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.

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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

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.

God’s Blue Will

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.

Frank Crazy

Unintentional rapist

Frank Crazy

Throw down

Your backpack

And get ready

To fight the

World as

You see it.

Schizophrenic

Hors d’oeuvres

Heavily larded

With the paranoid

Moments of a

Lost child.

I never

Understood

Your mustache.

Everybody loves

A forgery.

Why have the

Real thing?

Throw down

Your backpack

Put up your

Fists and rave

On Frank Crazy

You son of

A bitch deluxe.

Falling

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.

Breathes Through My Skin

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.

Truth is

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.

Towards You

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.