talk about light

whatever
your conflict,
there's no reason to hate.

it's never too late
to wake
to the dim light
of eternity.

you're better than
all of that.

you shine in a truth that is whole,
a truth made of thin strings
turning within your soul.

you're never too old
                                to let go.
you're never too young
                                    to try.

dream the dream
for the rest of us,
each one compounding
upon the essential task
of becoming whole
once more.

become all that you adore.
be the love essential
that guides you through
the trails.
              be the beginning.
              be the end.
              be a lover.
              be a friend.

empty your pockets
of the trinkets
you've carried for so long.

let go the troubles.
let go the wrongs.

be an escape for the rest of us.
be the beginning of something new.

don't let your pain
be the heart of you.

move away from the hurt
and escape.
          be the first
so the last may follow.

be the remedy
of constant sorrow.

be the soul
hiding inside of you.

drip the meaning

i sometimes believe
in peace,
but not often enough.

i believe we are able,
but it's often too
tough.

every day trials,
recovery
and denial.

we never die.
we only expire.

kill the words
and be free.

sometimes i believe
in love,
but not often enough.

i believe it's attainable,
but it's often too
tough.

we hide who we are
behind the shadow
of what we want
to believe.

and when it's all over,
it's such a relief.

we can finally love
in a way that's free,
in a way that fulfills
our needs.

we never die.
we only expire
to somewhere else,
leaning on the dim light
of eternity.

when i see you
it reminds me
of where i've been
and how far i've gone.
it tends
my heart
and makes me long
for days yet to come.

but i'd rather kill
the words
and be free.

i'd rather watch
the birds
and have you
here
next to me,
glancing at the sky
before i lie
about
what it means
to be alive.

a pin from the pincushion

they'll tell you
not to give it
away.
they'll say
that it loses
meaning
when it's given
freely.
they'll abhor you
for handing
it out,
for creating doubt
of all that
is
sold.

but it is in
our nature
to give,
to show compassion,
to instill mercy
with our words.
we have the
deepest need
to set it free,
to give it away,
to let it seed
so all that may
encounter it
can take it
away
with them when
they leave.

our needs are
so small
that handing
it away
is nothing at all.
it takes so little
of us
to show trust
and place
it in the hand
of another.

to help a sister
or a brother
with what they need,
to feed
the hungry
and clothe the cold.
to heal the sick
and comfort the old.
to bring a little
sunlight
to break up the night
and encourage the dawn.
to give it away
before it's all gone.

and sometimes
you'll find
that what you've
given
costs you nothing
at all.
that what you gave
was so small.
maybe it was just
a little love
that we found
hidden
inside us all.

lost of heart

i am
the sum
of my parts. . .

the child
laughing.

the man
learning.

the ghost
tracing
the outline
in a reflection
not its own.

i am
the
damage
done,
the trails
won,
the fear
subsiding,
the love
undying.

the truth
behind
the mask
worn to
hide.

the sigh
at the end
of the
greatest
compromise.

growing old
without
restraint,
but letting
the little boy
be free.

walking through
the darkness
blind,
and opening
eyes
to finally see.

i am
the rest
of my life,
and where it leads
is all up to me.

the rain
forming mist
on the streets
within.

a child
hungry,
frail,
and thin.

a break
in the noise
sounding out
like a cannon
from the war
waged without.

a child
tired,
shaking,
and filled
with doubt.

i am
the sum
of all
of my parts.

but i am
whole,
and have
never
lost
heart.

the difference is the same

so many wanting to be seen,
to be noticed
in the too much humanity
which we inhabit.

each voice calling out,
trying sound
for the first time,
shouting through the fog,
hoping to hear
another voice calling.

our own hearts
thumping out
in rhythm with the stars
across galaxies
yet to be noticed,
yet to be seen,
yet to be heard
like all the voices calling.

so many grains of sand
in the sea,
and yet each one is unique,
different from the last,
finding the next grain
where they fit
and bond
in unity
unlike that which we have
ever seen before.

and still
we try to stand out,
to be different,
to shine brighter
than the next
without encouraging
our need to fit
tightly
and bond with
the others
in our space.

we are the same,
yet we try so hard
to be heard
over the other
grains of sand
that we do not realize
there is an ocean above us,
trying to get us
to come together.

careless concern

there is truth in the light of the day
beyond dawn coming down
upon gasping breath
how held in tight restraint
against blistering night
for the moon to turn the sea red
and the pained cries of the fallen
die in hushed whispers
to the golden sound of silence
leaking through
the blind illusion of
careless concern.

so we toil
in bottomless torment
how heavy upon our hearts
but not yet vindicated by the wounds
inflicted
nor restricted by the suffering mouths
holding tight
to the endless night and the coming dawn
past twilight when the lies
were but a murmur on the wind
and our fists had yet to strike out
upon the chins of the mighty
in retribution
for our souls.

and as the passage of time
drips in coils along our skin
so we may defend our careless ease
for our perpetual disease
for eventual release
to the storm brewing at our backs,
threatening the house of cards
erected upon the sands of time,
sifting away leisurely
as we stare blindly at the sun
burning out our eyes.

may we wake from our stupor
with moments to spare
without a care
in the world
for the ignorance we unfurl
to the winds of perpetual night.

may the hands that struck out
be lessened through doubt
of what we were before
we stopped caring.

some lies are too big to miss

be careful.
everyone is a
potential risk.
they could come out
of the gutters,
armed to the teeth,
ready to take over
the goddamn world
with secular tyranny
based on meaningless
books about prophets
who may or may not
have had too many
ancient drugs.

they're going to
take your fucking
guns
          away
and leave you
with only ammo
to throw
like the rocks
they used to sling
at the
very same prostitutes
they fucked
just a few minutes ago
before they stoned them
to death.

they're quick to judge
and have their holy moly
books to
enlighten them
via
reverse osmosis.
they know all of the rules
and they're pretty sure
you're breaking every one of them
with your infidel ways
like the heathens you are.

everyone
is a
       potential risk
so get
                    out
before it is          too late.

some of them live in the
deep south
                   where
you can marry your cousin,
but you sure as fuck can't
marry someone you love.

some of them
                           live
just    a     few    doors   down
and they are waiting for you
to speak your mind
so they know just who to target.

some of them voted
on your right
           to choose
what you can do with
     your      body.

some of them wear suits
and pull pensions
and healthcare
for the remainder of their lives
while you debate
on whether you pay your bills
or eat this month.

some of them smile into
the camera and say
everything is going
to be
ALL RIGHT.
don't you worry,
they've got you covered.

some of the world's
greatest villains
were once seen
as heroes.

...and i'm not talking sandwiches, people.

hurry! grab your phone.

torn up
with nothing to lose.
this is my establishment,
my plastic government,
my genocide
by the hands of the rich.
and i seem
to have
lost my phone
so i can't
take pictures
of the
impending doom.
but that's okay
there are hundreds
of others
postulating
for posterity's sake.
i'm lost
in a technical apocalypse
as the blood drips
across a battlefield
of touch screen
pavement.
and somebody
somewhere
will upload all
of the videos
in case i miss
anything.
and if we should lose,
there's always magical thinking
to save the day
as the Earth goes
pop
beneath our feet
and the fat cats
are all tucked away
in special bunkers
like the cheap fuckers
they are
while we endure the wounds
that heal into scars
to show our invisible children
what it was like
to live through
the end of the world.

this day as i rest

so many trying
to get by,
to land the deal,
to make it through,
to understand the questions,
to hear the right answers,
to feel and love,
to become involved.

so many living
day by day,
making the grade,
hoping for enough to get by,
wishing there was just a little more.

so many feelings
and not enough time
to understand them all,
to feel them out,
to quench the fear,
to lose the doubt.

so many hurt
in a hurry
to find the time,
to learn the lessons
to carry the flame
to quench the pain.

so many moments
to lose yourself,
to find the need,
to plant the seed
to be yourself
to find yourself
to lose yourself
all over again.

so we move
so we try
so we tend to the cries
so we lose
so we win
so we never begin

churning bodies
trying so hard
to find the question
why.

when it has always been
there
staring into
your eyes.

give and take

i was at the bus station
downtown
waiting for my
ride to see
my family
up north.
a guy comes up to me,
looks me over,
says,
"hey, man. you looking?"
i say, "yeah, maybe. how much?"
"thirty bucks," he says.
i look him over. "for how much?"
"an eight," he replies.
"damn, i've only got ten bucks.
can i get a dime?"
"i'll take it," he says.
"for the whole bag?!" i ask.
"yeah."
we shake and make the trade.

earlier that day, i thought it would be fun
to copy a ten dollar bill on the copy machine
and cut out the center so when it
was folded up
it looked like ten bucks, but
when it was opened it said
something clever.

i gave the guy the folded ten
and got onto the bus.
in a few minutes, the bus
was leaving the terminal.

i went into the bathroom
and unrolled the baggy
and looked inside.
there was some green lint
wadded up to look
like something else.

"the motherfucker got me,"
i said. "but i'd kill to
see the look
on his face
when he unrolls
that ten
and it says
fuck you
in the center
where old Hamilton
should be."

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Don't Look Down!

Sometimes it feels like an
an elaborate movie playing just for me,
but I can't change the channel
and the volume is stuck on as loud
as it will go and no one seems to notice
and I wonder if they're even alive.
                     Sometimes hope
                                                filters through
and leaves the head feeling dizzy. And we cope
with it all in one way or another. Some self
medicate while others try to transcend as if there
is
                          some place to go
        beyond this.
But if that is the case, why does it feel so
stagnant? Try being alone for a little
while. You will feel it too. It rattles the
brains and makes the sweat come. This
constant rotation of the same scenes playing
over and over again as the end nears. It makes
you
       want to
fast forward just to get it over with. It is
only going to be more of the same with
a few minutes of hope thrown in to keep
your attention.
                         And there are those
               who say-
                               You're not looking at it
in the right way. But you could always say
that they need to open their fucking eyes.
                      They are too occupied to notice.
             They have
their friends and families. They are busy fucking
while they are being bent over in secret. They
have their phones and their television programs.
They have a retirement to plan for, and a mortgage.
At night they dream of bunnies and the chick they
fucked in high school. They pretend that everything
is going to be all right. And it will be
                                                             as long
as they keep their eyes shut tight. And.
                                                       Don't look
                                    down.
There are bargains to be had, coupons to clip. Fuck
the commercials. Do not pay attention to the ghettos,
don't look at the educationally starved. Do not open
the goddamn door and look outside because it is a
nightmare out there.
                                  Send in your donations
to make it all better. That way you can pretend that
some of the money you gave actually goes to those
in need and not to the rich fuckers running the charity.
Try to tell yourself that your credit line will buy your
way out of the mess that is dropping down from above.
Pretend the wars are justified to protect your rights.
Pretend the gas prices are low because they care about
you and not because they are trying to fuck with another
country who isn't keen on Capitalism, but would rather
wreak havoc on their citizens by make believe methods
to ensure no one ever gets ahead. It is all a different head
                                               on the same
                                                                   Monster.
They will say that if you pay too much attention to what
is happening, it will make you miserable. That is absolutely
true, but at least you are not pretending it isn't there. Maybe
if we all
                                pay attention more often,
               the shit will really hit the fan
and we can make a little change happen.
                               That would be funny.
                                                                   Wouldn't it?
Almost as funny as that cute kitten video you posted a couple
of days ago.

a sudden stall

this smells of
sex and death;
commonplace trash
nursed through the leaves
                                          of a tree
                           on a day
                                   much like Spring,
                           but on a Winter's morn
                           lapping through a cove
                           of sunlight
this way and that.
              through the thick
                           of it:
      some warped view
                  upon the
                       lapping tongue
         of
               public opinion
that becomes drowned out
            by
                 a new howl,
           morphing
                        into
          a better view
          from a dark room
          where no light
                                shines
and the moon is as dead
as our perception
          of
               yesterday.
    tongues mocking tongues
              in an
                    all out war
without the necessity
              of reason
                             above
                                       argument.
we have gone so far
                         as to
                              blur the lines
            and no one believes
                            in right or wrong.
this is how
                  it is
                         when we
               deserve
a slap in the face
                   for having believed
          any of it
                        in the first place.

every time: it's not even real

   i went through
a period
          of panic
where i thought
       that it
             was too late
and nearly done.

sometimes i don't see
                the moon
     for months on end
     and then i look up
     and it's suddenly there:
              a giant blinking
     ball of light, and i'm
     somewhat relieved,
     but i can't blame it
          for hiding.
                        we all need
                 to go away for
             a while,
                   even if it is
             only a perception.

i still believe it is nearly done,
i'm just not
      as inclined as i
                used to be
      to whether it means
               anything or
                    not.

sometimes i stare
              into the mirror
    and my reflection
                acts
      as if i'm not
             even
                    there.
 
   and i can't argue.

some other path as yet to be defined

it is so easy
              to feel
  disconnected
from all of this.

i don't care
about
celebrities.
i don't like most
movies.
i can't endure
video games for
very long.
politics piss me off.
religion
is just fucking weird.
i could care less
about fashion.
i listen to music
by dead
composers
and long gone
blues men.

           and there
   comes a point
where you look around
                 and find
that you're
       standing alone
without a comfortable
                    niche
  to support
the mess of
            experiences
you've had in
  your life,
and wonder if this
is as good as it gets.

must i wear tight pants
                        to fit in?
do i have to recognize
holidays
     that i can't stomach?
must i bother
with the illusory
accumulation
                     of wealth?

hold this opinion.
hold that opinion.
                          join us.
become a part
        of the
              machine.
it yearns for
        you.
it moans for
        you.
fit in to
our version
of the way things
                        are.
play in the street
with all of the traffic.
but,
where do you go
when all the roads
             lead to
                   nowhere?

find a box to fit in

i think there are
a lot
of people
who identify themselves
as Christian
just for the sake
of having
an engaging label.

they are mostly of the mind-
Jesus, yeah, magic beans,
wine to water,
absolute salvation,
i'm in.

when in all reality,
they believe in
religion
as much as they believe
in Santa
or freedom,
or the incessant
propaganda
perpetrated by
mass media.

and let's be honest,
those who dive,
head first
into the slop of
religion
tend to be a bit ...
wacky.

they go so far
with beating others
over the head
with their
particular form of
spiritual
propaganda
that it hurts.

they say that
morality
stems
from their belief
in a higher power.
but we all see
people
who don't subscribe
to any particular form
of belief,
and they do just fine
in an organized
social context.
they are charitable,
kind,
loving,
appreciative human
beings
trying to make
the best
of what they are given
in life.
they don't pray for
guidance
or reassurance.
they don't need prophecy
to somehow
vindicate
some ethical stance.

and then there's
the other side
of the issue
where you must stand
on a solid platform
of being a nonbeliever.
and if you don't,
you are seen
as ignorant,
foolish,
gullible.

but what is wrong
with admitting
that you really don't know?
there could be some higher
form of energy
that permeates the universe,
just making life
happen.
science hasn't
proven that some type
of god
doesn't exist,
and religion hasn't
proven
that there is an
all knowing being,
sat high on some
overseeing cloud,
smoothing out
his beard,
and waiting to
instill vengeance
upon the world.

and let's be honest.
if any of us were endowed
with godlike
powers,
and looked down upon
the whole of creation,
we wouldn't want to hang out
with humanity either.
 
just saying ...

Quote by James Joyce

"Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. It speaks of what seems fantastic and unreal to those who have lost the simple intuitions which are the test of reality; and, as it is often found at war with its age, so it makes no account of history, which is fabled by the daughters of memory."
--James Joyce

so the days sing past

you could wither away
from staring at it too long.
it could gulp you up like a
big fish inhaling chum.
it could get you when you
least expect.
it could bend you over
and have its way with you
and you might never know
it happened.

it sleeps in gutters,
uses a knife as a toothpick,
bites off more than it can chew,
but swallows it anyway.

it hides in plain sight,
right in front of your eyes,
but you'd never know it for sure.

it wants your money and your
babies.
it wants to snuggle you into
a fever.
it is bold and unjustified,
but it loves how you hate to scream.

and the next thing you know,
you'll be setting there,
minding your own business
and it'll take a chunk out of your neck
and spit it out in a blood laced thud
that'll make even the most bloodthirsty god
tremble.

it will get you like it has gotten everyone
else. you'll look in the mirror, and that's it,
the good old days have finally passed you by.

stormy weather man

sometimes
                  the wind
          holds
                    out
long enough
to see the sun

and when the
                         rain
is    all    done
the sky sings
              down
                      on
                         me.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

it doesn't have to
          be
                hot
for your
            skin
to tingle.
it doesn't have to
be
         cold
for you to get
                close.
it doesn't have to
be        
           bad
       to be evil.
as long as i can see
the sunlight
in your smile
it's all i'll
ever need.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

when the clouds break up above me
i won't be too blind
            to see
the sunlight
in your smile
and that's
                  all
i'll ever need.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

when you walk away
i'm crying
when you come back
you know where i am
when you fall
i'll be right behind you
to lend you my hand.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

yes i am ...
i'm your stormy weather
                           man.

your little light

it's
     so dark
         in
  here,
           mama.
i'm just looking
for   your   soul
          to
               shine
   through.
and there's nothing
i wouldn't do
to find that little light
you shine
                 like  
a fine
          fine
                   wine
dripping bright
                        against
my tongue.
it's a miracle
not like any other
in the stormiest weather
i can see your true light shining
and i can feel the heat.
you're my silver lining
at the end of the
darkest street
winding through
the deep of you
where no matter
what the skies reveal
 you can heal
                      the little
               light
                         in
                                me,
and i'll heal the little light
                         in
                               you.

mercy in bonds

the endless shift
drifting
through the tireless
void
beyond the conscious
state
we pretend to be
living

a great game
of love,
lust,
longing,
and shame
where we all hope
for
prosperity,
wealth,
and gain

but the pieces
are lost,
tossed aside
and replaced
with tears
and trials
and meaningless
pride

this is where
we all go
when we're
pretending to hide

and it does not
reflect where we go
when we die

in this moment,
we are given
but a single chance
to fight

luxury of the loins,
birthing
the next row of
weeds
to be mowed down
in a desperate attempt
to encourage
progress

and we hold each other
tight
and hope to make it through
the night
where something sinister
lurks
in the murky drop pan
of a made over
social disgust

we have a war on drugs
and a war on pedophiles
and a war on rapists
and a war on men
and a war on women
and wars on poverty
and wars on science
and ingenuity
and grace
but most of all,
we fight a war on life
that has been waged
since we took our first steps
out of the bloody tides
that brought us here

and at what point
do we end the infliction
of misery
for a more merciful,
meaningful
way of life?

speed up and stop

staring off through the windshield
at all the other drivers,
casually reserved to fate,
heading home
on a twenty minute
drive that will
take you over an hour
to accomplish.

the engine's hot,
and the steering wheel
is sticky
with an accumulation
of years worth of
congestion.

to your left and right
they wait until the last second
to merge,
trying so hard to get
a couple of car lengths ahead.

they're on cell phones,
playing with the radio,
attending to the children,
reading the day's news like
a fashion statement
to the damned.

someone is overheating
and you can smell the sweet
burn,
two lanes over.

the slow lane is
moving faster
than any other.

construction everywhere,
and there is no place
to turn out if something
goes wrong.

you're paying as much for your
car
as you once paid for rent
and there's no guarantee
you'll get home
without the engine light
coming on
like a fatal gunshot
to the wallet.

it's three in the afternoon
and you're wondering where
the hell
everyone is going.

both directions
are jammed up tighter
than the muscles
at the back of your neck.

hope is fleeting.

it suddenly starts to move.
10 mph ...
15 mph ...
5 mph.

you're back in it all over again
and someone just cut you off
and flipped the bird through
the rear window
and you want to hit
the accelerator and
slam the hunk of
foreign made steel up their ...

and then you see your
exit
in the distance.
maybe a mile,
mile and a half.

it'll take the better part of an hour,
but you'll be home,
free and clear.

you gun it over the white line
and take the off ramp
with reckless abandon,
get caught at the light,
wait your turn,
wait for the asshole
ahead of you to get off
their phone,
slam the stick into the
next gear,
shuffle to the next light,
and wait.

more construction.

brake lights for as far
as the eye can see
and there's no looking back.

not now.

starlight dim

a foreign city
and the street lights
twinkle
just like cat eyes,
blinking away
bits of darkness
as if chipping
away marble
to reveal grand
statues.

the flowers have all closed
for the night
along with the bars,
and a woman stumbles
out onto the street
with her handbag loosely
strung from her shoulder.

the streets are stone
and the sidewalks
are drowsy,
clicking away footsteps
under starlight
dim.

the woman stumbles
and someone is there
to catch her before
she falls.

he takes her hand and
she smiles at him
knowingly.

tap away,
foreign
footsteps
through the night
where cat eyes play
reflective
along stone streets
when the flowers
have all closed
for the night.

shoot out the lights
and enjoy the dark.

let the finer points
of the deep black night
take you as a
mother
cradling
a child.

surrender to yourself.

absorb the air,
and feel up the night
with lapping tongue.

be the morgue of
your own desire
where the wrestling hand
of stillness sleeps
in the meek
starlit sky
and fly
through
the deep black light
where sight
is the silence
of fear
in the clear
tranquil night.

blend the ink
and blink away
the light.

give yourself away
to the darkness.

and only then
will you perceive
that there was never
really anything to see
on such a starlit night.

stale coffee and cigarette butts

this deep feeling
in the gut
like decay and
a heavy meal
composed of the tired
wanting that comes along
with sucking the same
goddamn air every day;
the pollution, the whores,
the destitute and hungry,
the lame, the wicked, the unwanted.
it stinks of fear.
it reeks of penance
and prostitution of
an old tired ass
beating the fucking clock in
with the back of a miserable
old
hand.
the grinding is every day.
the pay remains the same.
and the smiles are an effort
to bend in just the right way
to make the faces move on.
there's the keyboard,
the coffee so black you can see the image
of the virgin mary screaming her goddamn head off.
there's the ashtray filled and tumbling over with butts.
there's the children yammering and the dogs howling
their inner city speak with a disdain for silence.
above all of it
there is the charm of the word and the ink and
the stench of perseverance.
but when it ends,
it ends.
and no one is the wiser.

Qu3sti0n5

Where do all of the
goddamn days
fuck off to?
                                   
                                    How the hell do
                                    you keep up with it all?
     
                 What the fuck are people for?

How do I get
out of here?

                         I work every
                         day. What, exactly,
                         am I working toward?

How is it possible
for the government
to keep secrets when
it is a wonder how most
of them were elected
in the first place?

                  What in the hell
                   is wrong with
                   people?

  How has religion
  been able to last for
  so long when it's
  obvious that we're just
  throwing shit at each other,
  unrestricted?

         Why does it feel
         like I'm being lied to?

What if God
is just
an engine?

                                   Where have
                                   all the good times
                                   gone?

               Why does it feel
               as if society
               is being beaten down
               into a universal
               third world
               status?

   Oh fuck,
   what if we're
   really
   not alone?

                                              What if
                                              we never get
                                              to go away?

        What is y/our purpose?

stop killing in the name of invisible frauds

in the end
it doesn't matter.
we get so caught up
in the routine
set before us
that we forget
our original intention.
we are only here to live.
there is no other
purpose
than to exist,
to love,
to enjoy,
and to be enjoyed.
the earth would spin
whether we were on it
or not.
i have never
understood
all of the contempt,
anger,
persecution,
restriction,
violence,
hatred,
bigotry,
etc.
i have never
understood
the purpose of murder,
of harming people
to get your jollies,
of sacrifice in the name
of some contrived
religion
that was simply intended
to keep all of the pieces in line.
we can blame it on business,
on god,
on need,
on the cosmos,
but it comes down
to us.
keep your god in your pocket.
your faith is an
individual faith alone.
it is only for you.
no one else needs to be
beaten over the head with it.
we are the only ones responsible
for what happens
on this floating
chunk of dirt.
do what you can
to make it easier
for everyone else
and maybe we would
end up with
something worthwhile
to live for.

the trust of weeping souls

i touch your heart from here

even though i can say nothing
to comfort you

i touch your heart from here
in the long, trying night
somewhere between
them and us.

our fingers touch past the ether
and the fumes of sweet air
grace our senses
held aloft through
trying times
so often forgotten
in the thick of it all.

bare, our chests meet
and the heat
of our skin rises.

we gather
the truth of us
here as our lips near
the parting way
of smitten gods.

as an approaching storm,
our breath
breathes choruses
in the night
as the cities burn
in our wake
for the lingering
touches
we take
and the smoke rises
out of sight.

i can touch you from here
as

the ashes beneath
our feet
still quake
with the heat
of rapture
as we meet
in the garden of
burning souls
hidden under the skin
we wear as a mask
to hide
ourselves
from the lust we feel
from the lust that heals
the burden of dusk
in the twilight of
weeping souls.

courage

i often wonder about
c o u r a g e .
it is often mistaken
for stupidity.
is courage an act
or is it an action
?
i'm never quite sure about this ...
any of this.
what is so
worthwhile
to put yourself in
harm's way?
L O V E ?
mostly.
but often not.
Love is often mistaken
for lust,
for comfort,
for revenge,
and for retribution.
the stakes are high.
it is a crime of passion.
it is a crime of want.
Love as an act of defiance
is as good as it gets.
defy the traditions,
the expectations,
the wanting need,
and love as freely 
as possible
for the sake of love,
in the hope of loving
more
again, longer, farther
than we ever considered
loving before.
just give it for the hell of it,
because it is the only thing
worth giving.
it is a true gift
without guilt.
now that's 
c o u r a g e .

cellophane daydream

the days drip
away
in silence.

they don't care
enough
to hate me the
way
they used to.

i used to be a fucker.
i used to be a fiend.
now i'm afraid of getting shot
on my way home from
the grocery store,
so i remain silent
in the same way
the days
drip away.

i used to be able
to go an hour straight
without pause.
now, i go an hour
without any hope
of climax.

the joints
feel as if they're
trying to wrench out
from under the skin.

pouring salt in the wounds
doesn't help anymore,
and i have a bad tooth
that needed to be pulled
six months ago.

the other night
i was so dizzy
that i threw up.
and it got me to thinking
of how it will be
when i throw up
for the very last time.
i can't pour salt
on that
wound.
even if i did,
i'm afraid i wouldn't feel
anything.

but that's they way
with numbness;
it gets in the way
of any feeling
at all.

so as a profound
asshole,
i decided to write
it out
in a poem.

one word followed by another

the words
meet in little lines
that merge
hard on the eyes.

small words of mere 
nothingness,
gliding along the page
for sight to molest
in ways profane,
gleaning meaning
from what is ordinarily
mundane.

so smooth,
the pen traces out images
set behind the eyes
to gather where 
sparks of energy
conceive new patterns
of thought
where none seemed to be
before.

like walking through 
an open door
that always seems to be
closed 
when you look back
over your shoulder.

sometimes a curtain is
just a curtain.

symbolically,
the tiny words
come together
to form sentences
that merge into paragraphs
that mean as much as the
words, individually.

we always hope they mean more 
than they do,
somehow always fixated on you
and your life
and the way you perceive
the happenings
that construct analytically
in a horizontal fashion.

constructed of passion
and tension
and hopeful
realization
that were singular
just a moment before.

a simple word
fills a need
inside a soul
that sometimes bleeds
across the page
for crying eyes to perceive
like darkness
wandering toward
light
that just might 
be the very thing
that saves your life.

our nature is futility making love while the war rages on

life is futility
so we do the best we can
with the time we have.

we spend our moments
making comments
on what we are
and where we've been.

you never hear
someone on their
deathbed
say that they wished
they had spent more time
working.

we waste our health
on our jobs
while getting robbed
by taxes
and hidden fees,
hoping to get to
a better place that doesn't
actually exist.

we run into walls
and become misplaced
by all the information we're fed.
we're exterminated by
our desire for more
when we have nothing
to gain
in the first place.

all we can hope
is that we elect the right people
to make the right decisions
at the right time
to make a better future
for those who come
after we're gone.

and that's what we're told:
a better future for future
generations
that will come and go
in the same way we have
only to endure the same
hardships and the same
neglect
we were tortured with
throughout our short
                                  short
                                           lives.

at any minute,
maybe we'll all wake up
and wonder what the fuck has happened
to our happiness,
to our future for future generations,
to our possibilities, and
to our needs.

where have all the good times gone?
maybe they were shrouded in parties
and ignorance cleverly disguised as
innocence.
maybe they never happened at all and
it was nothing but a dream shrouded in
drugs and alcohol and slumber party madness
hoping to get girls who were hoping to get guys
hoping to fuck hoping for a moment to cry
hoping for luck enough to bypass the lies,
hoping to never begin.
hoping to never try.

and the beautiful always seem
to slide through while the rest of us are
ugly.

hope is a cleverly placed flower
in the hand of a secret love,
always waiting for this moment
to arrive.

                 love is a symptom of need,
     hoping to encounter the very moment
           when a connection is made
               and skin mingles with skin
         as the white hot rush of lust
gathers at the point where
           tongues meet for the very
                                                    first
                                                           time.

you'll never hear someone
on their deathbed say
they
wished they had loved less
and hated more.

the stakes are high
in this thing called life,
and no one has ever gotten out alive,
but we try,
no matter the expense,
to win,
to feel the sweet expanse
of the heart
under our shirts
for one last time
before the hammer drops
us
six feet below
the place we started.

consuming consumption

they cough the tribulation
from lightning strike
smokestacks
into the air
like desperation
for the masses
through gases
poisoned
with
rancid intention.

with products to buy
we get high
on the trouble
they peddle
from factories
in third world countries
just like our own.

the sound machine
produces low rumbles
to say:
you need to pay
for the right to stay
docile
in your consumption.

: we build it to break
so you'll buy
whatever we make
a second time.

: we give you
what you want
tenfold
and hold out
on the next production cycle
to ensure
you're
docile in your consumption.

: and if it gets
too hot
in the kitchen,
we'll sure be switching
to a new production cycle
so you're none the wiser
to the geyser of shit
you're soon to inherit
from lightning strike
smokestacks
bellowing poison
into the air
like desperation
for the masses
through gases
tainted
with
rancid intention
and the love
of something new
just for you and
the other hundred million
customers
who can afford
to gorge
on the docile nature
of the consumption
we're selling.

such an ordinary life

golden conversations
just might
give light
to an ordinary life.

imagine
plentiful resolutions
dropping diamonds
from purple skies
if only you will try.

listless abandon
caressing milk blue
galaxies
just beneath your eyes.

and suddenly
you're set free
from such an ordinary life.

with moonlight in your eyes.

never quite assuming
any other
way
other than today
which lasts forever
unlike any other
and suddenly you will shudder
from this place set in never
glancing like the slither
from a snake
through sands of glitter
on its way
to yesterday.

dewdrops of glass
on plastic blades of grass
merging from chocolate earthen fields
where happy giggle laughter reveals
a better solution
to the age old question
of what is real
and what is dream
and suddenly it seems
that crystal streams
are golden,
drowning out sapphire screams
beholden
by the hands that cry
across the milk blue sky
of reasoning with abandon.

holding hands across an ocean
under raging tropic sun
it's no wonder you don't know where you've been
because you've only just begun
to see

with moonlight in your eyes

so suddenly set free
from such an ordinary life
just as ordinary as me.

damn the feeling

your heart is broken.
it is shattered, torn, ripped to pieces.
along the mark,
past the scar on your chest,
is the place where the memories
survive.
it is in this spot where you
make a stand,
grow beyond the partial
view of who you are,
right above the scar
where they stabbed through
the tenderness of you
and left a mark that you'll carry
through your life,
remembering the knife,
the blade formed of words
that brought the hurt,
and dropped you to your knees,
brought the silent pleas,
begging them not to take away
the innocence that remained.
but now it's gone
and you've lived too long
to form retribution
for the acts committed.
you have grown beyond the pain,
past the triumphs with an insane,
gleeful smile
that will take you miles
beyond the limits of what
you thought
you could endure.
and it is in this place
that you'll find the friends,
the lovers,
the saints
to help you carry on
and make you who you are.
just because one person can't be trusted
doesn't mean everyone can't be trusted.
you're a little smarter,
a little wiser,
a little tougher,
and you have the scars to prove it.
the next time someone comes
blazing through your door,
you'll know for sure
whether they intend to do harm,
or whether they will make your heart warm
in the cold world you left so suddenly behind.