Mother I write
The most ghostly
Poems known to
Men.
Crimes committed
On paper in
The dark.
Murdering words.
I hurt no one,
but myself and
I do not care,
because I can
not stop.
Mother I write
The most ghostly
Poems known to
Men.
Crimes committed
On paper in
The dark.
Murdering words.
I hurt no one,
but myself and
I do not care,
because I can
not stop.
It all comes with us
Every last painful piece.
Carried in the Emptiness
Some call God,
Others call nothingness,
I call Death.
Beneath the Acceptance
Forced and calm
Are unmarked graves-
Mass burials of
Resentments, Jealousies,
Regrets, Hates, Bad
Dreams and Lost
Loves.
Fresh as the day
They were buried.
Vatican fodder
Saints of no accord,
With no meaning
Until disinterred.
Death doesn’t kindly
Stop for us.
It stops us.
It’s all uphill now.
Gone, gone, gone
are the days of
sweet descents
down gentle hills
and benevolent
mountains.
Now
we struggle
to get back
to where
we began.
It’s all up hill now.
By the dumpster
Hummingbirds
Feed on the
Blossoms of
Oregon Grape.
When taking out
The garbage
I see them
And enjoy an
Emily Dickinson
Moment of
Evanescence
All feathered
with hope.
Melancholy
has me in the
palm of her
alabaster hand
reclined like
the queen of
hellish heaven.
In alleys
prophets of
apocalyptic
murmurings
tremble sagely.
And I am an old
man of silent
times carrying a
bag of empty
wishes and
bottled prayers.
No one’s the wiser,
dreaming big in
multi million $$$
castles of sand.
God is an
embarrassment,
a dirty secret kept
moist and warm
in the Jacuzzi.
Legacies are all
the rage anyway,
everyone has an app.
The pipe dreams,
The fantasies,
The delusions,
Syndicated TV shows
live on in radio
active microwaves
undulating across
the universe to the
cold center of
God’s blue will.
Where do
you begin
and I end?
Rising
Falling
Coming
Going
Like Gods.
Less than
what we
believe true.
The future
swells as
bruises on
foreheads
of Gods.
Less strength
in numbers
succumb to
stories to
keep sanity.
All we
know is
past and
only matters
to Gods.
Less presence
in our lives
and deaths
tumble towards
lost sons
and dreams
of Gods
less human
than at
our beginning.
Soaked
and never
felt better.
Truly this
amphibious air
more liquid
than dreams,
breathes
through
my skin.
No flashes
or burning
light to
blind and
trigger
spontaneous
flows,
breathes
through
my skin.
Rain forests
forgotten
only houses
grow now.
The rain
falls still.
Imagine a
wilderness
in this
place I
barely
call home,
breathes
through
my skin.
When you said
Death is like being
Stoned I smiled.
In fact I’m still
Smiling.
Even awake it
Sounds like something
You would say.
Truth is I
Haven’t been
Stoned in years.
Moon
you are the
closest witness
we have.
Man or goddess.
Angelic song
rings out in
your cloudless realm.
Mythic is Insanity,
raising and lowering
bodies and water.
You have no
need of words.
A primal orb
reflecting us
as the womb
of universe
expands.
We walk
towards you.
