you wake up in the morning to a headache

so many lies
devour us daily
in this recycling
pit
of forked tongues,
of scab encrusted throats,
burning for another
excuse
to let the farce continue.

lies from your peers.
lies from your officials.
lies from the bloody mouths,
trying to keep control over you.

windbags and blabbermouths
screwing the truth around
to fit their particular idea of need.

it's because the truth is so painful,
such a hardened reality
that if
it were told,
none of us would want to believe.

they lay on the spin
and twist the words
to create a shred of truth
under the misinformation.
it has never been about
honesty,
it's about what they can
lead you
to believe.

facts
are simply the
best case scenario
for any given
point in time,
and they use this
to fit whatever need
may come up
to lead you away from
whatever it is
they don't want you to know.

it's not just a war anymore,
it's a campaign for freedom,
for democracy
rather than the control they happen
to want
to establish
for a higher degree of servitude.

it's not just a war on drugs,
it's a pharmaceutical onslaught
to make sure you're using
the drugs they want
you to use.

it's not one political party
against another,
it's just one system
leading you in the direction
they need you to follow
in order to
keep you off the track of what
they are really trying to accomplish.

we have become so out of touch
that they could tell us they're giving
us
National Healthcare,
and we would think they're
doing it for us,
doing something in our favor
when they're really
just trying
to divert our attention
from the fact
that we're already dead.

slowly ever upward

clouds catch in the sky
with a cool breeze of breath
pushing them along.

a smooth dusting of light
taps its way through the tuft
as birds tickle the air
with singsong speak,
and grass gathers dew upon
slender blades.

a holding motion
in the cool air,
and the smell is as fresh
as a seedling poking
up through the damp
for the very first time.

as the light holds,
as the damp gathers,
as the moon recedes
and the sun grips
behind darkness
at the edge of dream,
so the heart
flutters soft behind the drapery
of breath
as courage to
broken sadness
in this great gift
merging
through the trying moments
of our
somber urges
to bring the gathering
of these words
caught on the tip
of a child's tongue.

a stutter at the back
of the throat,
and time releases
its tired grip.

a smooth wind
plays
ever upward.

is it worth it?

crucified in this land
of milk and honey.
told to aspire to
a greatness that
doesn't exist.
told to conform
to the idea of
want and have.
told to be more like
the ones
who took it all
and left scraps behind
to pick through.

become a part of
the system.
get an education
with a fine piece of paper
to confirm
your knowledge.
land a job
and work for
the rich
you aspire to be.

become a parent.
buy a home.
get a car.
stay up to date
with the latest trends.
dress accordingly.
save for retirement.
drown under the weight
of the house of cards
that you built.

stare in wonderment
at how all the others
manage to stay upright
as you juggle
a mortgage,
bills,
taxes,
401k,
kids,
spouse,
job,
death.

it's because they're in debt too,
just like you.
and their credit is good
as long as they make
the payments on time.
but any bump in the road
will send all they've worked for
tumbling along the ditch
for the vultures to pick through
when capitalism
wrecks the car
you haven't finished
paying for yet.

and it makes you wonder
what it's all for.
maybe just to stay alive
a little bit longer.
maybe to gain a little time
before they drop a dime
on you too.

then something happens
if you happen to be
one of the lucky ones
who realizes
that all the little things
you have
could go away
just as quickly as you acquired them,
maybe quicker.

and the light dawns
and you become aware
that it is about the people,
not the possessions.
it is about us,
not them.
it is about
living life
and leaving something
for someone else
when you're gone.
it is leaving the most valuable
thing behind that you
have gained.
it is about the transfer of
love
of
knowledge
of
redemption.
it is all about finding
the passion
that drives you.

so when they tell you
to buy
the latest thing
to make you wealthy,
remember to tell them
you're already rich
and you can't afford
what they're selling.

don't peek

the power you keep
is the hand that covers your eyes.
the harm done unto you
is only by that which you perceive
in fear.
the hold it has on you
is the grip with which it tightens.

it is the deep that
swallows you,
the dark that stares
behind your eyes
with a burning glare
of forked lies.

a haunting chill
caresses the air.
a pitiless kill,
the creature's
only fare.

a broken gasp as
the breeze sweeps through
was the only horror
you knew
before the creature
ripped the last whimper
from you.

and as it swallows
the meat
from your bones,
it only wishes
it could still hear
your moans,
the pleasant cries
you make
when you still had
a life to take.

as the cold takes hold
and the last drop of you
leaks from the fold
where your head
once rode,
you can only imagine
death
to be sweeter
than uncovering your eyes.

a slow and leisurely release

break free the soul
wider
and find those
parts hiding

break free the soul
finer
fragile wondering
wanderings

break free the soul
raiding
ranges toward the unknown
portions parting

gather and
break free the soul
from daunting things
before the time
is too late

the trees moving
the grass parting
the ocean blue bending light
refracts from
solemn sun

soil producing
growing gathered seed
singing hymns
under heat and air and falling stars

everywhere
everything
break the soul free
and let nothing else
come in the way of evolved movement

send finer threads
tenderly taking back
all that has been concocted
in haste
in wealth
in the name of frail
emotional involvement

take back the stolen soul
break free the soul
render the soul complete
allow for soul
evolve in soul
be food
for
brain

become everything
they don't want
you
to be

softly surrender

the gas lamp
keeps you warm at night
when you're all alone
and nobody's home.

the soft orange warms
you with its fire.

and the strange sounds
coming from upstairs
don't seem so haunting.

the small knocks on the
floorboards
don't strike fear as much
as they used to.

the whispering dead
don't hold you
as tightly as they once
did.

no need for the closet
where you once
hid -

afraid of the dark,
afraid of the faces
that stood out
in the shadows
only to retreat
when you glanced their
way.
afraid of the rope 
slung
over the rafters.
afraid of the smell
from the lamp
when it burned.

you like the way it feels
not to have to feel
that way anymore -

as you glance down at 
the note
you left behind,
illuminated by the
soft glow
of the gas lamp that
once warmed you
when you
were 
alive.

find quiet

a 
   smooth 
               stream 
                          of 
                              consciousness

lights like the freeway rushing past

a 
   flowing 
               beam 
                         of 
                              light 
                                     speeds 
                                                 onward

in this thick silence, the mind transcends

the 
     darkness 
                    dies 
                           here 
                                   in 
                                       this 
                                             place 
                                        of 
                          spiraling 
                  light

            and
   nothing
            else
   remains
              outside of this twitching heart

your air

  all
     the
   air
escapes

drifting
      away
  from
your
    parted
  lips

  the
   pressure
subsides

  the
     tension
             lifts
    in
this
       moment
  of
    pause

         the
daylight
          is
grinning
        from
behind
         the
   wall

     a 
sudden 
     inhale 
 and 
the 
    air 
  is 
with 
   you 
     again

new suckers

heroes pass through
upon occasion,
leaving
small piece of themselves
for the masses
to dine.

we use and abuse them,
test and try them.
our amusement never wanes
for such heroic fame.

when we're done with them,
we cast them aside
like spent toilet paper
to use up the next
poor sucker
that comes along.

there's never a shortage
of heroes.
one goes,
another comes
to take the reins,
ready to profess
their love for us
in the most profound
ways.

we use them up
and throw them away
so easily
until we get a shortage of
true heroes
and we begin looking around
for anything
that might
fit the bill.

we lower our standards
and take whatever comes
our way.

a hero used to stand for something.
heroes used to actually be HEROES,
but no more. now we'll take
anything with a fat
pocketbook
and a pulse.
hopefully, they'll have a sex tape
we can salivate over.
maybe they'll come from
a famous family
who thinks they're better than
the rest of us.

no matter.

we're just going to throw you away
when you're all used up.
we'll laugh at you
when you've had enough.
we'll cast you down the slick
shit covered floor
for
another sucker with
a shiny disposition
when you can't handle
the flack.

so sit back,
new hero
and enjoy the ride.
if you're lucky,
you'll die at the peak
of success
and we'll remember you for another
week or two
after you're gone.

a moonlight hex

the pitter patter of 
death drops
on a rusty 
tin roof
that leaks
through
and dampens the
dirt floor
beneath 
his feet.

the deadly pitter patter
knocks in time
to the drops
drip drip dripping
to the dirt,
making mud
beneath 
his feet.

a chicken bone,
a thimbleful of blood,
and moonstone
ground to dust.

whiskey in a cracked mug,
and the smooth sound
of the Devil
singing
in the swamp
beyond the beams
of an old,
run down shack
leaking drip drip
the sorrow from
the sky.
tonight, 
someone's going to die 
with the voodoo.

a chicken bone,
a thimbleful of blood,
and moonstone
ground to dust.

whiskey in a cracked mug,
stained with blood,
and the gentle hum
as the Devil 
moans in the swamp
under a weeping sky
just beyond
the creaking
beams
that hold up
a leaky tin roof
covered in rusty blood.

a cracked mug of whiskey
catching the blood tears
that drown through
the rusty tin roof
from a wounded sky.
and tonight someone's 
going to die
from the voodoo
as the Devil
swoons 
the moon
that writhes
in a weeping sky
and make all those wrongs
seem
all right.

marching through

sometimes the bones crack
for the weight is too great
and the struggle becomes
oh so much to bear.
the faces out in the rain
are blurred
and their mouths speak
of sick.
and the urban dusk
is sightless
and the tears
drown the sky.
the shapes of decay that
bend
in the distance
resemble 
the crooked bones that 
push you along 
the streets
soaked in tears.
you count the steps 
and the tally is farther
than you expected,
and the distance
matches
the curve of
your spine.
hallow steps,
each one,
bound to the
unforgiving pavement
leading off into nowhere.
but the memories of
the places you've been
pushes you forward,
dragging feet
through the tears
they weep
in the drowning
rain
of moaning pain
until you're finished,
finished forever again.
the look of the sky
trembles
as the clouds of darkness
cover the stains
on the bones
cracking under the weight
of so many
days
torn through
by the puddles
of tears 
you tread. 
such is the shame that
knocks through the
marching
of those who are 
already dead.

end o'clock

holding time in your hand,
nestled in the cradle
of your fingers,
afraid that it might
slip through.

so careful with
every second
to make sure the
tick tick ticking
doesn't
stop
just
yet.

every moment
a little closer
to finishing up
the clock
that makes
the night
a terror
and brings
the monsters
out from
under the bed
to tell you
you're
nearing
the end.

and no matter
how much you pretend,
it still
slip slip slips away
with every breath,
every beat,
every
godforsaken
second
of every single day
just waiting
for the alarm to sound.

and when that last day
finally comes to an end
maybe you'll look back
through time
and wish you
would have
spent less time
believing
in time.

ask until you have to ask some more

when i was young
i would look at the adults
around me
and think of how 
they all had it together.

they went about life
as if
there wasn't an end,
as if
they had it all figured out.

as i grew up
i kept hoping for the answers
that had
eluded me 
in my youth.

but as time passed
i never found 
anything concrete to
hold onto.

the same questions plagued me.

and i realized that
the adults i had
admired for
their courage
and resolution
were just as scared
as i was.
they hadn't found
the answers either.
they were wearing masks
to hide their fear.
some wore masks of religion.
others wore masks of drug abuse,
or alcoholism.

i learnt meditation
and began
reflecting on the questions
i had.
and ever so slowly,
i found answers that fit
my particular way
of life.

i found that truth
was only relative to the speaker.
each concept of truth is
only true because
it is 
the best possible answer 
at the time.
truth evolves
with the more questions
that are
asked.

it's as if the answers were
alive
and changing
as they became exposed,
trying to hide behind
more questions.

even now, as i am writing this,
i wonder how true it will be tomorrow,
or the next day, 
or a year from now,
or when i'm dead and gone.

there will always be better 
answers
as long as you 
don't run out of questions.

and as for those masks,
wear them with dignity
because it's shame
that takes the questions away. 

line by line

the page drips in death,

reeks of heroin laced hookers

and cheap fast food.

the page turns with murder

and vice,

with motor oil

and urine stained

trash enclosures

just south of

downtown

LA.

the page is a fist,

a bride

to the divided souls

looking for a little compassion

in a ruthless dive

made of razor wire and

cotton candy.

the page is the page

and nothing more

unless it comes to you from

the mouth

of the beaten,

of the deranged,

of the low and haggard,

of the genius crazed 

heaving

the page 

for the sake of the page.

the burnt and bent over,

taking another

for the sake 

of the word.

the tired and broke,

fucked over from the

experience

like it

was the last experience

to be experienced.

the trapped and laughing

because he's aware

there is no way out

unless it's a straight shot into

the grave.

the bent, buckled masses

reading the word

that was never truly the word

because it was pushed aside

to let the shit sink in.

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No Rooms without Walls

a child shall lead them

they look so hard for salvation
as if it is something that comes from
outside the self and magically appears
to aid, to guide us out of our weaknesses.

they pretend that there is something
greater than them,
something omnipotent that is disconnected
from the shrine we call flesh.

they believe there is something beyond us
that takes away the sin and leaves us clean
in its glory.

but all of this transpires from the inner child
we smothered so long ago, the part of us
we keep bottled up, the small something within
us that we're afraid to show.

that inner peace is the child of our soul,
muted through years of adapting to
an unforgiving world to fit in with
all the others who follow the trends
and grow up in a way to better suit
the harsh environment we're hurled into.

if you're not wearing the right clothes,
adapting your life to the latest tech,
listening to the appropriate droning
thump of vapid music, trending in the
latest car, or following the teachings
of some faceless leader of faith,
you're not a part of their experience.

and if that is the case, and you have abandoned
all those things, I could call you a part of myself.

the problem doesn't lie in the religion or the politics
or the system. the problem lies within those
who lead. there is only one religious leader.
there is only one politician. there is no true system.
you are the greatest leader, the greatest teacher,
the greatest mind
that can set yourself free.

follow the child inside and see what you find.
you might be surprised at what you can
accomplish
when you set the guru free.

true need

we are led by example.

at an early age,
most of us are taught
Christian ideals.
we are taught to aspire
to the example set for us
by God.

if God can wipe out
the majority of humans
with a flood,
why can't we?

if God can sacrifice,
maim, and destroy people
in the name of good, why can't we?

we don't worship peace or love,
we worship vengeance and greed
and justice according to a set of
made up principles.

we are led by an example of
hurt and suffering.
but if there is an omnipotent
being that created the universe,
then that being would be free
of fear and hate and anger
because nothing could exist
outside of itself.
it would literally be one
with all things.
there wouldn't be a reason
for jealousy,
for mistrust,
for justice.
that being would always be aware
of what was happening at all times,
under all situations.

wars have been fought for imaginary beings.
children have died at the hands of blind faith.
countless people have starved for this
'greater good'.

at some point we're going to have to start
believing in love, or we will die at the hand
of hate.

some day we're going to have to put away
old tombs and rely upon compassion and
mercy
and observation.
for our survival, we are going to have to stop
being slaves to an irrational teaching from
a Creator made in our own image,
and aspire to become something greater than
ourselves.

but as long as there is greed and want that trumps
true need, we're are doomed to repeat
the same mistakes
as the One who undermines
our beginnings.

so says the sins of our flesh

your subtle breath
takes me in.

the trembling skin
of you
sparks life
in this blood
of mine.

as i enter you
as you welcome me
as we turn
within
ourselves.

this blending wine,
a pool from our chests
growing,
growing
inside
where the dark drowns light.
hallow ground
of our bodies
of our blood
in this, the whole of you
accepting
the whole of me.
a funeral of temptation
through engorged breath.
the lightest touch
as you part
and lick at the essence of me
as my lips
kiss your eyes.
and we're floating away
entangled
through the deep
of this
as one.

the subtle
breath speaks
a million years
of wind and
trailing trees
from the licorice breeze
of a heart
swimming in
the air
of fan swept hair
about your mouth
as we arch in
something
stronger than
an undying love
sprinkled in sweet.

drifting away
with you.

goddamn me.

the demon shows you yourself

fucking kill me,
you chirp between
broken teeth,
just kill me!

it threads it fingers
between the fat,
separating
tissue
as it makes a puppet of
your leather,
a blanket
from your gore.

and the pain is
so much more
than a simple
flash.
it sinks into your
entirety,
becomes a part
of your being.

and when you think
you can't take any more,
it shudders the misery
deeper
until all you can feel
is the Hell with which it
speaks.

the spaces between your limbs
disjoint
and pull apart
and the tendons
stretch
as the muscle
tears
farther than you ever thought
possible.

just before you scream again,
the thing remedies your
tongue from
between your jagged teeth
and sinks
its claws that much deeper
to make you dance
from the fire of its flesh.

the white heat
tingles
somewhere you've
never
experienced before
and you feel something pulling away
as the demon shows
your body prone,
holding your head above your severed shell.

and this is Hell
because you can't stop
living.

moan.

the demon sings of sweetness in marrow

i swallow the sick from you
when we touch this way
and breath in a little more 
of you
when i can taste your fear.

i am the hate between
your ribs
where your heart
scratches screams
from the faces you've seen
in the darkness where
i dwell
beneath the 
melting places in
Hell.

and when you're
sweating the last drop
of terror,
know that i am near,
i am close to an embrace
with the tender place
next to your soul.

and if we could hold
one another
this way forever,
i would never loosen my grip
upon claw pierced skin
under the folds which
keep you whole.

so says the demon
you've always known.

a demon sings between the meat

there's a demon
right below the surface,
waking up
with blood licked eyes
and an all seeing tongue,
scratching away at the sores.

there's a demon
clawing his way
up through the
bedrock
and dirt
and concrete
to get beneath your bed.

he breathes secrets into
your ears while
you're sleeping.
he plays at your soul
before you wake.

there's a demon
wearing your skin
like a suit,
necktie and all,
waiting for you to fall
to wake up inside of you,
to show you a special place
in Hell.

he's been patient
for such a long time
to finish up
the bones that crack
within your limbs.

he has wept a multitude
of tears to
be with you
today.

there's a demon
worming his
way into your
meat,
waiting for the chance
to become
one with
you.

the longest road
he has traveled
for a glimpse
from behind your eyes.

and if you
should rise
before he is through
it will be the last
thing you'll ever do
before he cuts
your scream short
for a chance to
swallow another
when you're spent.

with mother's eyes - V

lonely gods
break through
the peppery day
as darkness dwells
just beyond
the killing moon.

waning moon.

and you rise
for the first time
to dine
upon a soul
cast down
to devour
the small hurt
that lingers within.

"You rise with us,"
she says,
a witch's grin
leaning on red lips.
"What you were is no more.
We've drained all of that from you.
Now do that which you were intended."

the girl weeps.
her eyes are not as your own.
before god sleeps,
she must be broken on the stone.

"All small gods
are we,"
she says
as the first of her flesh parts.
"All small gods
are we."

the bone breaks strange
in your grasp
and her cries
arise
something pure
within you
as you begin to pluck
the white of her eyes
before she dies
the multitudes
of death
you have endured.

with mother's eyes - IV

"I love this in you,"
she says,
holding that thing
that once pumped
in your core
before
they tore
it fluttering
from your chest.

"I love this in you,"
she says again,
tracing her fingers
along the tissue.

a tear draws along
your cheek
in the calm,
wicked night
when the loss
of hurt
dwindles
at your
lips.

she swallows the
once beating
thing
and pulls
you close,
touching your cheek
with her own,
and kisses away
the
last of you.

"You were always with us,"
she says. "You were always
this way,
laying prone
on an alter
of stone,
of old blood
from every death you've
ever endured
at our hands, and I love this in you."

your mouth is a whimpering
voice,
unable to form
the syllables
to set the fire
in your
disposed heart,
eaten so many times
you've lost count.

"We'll set the darkness
free
from you. We'll touch a part
of you
you never knew.
We'll bring you
to the light of another
day
so when the night takes flight,
we might
play
where you let the misery stay.
And again
And again
And again
until there is nothing
remaining in you."

"My love is of this
which
you let drain from me,"
you say. "And every
day
is the same
as you bleed me
from myself.

the sun takes away
the death
and leaves
a faint breath
caught
there
where you frown,
where you drown
from time to time
in swinging mercy
that never holds.

lashed to the alter,
you await the night
without fight
for the soul
you've lost
without cost
but to a kiss
that's always coming
to kill you.

the moon rising
slow
across
black.

a tuft of cloud
spreads against the yellow
and smooths
like drawn cotton,
bleached like bone,
torn like
tears.

and the chanting begins.

with mother's eyes - III

they take the terror
and make it beautiful.

it's something they love
and they love nothing
more than you.

when they pull back the skin,
it's to move you.
it's to bring the tears
of temptation
and redemption.
it's to bring you
unto
yourself.

as their teeth separate
the sorrows
you've endured,
it becomes a song
you've heard
on the wind
through
the leaves
that fall upon
your twisted
corpse.

nothing more than a memory
of salvation
from razors
slick
with your
thick.

but how they lift you
is something divine
from another time
when you might
have
encouraged
the wicked you were
always capable of.

it is love.
it is mercy.
it is the taunting
memory
of a song
you just can't place.
and in your haste,
you feel the lashings
of  leather
and lace
against your
expectant flesh.

and they do this for you
under the star cast moon
that shines
like the ripened
eyes they tore
from you
before
so that you might see
in the same way
and become free.

her hands along your
throat,
plucking away
the breaths,
one by one
until the sun
comes
and makes you live once more
to be a feast
for the
whore
of damnation
that has always held
your soul
in this love
and lore.

and you'll awaken
again
to the moon
along the star cast
night
for the end
to come
ripping
again
because it's all
you've ever
been.

the plush fingers
holding your heart,
linger
at the arteries
until the tissues
part
in such a way
to take
the whole of you
into the evil
you never thought
could exist
this way
in ecstasy.

and you sing
amen
to the blessings
they bestow.

with mother's eyes - II

a pierce through
your heart
and
voices
speaking in tongues,
a murmur of something
in the forest
just beyond
the alter.

here,
you hear the movement.
cloth rubbing
with bare legs
guiding
the direction.

hooded faces
and red lipstick
lapped by
pink tongues
as the ripping
begins
again.

feel the skin part
again
in the same way
as it happened before
to make you live
again
through the sin,
and the heat takes you
away.

you're home.

the small whispers
of what you've done
by warm breath
in your ear.
and it's all you hear before
the ribs splinter
from your chest,
opening yourself
to the wet
inside
where you used
to hide
when you were
a child
and the wild
hadn't taken you
yet.

a kiss,

and the numb again
like last time
and the time before
when the heat
was the only thing
you remembered.

but now
the sorrow
is lifting
and the regret is
nothing more than a
bad dream
through
someone else's eyes
as
they release you.

through the mist
of hissing
pink lips,
you're reborn again
to live
through the sorrow once more
as they release the gore
from the hidden part of you,
just beneath the core.
and what they have in store
is more
than you think
you can handle
for eternity.

with mother's eyes - I

her dress
hangs like
the
convicted
from a lone
willow
in the woods
by a rope
strung
with
auburn hair.

and her eyes
see
right through
it all.

upon her chest,
a silver cross
without
Christ,
laced in beads
and fine thread.

death on her
fingertips,
and a smile
to match.

she makes
the cares
flutter
away
like dust
from the dead.

and what she's
brewing
smells sweet
as she touches you
with the tip of her tongue.

every moment
is hers
as the wind whistles
and the body
falls-
it's as if
we're all corpses
in mother's eyes.

but she helps you die
in a way
that takes
the troubles
away,
and leaves
you melting
in the womb
of her heart.

the blessed
flesh
she strips
so
slowly.

with
a bold slit
for lips
before
the grin,
she licks
away
the sin
and leaves you
stunning.

she holds
you before
the life
drips away,
and she'll
keep you
for another
day
when your eyes
are ripe
and can
see her
in the
very same
way.

the good old days

they say we're getting better
every day,
but i still see people
sleeping on the streets.

there's a guy who lives
in a tent
behind the liquor store
down the street
from my house.

there's a woman who lives
out of a shopping cart
less than a block away.

there's a homeless kid
that had his backpack stolen
when he went into
the gas station
the other day
to buy a bottle of water.
everything he owned
was in that pack.

there's a group of kids
in their early twenties
that stay by the
train station
that runs along the 10 fwy.
they hold signs at the Rancho exit,
asking for help.

there are many of them
that just can't handle
the day to day life
of paying bills,
paying taxes,
being stepped on
by the powers that be.
there are some who
served their country
only to be discarded
when they returned home.
but there are a few
that were put into
their current situation
because
the banks
took away their homes,
because
the government
decided to bail out the lenders
rather than the people,
because
the American ideal
is to strive for an invisible
wealth
that only exists in the imagination
of faithful spending.

so as they tell you that
the economy is getting
better,
remember where we were
just a year ago,
remember how bad it was,
remember how easy it
all fell apart,
and remember who they are
really
looking out for.

what you need

become grounded.
let your body relax.
there is a feeling of lightness
at the base of the neck.
a tingle behind your cheeks
that slowly moves
behind your eyes
and settles in your jaw.
the blood is smooth.
it flows freely.
your breath is relaxed now.
can you feel it?
every inhale,
every exhale
makes you lighter.
the tingle has moved.
it is now in your arms,
traveling to your hands.
your legs are light.
your feet are floating
your back is soft.
your eyes are closing.







feel better?

for the common good

if you're not rich in
America,
you're overlooked,
cast aside,
an invisible
burden
upon the back of the wealthy ...
or at least that's what
they want you to believe.

but without the poor,
our industries
would collapse.

without the poor,
America would
become
populated by wealthy
suits
arguing about
the fact
that there is someone wealthier
than they are.
they would cannibalize
their ranks
to push the majority
into poverty
because that's what rich folks do.
they can never be satisfied with
the sickness of wealth.
they always want more
even if that means
selling some of their own
down the river
so they can be superior.

the disease of greed
knows no bounds.
they will try to take away
the living wage.
they will try to bankrupt
the government.
they will try to
eradicate
healthcare.
they will disassemble
retirement,
social programs,
and education.
they will stop at nothing
to have it all.

the question is:
what will you do to ensure
your own future?
are you willing to step away
from credit?
are you willing to step away
from loans
that prey on your poverty?
will you take a stand
and refuse to be cast aside?

maybe all we need
is to strike for a few days
to show them who actually
makes the country run.

sleep away the stars

he thought it best
to never wake up,
not with what he'd been through,
not with what he'd seen.

his days were always long
and pestering
like a needle repeatedly
jabbed into
the skin,
made to hurt,
but leaving nothing more
than an annoyance
from the feelings he
didn't have.

and that was the smoke
that covered the sun,
filtering the vision
of something
brighter
that he just couldn't have.

the bed was soft and
swallowed his frame
and he found peace there
where the silence
entombed him.

the mantra he recited
night after night,
don't let me wake,
only made the next morning
all that much more intolerable.

and so he lived this way,
waiting for sleep,
napping when he could no longer
face
the world,
until one day,
he never had to awaken again.

tapping

the knocking sent shivers down her spine.
every night around two,
there was this tap, tap, taping
followed by a raking scratch
like claws torn across brittle wood.

every night it made her bolt upright
in bed,
this sound
that came somewhere
from within a newborn Hell.

and every morning
after sunrise
when she awoke,
she felt as if she hadn't
slept at all.

the night began to
terrify her.
just the thought of going to sleep,
and being awoke by
the torturous noise,
made her panic.

she tried sleeping in other places,
a friend's couch,
a hotel room. she even
tried sleeping in her car
one night,
but the sounds were persistent
wherever she slept.

sleeping pills did nothing
to remedy the knocks
and taps
and scrapes.

it was a few weeks later
when she concentrated on
the noise
that she realized
the sounds
were coming
from inside her,
under the rib cage,
rattling through her lungs.

and when her laughter came,
it never stopped,
not even in the padded cell
she called home.

tap
     tap
                    tap.

what, indeed?

if everything has a purpose,
and all creatures, great and small
rely upon one another,
and even the plants have this
basic need fulfilled, most everything comes
down to a simple question:
what are people for?

right now

every moment is precious,
take advantage of your time.
don't let the seconds pass
without confirming
what someone means to you.
as easily as your life was given,
it can all be taken away.
everything you have,
all those who you love,
the tender memories may be
all that is left.

as much as time is a concept of
human invention, it has merit
as a guide,
and it is only relative
to the memories you inherit.

it is hard to find
what is really important in life,
but once you do,
be careful of letting it go.

no amount of money can
bring back the past.
no amount of prayer
will let you relive
the memories you cherish.
wish as hard as you may,
time still flutters away.

so take a moment to appreciate
who you are right now
because tomorrow fades
just as quickly as yesterday.

a small house

i want to build a house for you,
a place where you can come home
after a long day
and rest in silence.

i want it to be exactly what you need
and nothing more,
nothing frilly,
nothing that doesn't over signify
your place in the world.

your place will be special.
it will have comfortable pillows
and walls to block out sound.
you'll have just enough light,
and the paint will be tasteful
enough
to reflect the sun in such a way
as to not be too
distracting.

this will be a place where you can
break bread
alone,
or with as many people
as you would like
to invite over.

you will have a place
to write down
your thoughts,
and
a comfy chair
to sit in when you're tired.

you'll need a place to
do your laundry
and there'll be a room for that
to wash away
that which soils you.
you'll want a nice bathroom,
but nothing too showy.
you'll also want a place
for guests
so one will be provided.

this will be a place
of your very own
with an affordable loan
that will be paid off
with a modest interest rate
within a period of time
you're comfortable with.

it will be something
you won't have to die for.
a little place of your own
away from the hustle and bustle.

some will call it a temple
and others will refer to it as a shell,
but it's just your body
and you can take it with you
wherever you
decide to go.

before the final tear

it's falling apart
one tear
at a time
and there's a grin
beneath
the scowl -
a shuttering
escape
under the
slick -
a grumble
beneath the howl.

and the hate
that used
to subside
has bent
into nowhere -
a dying thing
that
we all bear
from one time to the next.

the end
is a new beginning,
stripping
away
a layer of dirt,
exposing the bone
beneath the hurt.

the troubles
that once
bound us
is a degree
of dust
upon an open
field
of numbing
regret.

how the sun
shines
through the darkness
of desire
and brings us
here upon
open wounds,
healing
from the hate
of it all.

we grow beyond
the acts
of desperation
into a melting
sympathy
that loosens
the bones,
and beneath it all
is this hope
that we'll
find
what we're looking
for before
the end
comes
ripping.

The Trap

i turn off the lights
                and lay my head
        down
upon the soft
with the blanket
           pulled
                                   high
so i may sleep again
and be in that place that makes
it all
seem right.

the wind howls at
                                  night
and whistles through
in song
                       for my slumber.

the sheets ruffle about my frame
and clings to my skin,
                                 but the dream
lives
         again
                     inside
as i rest away
the day
               i hide
from
behind my eyes
where the wind
refuses the lies
                         and never has
freedom felt
this way
                         in the trap
i call breathing.    

and the sudden images
                  of people
                 i've known
in my time
and the way they love
as if they've never experienced
life the way it struggles
and claws
at the skin.

and how i love them here
in this place
where
care takes away the responsibilities
of a beating heart.

free this weekend ~ March 8th and March 9th on Amazon

none of this is real.

one man's illusion

at some point,
we'll find
a billion smiling
faces
in a grain of sand.
until that point,
we will continue to
stare at the sun,
hoping to
discover the moon.

unraveling the illusion
we're trapped within
only to begin again
and see an expanding
cosmos draped in
images of a design
we're unfamiliar with
to contradict the
grander design we
thought we knew
to find it simply
comes down
to me and you.

some day we can
dream a bigger dream,
use our intention
to unravel the mysteries
of self that is happening
all around us at the same
moment, glancing this was
and that through the ether
until long last, we end up
in the very beginning,
looking back at an all
expanding mind that
happened before the
birth of time.

this,
our prison of growth
and rebuttal,
forming contours
about the illusion
until the images
begin to blend
and wander
out of focus
and become
whole again
to untangle
and tear at
the seams.

every once
in a while,
the dream
shows itself,
but we're left
whispering
unintelligible
nothings
for lack of
definition.

but one day we'll
see a billion
smiling faces
on the surface
of the sun
while gazing upon
the body of
a single
grain
of
sand.

the way souls sometimes wander

i left myself once
and another time after that
and it will happen again, i'm sure.

out there with the trees
creating a canopy above me,
tiny threads of light
poking through.

a small white dot rested
on my leg.
it move in tiny increments
i could not measure.
such subtle movements
as if time was gathering
to see if
i was paying attention.

and i was.

but as i looked,
i realized i
was looking down
from a higher position than
i should be.
i was higher than i should have been.
i was in the trees looking down
at that small beam of light,
resting on my leg,
so far below.

i was empty, a feeling of numb
when there's no such thing as numbness.
i was outside of myself, too afraid to look up.

i thought about staying that way,
         never coming down again.
                 i wouldn't be missed
                             all that much.
everyone would eventually grow tired of remembering.
they would learn to forget.
and i wondered where i would be.
what would become of my container,
resting against the tree?
what would i become?

it was sudden when i returned
to my place of resting.
i could feel the bark against my back.
an ant crawled along the grooves
of my hand.
i could smell the scent of pine
gathering around me.
it was a moment of shock
as i caught my breath
and found that the tiny dot of light
had moved
several feet away.

and all i could
think about
was breathing.

the super duper secret of life

blah blah blah
blah
blah blah
blah
        blah
                blah
blah blah blah blah
blah blah
blah
bl
   ah
blah Blah
BLAH
blah.

blah.
BLAH
blah Blah
bl
   ah
blah blah blah
blah
blah blah
blah
        blah
                blah
blah blah blah blah
blah blah
blah

blah     blah     blah
     blah     blah     blah
blah     blah     blah
     blah     blah     blah
blah     blah     blah
     blah     blah
          blah
               blah
                    blah
                         blah
                              blah
blah-------------------blah
and so on.

Work in progress.

Here's a few lines from the horror poem I'm working on. It is going to be a cross between a novella and a poem . . .

I.

be quiet,

he told

himself,

don’t let

it become

too loud.

his heart contracted.

his heart pumped.

they will

hear you

from the

darkness

where

the

beat

of your

heart

is but

a distant

memory.

be quiet -

let them

pass.

maybe they

won’t notice you.

maybe they

won’t hear you scream

as they draw near.

maybe you’ll

be spared

just this once

so next time

you can repeat

the fear

and hope

they won’t

hear

the screams that

carry within you.

AVAILABLE NOW!

Get your copy here: none of this is real.

none of this is real.
Now available from Createspace for $7.00.
.99 cents for the eBook on Amazon within the next day.
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The newest poetry book... none of this is real.

the life is within the threads

i found an old shirt in the alley.
i wear it all the time
it is one of my favorite shirts to wear
when i need to wear a shirt.
any adventure that needs to be had,
i am clad in my simple shirt.
i don't look to it as if i own it.
and someday before it is too worn,
i might toss it into an alley
where someone else can find it
along with all the adventures it promises.
in fact, all of my clothes are this way.
i never buy anything new.
i need the implied history
that comes with
old clothes.
i've been doing it for as long as i can remember.

then one day i bought a brand new shirt
right off the rack.
there were no implications.
it had never been anywhere but with me.
everything it had ever seen
was from my back.
one day it became too thin to wear.
the slightest touch would make it tear.
and it was too worn to hand away.
all it had ever known was me
and that made me a little sad
so i've never bought a new shirt again.
some things need more life than
i can afford them.

i found an old shirt on a park bench
and slipped it over my shoulders.
i can't imagine all the things we will see.
and before it becomes too worn,
i'll give it away
because not everything
was made just for me.

passing by

she wasn't quite sure
so she never let them get too close.
it wasn't always them that
made her
act this way.
her father abandoned her and her mother
when she was three.
she can't remember his face anymore,
but the image
of him
walking out the door
is forever imprinted in her mind
so she doesn't let them get too close,
at least not close enough
to care if they ever left.
she calls it security,
but it's really just the issues
that keep her guarded.
for a long time,
she thought she was a lesbian,
but what if one of them left too,
then where would she be?
so she never tried it on for size,
never became too involved
for fear of being let down
by someone she could care for.
she didn't need anyone telling
her what she was about.
she didn't need a label
or a tag to indicate
where she had been.
she was afraid that she
would grow up lonely,
but at least she wouldn't grow up hurt.
she wasn't doing it for them
as much as she was doing it for herself.
they would move on,
but she wasn't sure she ever would.
she tried her hardest to
adapt.
she rented a little place near downtown,
right next to all of the shops where
she could see the action without
becoming too involved.
sometimes when she's sitting by the window,
looking down at the street,
watching all the people pass by,
she thinks of her father.
she wonders if he would recognize her now.
she wonders if she would recognize him.
it wasn't him leaving, it was that he never came back.
she didn't know how someone could simply go away
without a trace.
as she looks down at the street
from the comfortable red chair next to the window,
she wonders what she would do if she saw him walking by.
she might cross her legs
and divert her gaze
to look at someone else passing by.

waking up and stretching away the soot

blink the ink from your eyes
and it stains the skin
from parted lids
and the lashes cake in black
so subtle
it is just the same
as the game
you played
when you were nine
and had no sense of time
or shape
as it washed over you
in the most beautiful colors
you have ever seen in your life.

smeared makeup along your
cheeks
like the other freaks
who were just like you
but didn't know where
they were
going
in
the giant ball of metal
we call the machine.

you saw for the first time
that none of it
had any real meaning,
just made up numbers
to represent
a cash flow
made of imagination
and misplaced faith.

you didn't know where else
to go
when everyone else was
playing
make believe
and buying products
you didn't understand
and never imagined needing.

so you blink away
the days
as if they were simple
numbers
like the ones on
Wall Street,
peddling
products and
wares,
but somehow, you think
this has to be an elaborate joke
to trick the masses
into some type of hive mind.

you never thought of
putting faith into
things that never existed
so you rested there
a while,
hoping to find
the bigger picture.

and now as the ink runs,
you can see clearly
where it was that you started
and where it is that you'll end
just like everyone else
making up stories
that never have a clear meaning.

everyone traveling so fast
to an ending
that never truly began.

everyone consumed
with
consuming.

and when the ink dries
the flakes fall free
and you realize
it was all just a silly dream.

let the burn bring you closer

up into the smoke
the sky feels fine.
and the hood pulled
over your head
keeps the cells warm.

the blanket is floating
far above
and the ground
below
everything else
here in the daydream
cosmic motor
of time
through space.

lifting

ever so gently
toward the sun
and the scars
from the last burn
haven't healed
yet
but you ascend
into the smoke
and mud air
thick
with listless abandon.

how quickly it shifts and
the wind
bends
the hood from your head
and you feel better
than dead
up here
above
it all
like a trail
of ether
you forgot to breath
the last time you
were out.

making loops in the air
and the cold trims
through your hair,
parting the curls
from where you see
the sun
through the magic
you wear.

lifting

above it all
in a restless spiral.
a machine gone half cocked
into space
180 degrees above
the commonplace zero.

and now it's only a matter
of time
before the
sun shines
big bright rays
into your eyes
like the day peeling
away
the night.

up here
above it all,
you can never fall,
and this is how it feels
to be complete
as the sun burns away
the heat
from the fire
you wear on your chest
right before you
ascend even
higher.