The Bystander

What can I do? When my hands are tied?
What can I say? When I'm only standing by?
To those faithful, Standing in line at the train...
Would you rather be hiding, be fighting, or reminded to be sane?
How do you survive this? How do we rewind this?
Resist or submit, I'm still complicit,
So, how can we ever survive this?

What could I do? A steady diet of lies?
Should I deport you? Or find a place you can hide?
To those travelers, Headed for the iron gates...
Would you rather be hiding, be fighting, or stare down the barrel of fate?
And I'll never forgive myself. I'll never count again.
When I could've stood up, I stood by, And paid the price they demand.
So with every breath I cry, Hoping the tears make me blind.
And with every space in time...All I could do was stand by...

Fear like a cancer, left me a bystander...
To a war of heartless crimes.
Fear like a cancer, questions with no answer.
They slowly metastasize...

The trains, the showers, the ransom, the power, the bodies, the labor, my brother, my neighbor, the blood, the lies, the deathbed eyes, the shame, the pain, the weight of my name, the disease, the cancer, the solution, the answer, my fear of my fear, the cries I can't hear, the end that is near, with me standing here, resist, revive, try to stay alive...

Just long enough to stand by.

Strange is the Night

Strange is the night, through skies stranger still. 
Where the song of my soul, seeks the right words to fill.
Pictures of conversation, burning and curious.
Where the silence is deafening, and the love most furious.

Where I find myself before falling down,
On my knees beneath the shape of sound,
Where I find myself before falling  down,
With dirty hands clutching cold, cold ground.

And strange is this life, and my love stranger still.
What are the words I believed ? What is the math I can feel?
Blisters on my tongue, and the faint taste of blood.
To sink or to swim? Or be swallowed by the flood?

Strange are the clouds, holding fast the tears of God.
Where the labors of men , never count for a lot.
And you found me where I'd fallen, on my knees still crying out.
And you found me where I'd fallen, and the words kept spilling out.


So is my own head my own to bow ?
Are my own thoughts my own to say aloud?
So is my own head my own to bow?
And are my own thoughts my own to say aloud?

To Have and Hold and Feel Insecure

Sometimes you're hot
Other times you're cold
Sometimes I have what
I'll never ever hold

Sometimes I see you
Other times I'm just blind
Sometimes together
Others I'm three steps behind

But to have and to hold
Oh to feel, unafraid to show
It gets tough to feel so alone
Somewhere inside I'd rather not go

Sometimes you're lost
Other times you're home
Sometimes close by
Other times unknown

Sometimes you pay hard
Others you're just flat broke
Trying to run wide open
Pulling back on the choke

But to have and to hold
Oh to feel, unafraid to show
It gets tough to feel so alone
Somewhere inside I'd rather not go

Somewhere inside
In the places I hide
Somewhere inside
I'd rather not go...

From My Cardboard Box Archive III: 1995, age 20

"Death is a Salesman"

Disease is not a pretty thing
But a close and easy friend
All my passion and feeling
Are burned to a crisp.

And death is a salesman
A quick and easy fix
Disease there to guide me
Through life's little tricks.

Yes, death is a salesman
All must deal with him
Life is like a gameshow
Pain all you can win.

The Economic Consequences of Low Expectations

Poverty
in the dirty faces of unfed children on Appalachian roads
Poverty
in mindless consumerism practiced like a faithless religion in suburban strip malls
Poverty
in the thoughtless jumble of misinformation splayed pornographically across the TV news
Poverty
in the generations of haphazardly educated children who find themselves grown without a compass
Poverty
in the metastasized pandering of the nightly spewed TV political advertisement vomit
Poverty
in the hollow slogans of politicians and corporations as they slither quietly together to criminal banks
Poverty
in the loss of hope in those who were to be the Guardians of Liberty and the defenders of the American Dream
Poverty
and for those who worked, fought, and died to make this land great--we should have done better
instead, all we have to show for, and all our children will inherit
is poverty.

Let This Darkness Remember Me

The height and the breadth
Of what my heart has confessed
And my passion for flight
Keeps the ground out of sight

Then while frantic in my need...
Suffered wounds that would not bleed...
And my eyes fell bitterly
Toward a truth I would not see...

And I'm weary of fighting
Such compulsive confiding
Draw the curtains and turn the key
Let the darkness remember me...

Let this darkness remember me.

From My Cardboard Box Archive II: 1994, Age 19

I have a love/hate relationship with poetry. I love poetry when it hits you in the gut with too many thoughts and emotions held at once forever preventing a true subjective description. On the other hand, a lot of poetry--even good poetry--often sounds wildly pretentious to the point of seeming vulgar. Then, there is bad poetry. Most anyone who happens upon my little blog here might consider all of my poetry terrible. I like some of it--obviously to continue writing and putting it out into "cyberspace."

My Cardboard Box Archive has, however, reminded me of just how bad of a poet I can be. It has also shown me that bad poetry can be both entertaining and endearing. Therefore, I decided to post three of my most cringe-inducing early short poems. So, without further delay...

"Clouds"

Take comfort in the shadows
But clouds are another kind
That I might find a home
Somewhere close to daylight.

"The Old Garden"

The skeleton of a flower
Is the folklore of angels
The total experience of vision
Not limited to sensation.
A mosaic of inhumanity
Clothed in the ruins of creation
Our illusion of enlightenment
Through rust-colored eyes.

"Simple Window"

Our grotesque passion
For the Garden returned
A golden wisdom--
An unrestrained truth.
Wanting a transparent mirror:
The solitude of sanctuary
A medium of purity
Clothed in obscurity. 
We retire...
To the crutch of myth,
Exploitation of faith
Simple folly, simple illusions.
Wings not used for flying.
Eyes not used to see.

The last poem had a quote attached with no source. I searched far and wide on the Web for the original reference and at last I think I found it:

"The tomb is where murders become memories and memories become beautiful obligations." --from

Gil Bailie's Violence Unveiled: Humanity at the Crossroads (New York: Crossroads, 1995), pp. 228-233.

Perhaps just another word or two about why I find these writings so embarrassing. Whether good or bad, when I write a poem or song these days, it generally is a cathartic experience, providing me with some good home-grown therapy about a real-life experience or struggle to understand something. When I wrote poems like those above, it was more about playing with words. It was me trying very hard to say something but having very little to say

Die Anew

IV stings
Bedpan smells
The lonely nausea
I know so well.
The dehydrated
Muscle cramps
Contorted hands
Under harsh lamps.
And the routine
Moments bygone
But come again
Before long.

A daily warfare
Waged within
Weakness to some
To others sin.
But they're blind
To the stench idiotic
Bags of saline
Piggyback antibiotic.
I long to end
But fix my heart
On single purpose
A violent art.

So, I hate them
With paranoid fear
I long for death
But not here.
Not here...
On sterile sheets
Rather among cold earth
Accept me.
In its kind embrace
Again to be dirt
Where flowers grow
Picked gently.

For some other's
Cold hospital room
To quickly wilt,
And die, anew.

Réflexions à partir d'un lit d'hôpital

The title translates roughly to: "Reflections while in a hospital bed." I was recently hospitalized unexpectedly for about 4 days and all I had with me was pen, paper, the bedside Gideon's Bible and massive doses of opiates. None are particularly good, but each reflects some perspective that felt unique during my stay.

"On Every Human Shame" #1

I can see through windows
Of long-damaged hearts
Bright, ornate souls, such
Deception is quite an art.

I can feel a fever
Rising in this room
That asks 100 questions
From 100 points of view.

I cut my heart to pieces
I saw you do the same
Then we looked with naked eyes
On every human shame.

The general giving orders
The pilots dropping bombs
Senators pose their questions
Shiny black box gifts sent home.

Once your eyes are burned
In the fire-sight of truth
There's no reason for regret
And even less to see things through.

Board by board
And brick by brick
Nothing will be left
When we're done with it.

"Lessons in Propaganda" #2

I stopped listening
About half an hour ago
To the noises of the greedy
Fed with wine, oil, and ego.

I stopped listening
Stop listening?

I stopped seeing the ads
Sell a life I can't wear
And started seeing them
For what they are.

I started seeing things
For what they are? 

Lessons in propaganda
For lying to myself
To think and act, though
Just as fake as anyone else.

Just close your eyes
And see things for what they are?
And that Bible in your hand
Can't hide the murder in your heart.


For what they are
Is broken.

"Doesn't Make Sense" #3

What is it about human intelligence
Like an old stray dog that bites too much
Like a glass-jaw fighter that loves to punch
It don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

What's all the talk about men with guns
They say the world's safe when we all got one
Like riding shotgun with Mr. Zimmerman
That don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

Life is full of ups and down
Holes we dig, kings we crown
The gods left Athens for Hollywood
That don't make sense to anyone
No that don't make sense to anyone.

What's this talk about condemnation
Churches carry signs that spew nauseous hatred
Love thy neighbor must apply to someone else
That don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

What's with all the mainstream news
By the time you've heard it, you feel abused
Is it all that bad? Are we so near the end?
Well I've gotta admit that kind of makes sense
Then again, fear sells like nobody understands.

So fear sells weapons, armor, and gated homes.
It sells drugs and therapy you'll need before long.
It sells laws and people and history to...
The highest bidder sits on the throne.

"A City Below" #4

There's a city underneath the bridge
Where the cold weather wind
Pushes me out to the edge
Daring me time and time again

There's a city underneath the bridge
Where dreams go to die in pain
It's a fearless city on the fringe
Full of liars, drunks, and other saints.

There's a city underneath the bridge
Its ugliness strikingly beatific
As you grow older, you see the puzzle
Somehow the pieces are too warped to fit

In the city beneath the bridge
A flap tears open to reveal someone
A chess expert, a violin progidy
Smoking crack with abscessed arms.

The city beneath the bridge
It finds you or you'll find it
And if you manage to live through one night
You are the perfect kind of resident.

So welcome here, welcome home
How long will you be staying?

"Flares, A Rant" #5

Let's not play games just for now
You are happy to deny me
You would gladly crucify me
So let that rage out
When you tell me NO
Sell it with a smile and
A word from the Holy Ghost
In the end, nothing matters
We go on our separate ways
Me to suffer
You to feel the dark satisfaction
And this page is a graveyard
For the feelings of anger
That want to claw up
The edges of my back
With VIOLENT INTENT
Yet in the end, nothing matters
I'm another patient
Another bracelet
Another barcode to scan
Something dumb enough
To believe the myth that he's a man
Trying with desperate civility
To remain in civilized skin
Another volley fired
In an endless battle
Between disease, madness, and death
These diagnoses convenient labels
Enteritis, PTSD, Adjustment disorder, anxiety
Labels, and many more than these
Psychosis. Coma. All for me,
The disease and the damage done
For you, a reason to despise
A reason to deny.
And you're right to deny
To give me a face to hate and forgive.
For just a moment... until the next round.

"Re-Light" #6

I'm burning. Oh, oh I'm burning
And I'm hurting. Oh, oh I'm hurting.
Flashback into my state of mind
Where I'm gone and not afraid to find
Bullets sting whizzing by my brain
Hole in my belly, never will be the same
Hole in my belly, never gonna be the same

I'm yearning. Oh, oh I'm yearning
And I'm squirming. Oh, oh just squirming.
Re-light the fire of rock & roll 
Re-ignite the spark of your withered soul
Blistered fingers bleeding on steel strings
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane

I'm nothing. Oh, oh I'm nothing
Am I lying? Oh, oh am I lying?
Fall back into a desperate retreat
Bullets sting flying by my face
Bullets scream and burn my face
Hole in my head, bled out my brain.
Hole in my head, bled out my brain.
And I'm gone...


Re-light the fire of rock & roll 
Re-ignite the spark of your withered soul
Blistered fingers bleeding on steel strings
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane

From My Cardboard Box Archive: "American Eulogy" written in 1994, age 18

Note: This is the first installment, or perhaps the only (time will tell), of my revisiting old works. Then, as now, I write what I feel. The emotion is more important than precise language or structure (who needs iambic pentameter?) and sometimes it flows seamlessly from mind to page. Anyway, I'm not trying to pretend to be a good writer, but hopefully there are a few ideas here and there that are interesting.This also might show that morbid thought is not a particularly new form of expression for me!

"American Eulogy"

I've seen the death of youth
As I grew from childhood
Green countryside of innocence
A place time had never touched.

I've seen the death of youth
The death of my own soul
As our roads became streets
As television raped education.

I've seen the death of youth
As the thirst of demons grew
The love of experience
Left purity ashamed.

I've seen the death of youth
As the heroes thrust before me
Were troubled and lost
And only served to confuse.

I've seen the death of youth
As machines replaced my hands
As standards censored my ideas
And I knew I was naked.

I've seen the death of youth
Tabloids became news
Big-budget movie America
Talk-show living room.

I've seen the death of youth
As subculture became culture
As left wing became right until
Only argument was left.

I've seen the death of youth
As identity became ashamed
As rebellion masked conformity
And faith became a joke.

I've seen the death of youth
As bureaucracy became my father
And compliance became my mother
And I another number.

I've seen the death of youth
The death of Santa Claus and Jesus
The death of rebellion because
We have no clear enemies.

I've seen the death of youth
Baby-boomers refuse to let it go
And sociologists label me
To keep my mind pacified.

I've seen the death of life
All America held sacred
For the love of technology
Innocence is sacrificed   

I've seen the death of me and you
I've seen the death of youth.

Historically Crazy... and Unconscious

I
Am
historically crazy and unconscious
with all this
can't fake it
or make it
and take it
and break through?

I
Am
historically crazy and histrionic
subsonic
am I broken?
or hoping?
or even open
to you?

the art I create is the life that I live is the hope that I give where foundations unsteady tip over and break the illusions that hold us the possessions that own us and you know you know this

I
Am
historically crazy and unconscious
unresponsive
is it stealing?
revealing?
or kneeling
to find truth?

I
Am
historically crazy and despondent
sardonic
will I chase it?
or face it?
erase it
and fall through?

the life I create with the art that I hate with the heart that I break where unsteady foundations cause me to stumble and fall through the life I forestall the obsessions that build me I hide from all

To Be Human

Why should I resent this world?
When it is all I know and have known?
Maybe there is more to know, maybe not
That is a gamble wagered in the heart
What if it is wrong to be human?
To have this self-awareness and perception?
To have intention and words,
And feelings too human for those words?
What if humanity is nature's nightmare?
Should I dissolve myself back to dust?
That would be as useless as a drop of rain
Falling away in disgust of the rainbow.
What if I feel the burden of the pain and nightmares
That my particular life has borne?
Should I eat a bullet in fear,
No.
Better to bear witness, with eyes open
Unafraid
Unashamed
To be human.

And Generatons Pass

God loves war
It is His theater
Out of the ground
Man was made
The same dark,
Bloody and haunted
Ground of his birth
Where Abel lies buried
By a brother
Who toiled the ground
And generations pass
Each fighting for
A small plot
While God is on the side
Of the defender
So too God is on the side
Of the invader
Watching this brutal drama
Unfolding by starlight
Through a thousand tongues
And out of the ground
From which he rose
For which he fought
Believed, bled, struggled
Into this same ground
He crawls back
And generations pass
As the weapons grew deadlier
His heart grew colder
His head confused
By his God's delight
In comedy, tragedy, history
As generations pass...

And what a show it is!

This land, And the people that walk it

Watch this land
Always be careful
It likes nothing better
Than to rise up
And strike you hard
On the heel
Like a viper
This land
And the people that walk it
Sin is their nature
Sudden violence their sin
So be careful
Where you step
Around here.

I am the Blind Man

I look but do not see
I feign to shadows
My heart pounds
Confusing sounds near me
I have weak hands to grasp
I have no teeth to bite
I crave food always
And it fails to nourish me
I live like this
In a city unknown
I am rendered thus
I am the Blind Man.

in security

who do you accuse?
with your presence
forced violently into
my sleeping life
you smell of cigar smoke
and skin bracer
and yellowing paper
i find you whispered
who do you accuse?
with your menacing glare
behind leathery eyes
formaldehyde suit stiff
you haunt the night
and all other places
where honest men tremble
in labyrinthine sanctuaries
who do you accuse?
and why do i bother to ask
because i know it is me
i know by my fear
i am guilty of nothing
nothing save my fear
but it is enough
cut from my own soul
there is no guilt
there is only suspicion
there is no wrong done
none is needed
i have crawled on my belly
through small holes
walked dirt paths alone
through nightmare lands
i have wandered in mazes
among relics of my life
and watched good men die
from the sin of my fear
hopeless
helpless
but honest
i am who i accuse
who do you accuse?

Haiku #4

five syllables rest
with seven upon my chest
no others expressed

But Maybe Now

A death song loud and clear
Where the winter wind crushes bone
The echo of silent suffering
A bloodless moment spent so alone.

Howling wind cuts a morning scream
Preaching hard through a prophet's feast
His eyes are all fear & trembling
But he's still got a taste for greed.

They say somethings are a mystery
Wonder, fear, and cold surprise
Digital pain and analog love
Every question built on a lie.

So, keep your eyes on the skyline
Keep your head to the ground
This is the kind of place where
A heart's not easily found...

But maybe now.

Sadducees

Imaginary fits
Of extra-ordinariness
By now you should know this
That, this is all there is.
And I would be remiss
Thus fail to reminisce
Of a life I didn't live
Because this is all there is.
It's nice to be nothing
That comes with no warning
With digestive contorting
I speak & write & sing
It's all how I carry myself
Hollowed out like a shell
That from a shotgun fell
With a sound deadly to tell...

I know just what to expect
Fingers locked around my neck
Repaid a cancelled check
A victim of my own neglect--
And all there is inside
Of rage & formaldehyde
I won't, I will, I tried
Found wanting every time.

In all ways, found wanting.

"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer..." Matthew 23:14

A Poem for A Song Called 'Sense of Style'

"That rug really tied the room together, did it not?"---Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

I'll sit here, but I won't be near
I listen close, but I won't hear
In a room for a bit, but it's too intricate
Lines so delicate, their lies deliberate

Did you buy this?
Is it a torture kit?
Did you consider that
I might truly be sick?

I'll look at you, but I won't be the room
Bright-colored gloom, that laughs at me & you
A view askance, to this postmodern dance
No, this furniture, wasn't put here by chance

So you are a knife
Twisted deep inside
And my soul can't survive
Your sense of style

Haiku #3

Self evidential
That this is not a haiku
Oh, but now it is

Haiku #2

what a great idea
i think i'll write a haiku
and post it online

Haiku #1

what a dumb idea
i had a moment ago
blogging in haiku

In Equality

How can you & I share the same space & time?
Are we only foolish, immature, or completely blind?
On a planet where things should be more than "I" alone,
It's hard to understand the structures & functions imposed.

I saw a little kid, in passing, maybe sometime last Tuesday...
And I could feel the hunger & hope of his heart starve away.
In eyes that screamed with pain & rage & need,
He saluted the flag, said a prayer, & died. Inequality. 

simply one

A mass of humanity
A living breathing thing
Not many bodies
Simply one
Each an atom
In a larger organism
That knows nothing
Of its component
Just as most
Know nothing
Of the organism
Or in knowing, despise.
Much as they should
Destruction, degradation
A tale told in a billion voices
Mosaic of a billion faces
Entering the world
Leaving the world
Moments passing through the void
The void of being
And the absence that gives it meaning

I Failed Health Class

"I Failed Health Class"

Doctors' offices
Cold & sterile
Cast in harsh light
Instant scars to the psyche
Prescription drugs
The stone of Sysiphus
The bitter bite taste
Of the lack of a cure
The impermanence
Of cautious relief
Only to feel again
The agony of disease
And the bone-deep hatred
Of my genes
That bring me ever back
To doctors' offices

Legacy

"Legacy"

Transgressing
Minute by minute
Every hour of the day
In cognitive dissonance
What I believe
How I behave
Hard drawn lines
Smudged grey with compromise
Living, breathing
While shedding reptilian skins
Searching for another fruit
To hasten my decay
Street sounds
Howling desert winds
Machine gun fire
Forms in triplicate
Cigarette butts tossed in styrofoam cups
Gathered in plastic grocery bags
And stacked high before museum doors
Vegetable mutation
Meat suicide
Morphine pumps
Sugar highs
Lollipop sins & whiskey repentance
Birds falling mid-air
Ashamed of their flight
Close the door behind you, dear
It feels dead outside
I left this for you, my chld
A legacy of indifference.,

Dead Already

"Dead Already"

If you knew you would die in your sleep
From the time you woke up one day
What would you worry about?
The loved ones you leave behind?
Every day thousands of lives end
Those connected to their lives go on
Would you regret some omission of word or deed?
When you had a lifetime to bear it...
How vulgar, how profane
To stammer through it now
If you knew you would die today
Would you go to work?
Would you eat a favorite meal?
Would you climb onto the stair master
Would you sit in silent judgment
Of the life you have lived?
Or silent regret for the one you did not?
Would you say goodbye
Or make dozens of phone calls?
Would you just stare greedily
Into the faces of those you love?
If you knew your would die today
Would you pray?
Would you beg for more time?
I don't think so.
If you knew you would die today
You would do much as you do every day.
You would feel the same minor frustrations
That seem to make life unbearable: 
Poor cell phone reception, slow internet
Lovehandles you just can't shed
Those you love so much would walk by
Unnoticed as they so often are
If you knew your would die today
You would live just as selfishly as yesterday
Because you are going to die today
Some today
But don't covet your worries and cares
They were already dea.

Prayer for Acceptance #1207

God, grant me forgiveness
For the things I could change
But never will

God give me peace, please
To accept who I am
To confess all I can

To be honest with myself
To hold open my eyes
And burn with a vision of truth

How could I begin to utter
A single word in prayer
When I can't stop lying to myself

Let my fear be my courage
Let my trauma be my strength
Let my weakness be my joy

Let my vanity bring me to my knees
Let me stand before You
With fear and trembling

Because of what I am
Let me confess my failure
And feel my insignificance

Then let my heart find peace
In Your accepting, warm
Kind disappointent

Let me not avert my eyes from
The reflection of my rebellion
Take my will, my desire

And let my emptiness
Rest in perfection
Amen.

What is it you pretend not to know?

What is this that you pretend not to know?
Is it that you are ugly or getting old?
Is it that you are not as smart as you seem to be?
Is it that you are full of all these doubts at once?
What is it that you pretend not to know?
That you are talentless and only faking?
That you want everyone to think you are cute?
That there is a rage inside you that's barely controlled?
What are you pretending not to know?
That you are empty inside and trying to plug the hole?
Is it that you are an addict or an obsessive?
That you are falling apart every second and
Just puling yourself back together in time to appear sane?
What do you pretend not to know?
That you are a crazy person in an insane world?
That wars and famines and diseases make sense?
That you think you could do something good but can't?
Why are you pretending not to know?
Is it because you are afraid to look for real answers?
Afraid to challenge your own beliefs?
Afraid of what you'll find at the end of the sentence?
What is it that you pretend not to know?
That your life is over?
That you are dis-abled?
That you have nothing to contribute to the world?
Is it that it's all a lie to you?
What is it that I'm pretending not to know?
That I don't know anything at all?
That I am actually happy?
That I lack the will for sorrow?
Or that I pretend always--
Pretending not to know

Thump

I hope you hate this poem
I hope it sticks in your mind like flypaper
And that its lack of formal structure
Gnaws at you like restless legs in a sleepless night
I hope you wake with this verse in your mind
Tumbling over and over monotonously
The thump of a forgotten cellphone
Tumbling around in the clothes dryer
Thump
Intruding upon your thoughts
Thump
Try to not think of this thump
As you go throughout your day
As you search for your car keys
Thump
Try to forget this poem, thump 
It's only symbols on a page
That thump around your head
Like the hours you count desperate
Until work is finally over
Thump 
I hope you hate this poem
And the hand that wrote it
And bang your head against the wall
Thump
 Thump
  Thump

To Restrain True Sorrow

Suffering exists
Not in contrived TV commercials
That swell with emotional music
And bloat the compassionate ego
Suffering exists
In the heart closest to yours
Where pains are locked up tight
Like a secret inheritance
Suffering exists
Caused by the withheld smile
The forced conversation
Naked words of obligatory sympathy
Suffering exists
To mock good intentions
To restrain true sorrow
To hold out hope just beyond your grasp
Suffering exists
In the quietest places of the soul
In the unacknowledged doubt
In the monotony of disconnected labors
As so we suffer
To avoid the embrace of our sorrow
To subvert what we would do...
To slaughter the human will
We suffer ourselves
We suffer our lives
We suffer our illusions of both
And hold our breath
Unless a delicate sigh once released
Should topple this house of cards
And lay bare the wounds
Inflicted by the tick of the clock
The shaky foundations of our world
Carefully insulating us
From the madness of reality
Yes, suffering exists
But don't tell anyone. 

For Something Lost

There is a pain
That covers all
Fills in the cracks
Smooths out the lines.
It buries intention
Under piles of regret
It holds your throat
And squeezes tight.
It is a pain that
You wake with
You walk with
You sleep with
You speak with...
It shades every memory
Makes clear old mistakes
It keeps you up at night
With dark thoughts.
It haunts you
With its living presence
Because you utterly refuse
To let it go,
To let it die as it wants.
You hold on to this pain
In desperation
Out of sentiment
For something lost.

Something Never to Be Confessed

Every step is cautious
On a slippery slope
When you find the right vein
You'll take any dope
And with sweaty palms
You'll try to hang on
What you thought was here
Was so suddenly gone.

You painted a bull's eye
All across your heart
Every con man and archer
Thought to take a shot
You can only live so long
But it takes a lifetime to die
And you have to risk it all
Every moment to be alive.

You calculated every move
With quantitative precision
Only to look backward
With a coward's indecision
You measured carefully
A full length of rope
Then cut it inch by inch
With such pious hope.

I guess it was happiness
That made such a mess
With armored tenderness
You needed less and less
Because you had this
One ungrateful weakness
Don't ever confess
Your happiness.

Something More, Beyond Words

I wandered through the ashes
Of all that I had burned
Kind words felt like curses
From the wages I had earned.
We may be made of stars
But scars are a better suit
In the distance, someone
Who understood this truth.

I walked among the faces
Of a dying proud wasteland
Love's words breathing as
We stumbled hand in hand.
No room for the sentimental
With wolves near the door
They ask a pound of flesh
But I know they want more.

But, I'll stand my ground here
Take my life but never love
I'll fight to my death and
Poison you with my blood.
But it was much too late
With the spirit of gentle dove
I found myself quite changed
By what saccrifice had done.

It was love that saw my pain
It was love that took my name
It was love that drew my art
It was love that that bound my heart
It was love endured my hate
It was love laughing at my shame
It was love mapped my course
It was love, or something more...

Something more,
Beyond words
That lives past death
And all that's worse.

A Play of Words and Action

Out of two was one
In a moment unchosen
Out of darkness blind
Into a soul unfrozen
And once being known
In the presence of light
There's only one question
But I can't ask 'why?'

Because I don't get to know
Just wander on stage blind
It all seems so improvised
I don't get to know, just
Stare dumbly into the phone
Just words not truth or lies.

I searched out shadows
A place to hide ignorance
I built a character to show
The scale of my indifference
I wandered into different sets
Put on different clothes
I parroted some new words
Kept my head always low

But I still I don't get to know
Just wander on stage blind
It all seems so improvised
I don't get to know, just
Stare dumbly up at drones
Just words not truth or lies.

Once more two made one
In a moment of intention
This is how it goes on
In acceptable convention
And once seeing unknown
Biological invention
So the word on her lips
But I dare not mention...

You won't get to know
You'll wander the world alone
Among symbols and science
Still you will never know
Even balanced equations
Are words not truth or lies.

And after all, it's only living
Your worst is still your best
Because you'll never know 'why'
Instead of nothing you exist. 

paying for attention

the darkness out there
just outside and out of view
of unknown depth and dimension
i might reach out and touch it
but the weak electromagnetic force
prevents this farce
across space
across time
lives carried like crabs in a bucket
each one seething with trapped hatred
drunken or wishing to be so
lost in conversations to be forgotten before the cab fare is paid
no one is paying attention
paying attention
the cost of attention
the price of attending to the moment
the work required of being here now
when i could be somewhere else
some other time
right now the past
right now the future
and reaching toward
the darkness out there

Haight-Ashbury

they come from everywhere
they come from nowhere
rising out of the ground
fully formed and weird
they are ready to take on the day
they are ready to rape the night
they are
and somehow continue
so full of life
too full, in fact
and that unused potential
begins to rot inside their bones
it spreads into their skin and hair
it rots their teeth
it eats away brain cells and intelligence
and they are
somehow continue
on a march
slow and certain
toward a charitable grave
a victim
not of vice or circumstance
but of hubris
to think that one man mattered
in any of this ugly mess at all
they went to find themselves
they searched hard
and looked into strange mirrors
and in the end
they found no one
they found themselves:
nobody