that woke her neighbor at 404am

The man reading novels at the park wearing collars and glasses and other ordinary things

How about the bum on second and broadway

What do they think behind their eyes in the silence of the night 

Smile or die

Why are we here on this earth if it is not to smile?

If it is not to laugh?

If it is not to live?

If it is not to love?

To love….To love…To love

While hands used for such brutality as war a man hands hold complex purpose with violence among none

In which hands become black and blue

Where my hands have become pink purple and red for love and passion as my heart bleed straight into my hand

Even as the sun dwindles to the moon rising

If let to roam demons shall dance across the soil for which they have spoiled in the beginning

Allowing man’s will to be done with oppression and annihilation

Where once freedom was the birth right of all of the first peoples

Where men and women were merry and naked

Joyous and filled with laughter

As the globe spun around

I declared my life for love and hate would die into the soil as the demons did so long ago

As the green trees sprang high kissing the moon with their hands 

Real poem

I want real poets

Not bullies and dreams

I want to hear the poetry of lost souls

Who talk about homelessness and the warmth of a gun in their mouths of the sensation of a needle in their vein

I want to hear real poets

Not pseudo intellectuals who do what their told

I want to hear a real poem

Where a man gets drunk and fucks the woman he loves and then wakes to her gone

I want to hear about the dark corners people visit

I want to feel real poetry

Where people are broke and sleeping on concrete mattresses

Where shuffled homeless try to find warmth food in these cold winters coming with the east wind so quick it could kill

I want to hear real poetry from the hitchhikers and drifters

Who thumb down the road and move with the wind of cars whizzing by

I want a real poet

Not one of rhymes with sycophantic supplications of god and country

I want to see a real poet who fights for bread and dollars along with the revolutionaries in the streets who do not sleep

I want real poetry from men and women who fight for the one love with words and gumption of all that they do

I want to hear real poetry of fragmented souls trying to coalesce once again

Pseudo intellectuals

He who is of books

Is ignorant of the streets as its heart beats louder and screams are the people

In which they lie on the concrete under bridges and squat in abandon building poverty warming them with a needle in their vein and a belly empty since last winter that was colder than now

The intellectuals in universities and schools so foolishly idealists withholding such an ailment poisoning the mind

For they see only a world in which a scale is put to see the tilting of the tide

If done no wonder they hug trees and stand for the institution that told them of the books they read now

To see their governments from father time

Clock ticking backwards only sees the good done

As the people lie dying off the face of the watch that stands still

The street and I see the people shivering from the cold of a government’s word for repair that bares no warmth or satiation

Futility

They came from far and from near with country on their backs

Tools for futile actions such as politics always are

The plays of men to be the overcompensation of their superficial approval from daddy dearest

Or mothers overbearing and corrupting their young for the selfish things they could never possess

Their work done detriment long ago

As it was necessary for some reason that other men rule other men and women rule other women for their cliques

They so failingly tell themselves with no repute