tears

In the eyes of this mother I shrivel
It is pleasure and panic at once
I update my victim status
and the applause is astounding

spread me thin or not at all

Upward turned and stern a revelation.
Last year's birds return this jubilation:
"Information's learning through an interventions burning brew."
True.
With one last blue faced fume.
Enter the curfew ladened residue.
You must evict the things I tell you to.
Instigations give broken road walkabouts to revelation,
But the beast left no markings here upon me.
Sweat and blood and pain
and broken fist on walls we regret to see each day.
My enamel is chipped and peeled away.
Starboard and stalwart.
Is there nothing left in this migration?
These few steps I take each year have been decidedly false
and left me wanting more than I could ever expect to get out of you.

cage

Without this prison
no one would see or understand me.
Without this prison
no one would care about my thoughts or deeds.
Do I accept the dregs?
Do i make these choices willingly?
Or is it an entirely different end I seek?
Perhaps a negative perspective is better than no perspective at all.
Being remembered.
Even as a villain, may be better than being forgotten completely
In the passage of time.

crows

Lines.
Lines that cross my face
Steady strong
Creasing lines
Time's careful design
From the sum of life's accomplishments
And fears.

scar

Dark swirling the living dregs.
The dead of the day.
Swelling maturity smothered the breath right out.
Swallowing veins of scrutiny.
Lost on social equity.
The humble rumblings of another lost soul,
Finding themselves in a spinning tempest of civility.
Born from desperation.
Carried on the backs of entire generations.
Hope for life.
Hope for beauty.
Hope for love.
Hope for tomorrow
Hope for a handle on the moment.
It never comes to those who look.
And those who own find no use for the grip.
Having, already, the satisfaction.
A state of perpetual pity and remorse.
The sores of tomorrow form the more painful scars of today.
Scars that we only feel when the weather is as forelorned as we.
The ugly blemish in the community of perfect cells.

Recompense

There will never be an end to this.
A series of begun projects with no intended destination.
A string being pulled at for the passage of time,
No real point to it's unwinding.
I see now that this has all been staged.
I see now that the observation lacks an endgame.
But still the scrutinizing masses wait.
"He is sure to slip back down there soon."
"It is just a matter of time,
till all this plot and waiting is justified."
I am swirling in tithe wake of unrecognized intentions of my own awakening.
I suppose I knew what I was signing onto.
But a person changes.
An organism grows.
My 20 year old self was not accountable for my 10 year old desires.
Nor should a life at 30 be the remnant of decisions made in err.
So many changes past.

nature

This seemed like a good idea.
Solid in stature.
But somewhere in execution we fell.
Only a stones throw to the throne.
In that failing we found an undoing for them all.
"Take flight" on broken limbs.
And what shall be the causing of the pain?
And what shall be the lifting of these sins?

Brought to you by the letter "G"

The gentle gentile jiggled gelatinous genitals generously,
Garnering garish guffaws.
Unguarded garnishes get groped in groups.
Gingerly, gringos garner globules of goop.
Gifs of general goodness get girlish generosity.
Grumbling grunts that greet grumpy grandparents genetically.
Goodly gods gear up.
Grateful gads give out.
Grimacing gerbils go in.
Giggling griffins gallop gaily.
Geologically griping about gifts is a gassy genre.
Giant grubs grab greedily at golden goose eggs.
The genial goblin's gait grew gaudily,
Gathering gastric gesticulations and gripping to gauge humanity:
"Generic genocide aside, we suffer from a lack of gob smack"

Nighttime Goodness Hair and Bruises

So glad I got to see you
You played those songs
But it was only temporary closeness
Spent some time behind closed doors
Avoiding glares and bad vibes
Grinning harder than I thought I could handle

Nighttime goodness
Hair and bruises

If I finally found a rival to my own noncommittal
It caught no one off guard
As much as I think every one should feel pleasure that moment
The temporary closeness was starting to feel true

Night time goodness
Hair and bruises

My shoes are in the hallway
My gun is in my hand
Drifting in and out of consciousness in our sleep
I never found a safe place to land

A choice

There lie two before me
A third in the corner perhaps
I never really thought this opportunity would present itself
Not in a million years
Some here and one at home
Another,
Darker,
Pulling drywall and splinters
from unkempt hair
Every Tuesday the liberating idea:
The way not to live.

Behind

I set myself up for this.
In all reality it is as if I had it planned out.
I can't scrutinize my self enough,
And nothing compares to you.
This does more hurt than help.
I know you are not watching.
I know that I am watching for you.
That has always been enough of a corral.
For thoughts, words and deeds spread out
I need the freedom to be evoked.
If you take it back I will have something to rally against.
That is the strength I lack.

nerve

Two blue planes stretch before me
with fleshy edges
ending indignantly at something unnerving.
I never got this right.
I never will.
but that is all in the past now.

Rote Emote

The emotion spectrum
It is limitless
and yet
here we mortals stand
motionless
limited by the language that is restrictive
words keep bridled the gateway of our boundless emotions.

Thank God

Thank God for the freedom of the press
the freedom to write whatever we want
For bad or for worse.
To fight for injustice, intolerance,
Incest and indigestion.
Thank God for the freedom from shackles of truth
The pesky facts that hold back progression again.
Thank God we tore down the Berlin wall.
It will save us a ton of money when we use the tattered pieces
to build a wall between Mexico and the holy land.
Thank God for letting us create him in whatever image suits our needs.
Which God do you kill for?
Well, that's nice but ours has a better navy so.....
Thank God that ignorance is bliss
Otherwise there would be a lot of unhappy people in
God's chosen foxhole.

Coffee

No one likes the grit at the bottom,
but we keep drinking.
Trying to find comfort
in the filth beneath the surface.
It draws us in like magnetized personages,
passages even, to a destination no one wants to be.
We fight.
Just enough to say we did.
As some scapegoat to ourselves,
from responsibility to our own scrutiny.
We tuck and roll in the landing.
Our fate only steps behind.
Yet we lie.
A forced and welcomed paralysis.
Just steps behind, we find the relevant sanity.

Post Script

They say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Having been stabbed by both I don't buy that.
Consider this a public service announcement:
Illiteracy sells.
Just watch MTV!
Unless you excel at selling yourself
you will never succeed.
Trust me.
Fortunately you won't fail either.
You will become dormant.
Stagnant as the dying middle class.
With dark wings to surround you
and carry you to the boring parts of Valhalla.

Normal

Perhaps he too is enlightened.

Or,

More likely,

I am just experiencing normalcy.

From a perplexing perspective

that encourages self importance.

Real

Every time I inhale is equal to a step further from you.
Knowing this dose not erase the need
or the desire to continue.
Nothing can erase this disregard I feel
For this, I breath all the pain and fear and joy right in.
Tell me, how can this or anything be a sin?

overcome by helplessness I seek any hand outstretched to me

I don't know where to look any longer
so many convoluted options
and choices that appear to be
but are in fact
not options
The landscape is so cluttered
flooded
my ability to discern the edges long forgotten
Not only my cognitive ability
but now
my will is slipping
Overcome by helplessness I seek any hand outstretched to me
but that landscape, too, is smothering

to me

to me
you are the sea
a vast ocean lay below
and beyond
but now I see it is a tumultuous plane
seemingly shallow
I fear the crossing of you
but I do so vainly
and I must enter the bed I made
for I have put myself in the middle of you
stranded from any landing
already choosing to swim the remainder of my days
to struggle till sinking overtakes me

At least in death I may see your honest depths.

the one that got away

I forge this in a likeness:
Concrete and liquid.
Fiery beneath.
Solid in instability.
The touch of which has left it's mark.
A finger print, seen by all.
Misunderstood,
Never since or before this life created seen.
Hell flashes within angelic eyes.
Set in life's afflicted gaze.
Cold metal, forced through warm flesh.
Releasing pain and stress as it passes.
Dark streaks.
Shadows of the trying years.
Lost dreams reflected in the broken dishes strewn about.
Cast haphazardly like,
hairs pulled from a once-tight ponytail.
one moment.
Eyes close.
Breathe deep.
Hands relax.
Lips purse.
Dam breaks and life crashes.
Smashes bodies on rocks.
Sends you again to stalk the beach.
Gathering the broken dishes to form a new lost dream.

birth

Something that I wanted always
I know now that it should not have been with you
the years that we passed have revealed the awful truth
it took too long for me to understand
but I grasp it now
hands clasping
clawing
it escapes as a whisper
shouted out from decades of repression
crashing into walls of unsuspecting glamor
never more than a pleading whimper
it is far too late to be acted upon
in these winter years of life
with this last futile wish
I escape into the forgotten heart of history
with every smell that graced this planet
I dissolve

choice: the illusion

I feel like there are steps to this.
Rules you have to follow.
Somewhere in the file cabinet of unspoken lows.
The repercussion is finite,
but it is up to you to figure it out.
I am going through some motions that
seem programmed.
Can I really choose my life?
Evidence shows that I am a passenger
to the things inevitable.

The Voice of a Poet

If you have ever spoken with me before
or if you find me after I am done reading
I will sound different.
Right now I am "The poet"
and this poem, to me, is the greatest thing in the world.
It is sacred
It must be treated as such.
It cures world hunger,
explains the upside to bestiality,
Or just the beast within.
Regardless of the message, I have to use
"The Poet's Voice"
It doesn't work for Capitan Kirk
But,
I am convinced it works for me.
As soon as I am done reading this
It will seem as though I stepped out of a
trance
Because if I emphasize my poetry just right
everyone will understand me.
Everyone will understand that no one understands me
or my vague metaphor.
Rotting meat and the flies surrounding represent me.
With any luck, all the poets here will just resent me.
Till they get on stage and use
"The Poet's Voice"

Brain Washed

On many a stoned and sacred night
I summoned masterpiece after inspired masterpiece.
Only to find it days later,
rendered pulp and lost to the washing machine.
To my horror, removed from it's form.
To be something worthy of a post modern art gallery.
Shapeless and void of worth.
Save the inspired title that alludes to random insight.
I would call my inspiration turned sculpture:
"Irony"

divorce

Tangled amidst sheets,
legs, and arms.
Searching.
Trying to find completion.
You need no reason
"When you have love"
Or is love the reason?
Still searching.
not really wanting an answer.
Or an end.
The two, entangled
Intertwined.
Not either is behind
the line drawn.

emotional state

Breath deep.
Bring forth the intoxicating oxygen.
Where once was only death and dying
now a wealth of hope.
No longer dormant lies the feeling
able to explain.
The mumbling taste of happiness.
The bitter sweet of pain.
The strain of the past
can no longer entertain the mass.
Stop pushing the blame at last.

wanted?

Dark circles.

Outset by running tears.

Was this forced?

Cause for lying love?

Contracted comfort.

Forced.

Good Reads

these streets
paced by few
owned by one
me
blood ran the streets red
and boy, was it fun
they screamed
they ran
i chased
they died
these thoughts
they are warmer than
the blood that
flowed over my fingers
as i used the
knife quickly
spraying red life
on the cold brick walls
like graffiti
warning the sadducees
and pharisees of my terrain
they try to be as good as i
but they are insane
my mind is so advanced
to theirs
most likely if you could hear
the thoughts you would
think i was crazy
but i am fine
fine
they are insane
not i
when i am done
i will go curl up with my
new pet cat
and read the
brand new copy of
"Catcher in the Rye"

Thief!

The sun sets on this dark stage.
Shadowy phase.
Light escapes.
Contemplate.
To dark for sight.
Eyes close.
Make way for intuition.
Rely on sense.
Adapt to dark.
Accept it.
Adhere to it.
Enter moon,
Casting stolen light.