Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

your eyes used to follow my eyes,

As they darted about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

Down the trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I don’t want you to see as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you’ve come to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

to pick up, dust off, and carry on,

Past all the times that your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

you must finally stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

Schemistry.

A very shifty combination,
so decried the chemistry,
mixing hard-earned salvation,
in with exponential insecurity…

A noteworthy disintegration,
in the joints behind each knee,
an ever-hanging expectation,
that it will give way eventually…

A monotonous lamentation,
such disappointment did I bring,
a repetitive declaration,
a tourniquet – always reminding…

A mind full of a heart’s degradation,
a swan hiding wolves beneath each wing,
a perfected form of pure placation,
the rejected face the glass is reflecting…

A very questionable equation,
the sheet of paper full of scribbling,
an indefinably cold sensation,
took out knees and left me shivering.

Portentious.

To sleep through its entirety,

this world clinging to me,

to pass up its absurdity,

and flash by in obscurity;

 

A couplet,

a trumpet,

wings ripped from a body;

 

A prophet,

a puppet,

the line thins out steadily;

 

To keep time to the marching feet,

trotting before and after me,

to be ignored and put to sleep,

and pass by flailing blindly;

 

A sunset,

a trinket,

sunk too deep to retrieve;

 

A target,

a portent,

no skin on my knees.

 

 

 

Full of Guts and Seeking Glory.

We had spent all of ‘eternity’,

as we both knew the word to be,

swaying in time to a ticking,

the archaic music of a dying breed,

a mixture of feelings,

stacked up to the ceiling,

the shift in direction so subtly,

akin to the route of my thinking,

I define what is the lonely,

unyielding and unbending,

I despise my own tale’s ending,

tired of telling the story,

full of guts and seeking glory,

I will seek for all my days,

I will break for my own sake,

you can’t console me,

you won’t be able to hold me,

I seem to slip on through,

no stitching remains rip-free,

tears up and along the seam,

those same old railroad tracks to my dreams,

I shake awake too late to warn you,

we’ve already gone,

you and me.

Boiling Divine.

I awoke to the shine of the light in my mind,

bubbling over the brim of the boiling divine,

and I asked the Gods why they’ve kept me alive,

no answer came back and I closed my eyes;

 

I blocked off all the passageways leading deep inside,

this place isn’t fit for those besides the likes of you and I,

I removed the duct-tape and my mouth dropped open wide,

I reused the same piece to hide the hatred in my eyes;

 

my spirit was nowhere near my defeated black flag,

my soul never embraced the replaced chains and gags,

I might be taken out like last week’s garbage bag,

but I will keep with me, every injury that I’ve ever had;

 

I finally shut out the sun and flooded the compound,

I stamped out the memories left lying around,

I screamed at the Gods until they too, fell down,

and I firmly believe that they are listening now.

 

 

 

Baited.

Never will you endeavor to mind,

I’ll just be here hanging on the line,

baited breath for the elusive reply,

skin that burns at the turn of your blind eye…

forever and ever spins this glitch in time,

laid out before those very shaded eyes,

a charted route you refuse to recognize,

tongues that sting as they swing and spill lies…

not a moment wasted of your precious time,

no second thought over this burden of mine,

watch me continue, pass right down the line,

no turning back to paint black what I leave behind…

you’ve surely exposed yourself fully this time,

displayed by the drunkenness such greed defines,

so many chances to ignore your beloved dollar sign,

any opportunity to do right by me has at last, passed you by.

 

Timepress.

 Do you remember the days of Sand, when we met?

How the stars above were filled with awe…

And the sun shone brightest upon YOU and ME,

All bestowed with the blessings of Ra.

For OURS was a union, never foreseen,

Not by my Master, not by your Queen;

A bond of all lifetimes,

It turned the kindest man green.

While the Bronze days that followed,

Never quite had the feel of tomorrow

Bore secrets and legends made of victories and sorrow…

Shared by the trace of a bloodline

So ancient to this present space and time;

But YOU and I can still taste the flesh upon which we dined…

It is gone but not lost on the time we have borrowed.

So confusing, this fear pent up full inside here,

And the pangs have gotten stronger

I know YOU are near…

To find YOU again in an Iron of times

Has long sent the mysteries of the dead up my spine

Just to lose YOU once more in the throes of my mind…

The journey thus has been so unkind, so untrue to this soul of mine.

I reach for you now

Because I feel you there once more

Unsure and afraid of what you’ve come back to reach for,

But most certain that I can’t set these fires anymore.

Your soul knows all that will be, or has been,

Has it truly been written in limestone and sand grain?

That your return will be a mockery of destiny’s reunion…

 How many centuries have we buried in this sand?

Repeat the beat upon my chest for taking your shaking hand,

once again, we face each other for another final stand,

the sweetest of sauce,

can’t ease such a loss of such an elusive man.

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

Ultimately.

It was ultimately for naught,

my face tattooed by bird-shot,

an undeniable blanket of doom,

an indefinable pain in the womb,

It was the robbery of things,

my things; weaseled away from me,

stolen from me in my deepest sleep,

secretly spilling the oaths that I keep,

crumbling away the loosened layers,

that block the pathway to my nightmares,

it was the ending of good things,

the increase of physical pain,

our thing just began surely fade,

beyond the recognizable state,

things agreed to in former times,

come back around to materialize,

smacked with back of an outstretched palm,

that threw a desperately driven smoke bomb,

the palm that bears the dead to the tomb,

the palm of the hand you refused to hold onto.

Warning Shots.

Click. Spin. Click.
First warning shot:
Please…
don’t say,
anything to me…
your words,
cut and slash,
my skin invisibly…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number two for you:
See…
it’s about,
the powdery,
kegs full and ready,
to explode,
beneath my feet…
Click. Spin. Click.
Number three:
Believe…
when I swear,
on everything,
dear to me,
to make my way,
someday,
my own blaze,
of my own glory…
Click. Spin. Click.
Last kind gesture:
Leave…
if you’re smart,
if you can see,
the truth,
instrumentality,
the far reach,
of little ol’ me.

Down.

They all stared at me

eyes, empty of feeling

souls, judging and cruel…

rows upon rows of darkened holes

hollowed out eyes of dolls

crusted and crumbling from stucco…

this building is home to ghouls

ghostly spirits of the dead

the Doppler effect of a moaning cry…

overhead, the lights stop burning

the darkness becomes complete and I succumb

falling downward into your embrace…

into your hollowed place

your emptied promises and gluttonous lies

let us go there and not come up…

Chaotic.

We never love them,
those flickers of,
Life’s candlelight,
when we get them,
nano-seconds in Love,
in the present tense,
in all its fickleness,
we fail to look deeply,
beyond the warmth,
of such selfishness,
we fail to recognize,
so we sit stupidly,
as nano-seconds,
swim right on by,
like robotic drones,
it is foolishness,
how soon we forget,
our very own,
flesh and bone,
where we came from,
childhood homes,
for we are not,
not a single one,
born to those,
with voices, drowned,
neither did we,
bore the woes,
Of Royalty,
donning the crown,
of the overthrown,
in the halls of the dead,
in the heads of the gone,
we will stand as one,
to the depths,
from the heights,
stars and sun,
days and nights,
like statues set in stone.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book I still read;
detailing poisons –
in her own handwriting,
pressed in between –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the dark days ahead –
written in a language,
spoken to and by the dead,
and it should be clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
on this Earth,
who can open it –
is ME.

Between.

Between the rightful eyes,
between the shaky lines;
Between courses of a meal in an old, echoing hall;
The greatest feasts
had by the greatest beasts,
the finest wines;
Between arms’ length
and violation;
Between the pages of an unread
book in a forgotten drawer;
Dread history lessons repeated;
the tides of liberation.
Between questions,
between answers;
Between the two regrets of
having asked and being told;
The songs, singers,
dances and dancers;
Between the vast and mysterious,
between the frostbitten sheets;
Tangled fabrics tied into knots
from the skins of human beings;
Between the endless, frozen depths
and the bottoms of my feet,
Between the sea and sky,
between the breaths of you and I;
Between debris from the bridges
burned down along the way;
Between the longest of Hellos,
and the short, sweet Goodbye.

Let Me.

Let me write of the way that my very genetics yearn,
Blood pumping so fiercely that my skin starts to burn.
Tingles and sweat drops, hot spots – oceans, the tides turn;
Now it’s my turn on top; and I won’t stop until you finally learn.
Let me illustrate a circumstance, in which your eyes are locked to mine,
Let me orchestrate the wet Rain Dance that stops the pace of time.
Swirled inside of ecstasy, next to me – your “everything” is fine;
The entire world is frozen besides the warmth of my insides.
Let me warn you of the influence that my surrender tends to hold,
My face is shy, my body is small; but this spirit is fierce and bold.
For it’s been said that if I get in your head, your legs will surely fold;
And for a tongue that’s made of silver, so goes a heart of solid gold.
Let me remind you of a time that was just our own in time,
The sun shone down to brighten this saddened face of mine.
I lay wrapped around your chisels like a serpentine;
and you indulged in the flavor of my best Moonshine.
Let me emphasize how I long for you so desperately,
to feel your fingertips as they grip at my body,
here I sit in solitude like you prefer that I remain,
until you decide to feel obliged to return to me again.

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Pocket-less.

When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.

Future Reference.

I most certainly
won’t turn out to be
a textbook reference
to “romance poetry”;

the words I write
only seem to spite
the rest of me
with a venomous bite;

perhaps if I wait
they will appreciate
my left-field prose
made from concentrate;

or perhaps, maybe
in the next century
my poems won’t be read
by much of anybody;

damn the legless hypocrisy,
can’t let the critics bother me
no poet ever lives to long enough
to see people fall in love with his poetry.

“Life Goes On”.

Way back when I was just barely thirteen
and Death stole my father quite suddenly
a stinger stuck in and burrowed beneath
I learned something then that never left me
how during the stages of trauma and grief
people say the stupidest words robotically
How “Life will go on” or how “Time will ease“,
Such a blow to a child’s sense of stability…

I recall the way all tried to describe so emptily
how things wouldn’t feel as unreal for eternity
how things would settle back into normalcy
how the grief-stricken child would heal eventually
And each had been right about just one thing
in the context of my quickly evolving reality
each time they grasped straws in my comforting
by telling me ‘Life would go on’ still, for me…

I wonder if there was even the slightest inkling
behind such words that I heard rather constantly
that the thirteen-year-old was, indeed, listening
to the messages shone through such faked sympathy
this was how I learned the lesson of superficiality
by being forced to listen to such hollow human beings
the loss of my only parent had marred me spiritually
scarred my soul, shut down parts of my heart permanently…

Yet, in the eyes of those outside my immediate family
I recognized that element that darkens all humanity
that need to keep the world painted in a happy scene
at the expense of those whose former world is darkening
and so, today, if I am faced with a friend in like mourning
I will never offer empty words in attempt to ease the suffering
I remember all too well: the affect that such bullshit had on me
when my present, past, and future were stripped away so suddenly.

Chase.

I once told you I wished you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footsteps as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

you used to follow my eyes,

darting about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I’d rather you don’t see me as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into the archaic bark,

I‘d rather that you might instead, remember times,

when I still maintained a much more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

I would that you pick up, dust off and carry along,

all these times, your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footsteps into the trees,

at which you will stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill my own prophecy.

 

 

 

Bourbon-Smooth.

Halt; I stop, I stand, and I think,

of the ability you harbor, so secretly,

to demolish walls built up around me,

the Bourbon-smooth tickle of Mystery;

 

As you know, I feel your flow,

winding tightly to and fro,

with each and every breath, it grows,

until it permeates through to my soul;

 

With you, comes a sizzling sound,

it’s like you carry seismic energy around,

when you speak, I hear no other sound,

the missing element to the true compound;

 

And, as the time slips by us each day,

against the joke of existence we spend separately,

just know that nobody else makes me behave,

like the dumbass that you seem to cultivate.

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Ten-Fold.

In the epic days,
and valiant ways,
of old;
were things like dignity,
and empathy,
I’m told;
there was humanity,
and human beings,
ten-fold;
was concern for,
so much more,
than gold;
was no need for,
any nuclear Holy War,
just growth;
then came humanity,
lacking all sincerity,
a joke;
tailed by the hungry beast,
swallowing good and evil things,
we know;
but we didn’t see,
what was happening,
behold;
in the world today,
perversely incensed ways,
unfold;
pedals fall away eventually,
a desperate act of dying beauty,
let go.

Decomp.

Each day’s sunrise shines;
against history’s version;
of what is my truth.

And what is my truth…?
according to Father Time,
it is a sad one.

From one, come many;
more sad truths to give names to;
bloated by decomp.

Skin – whitened with time;
a centuries-old rag doll;
missing arm and eye…

Carried off downstream;
against a fatal current;
chased by my nightmares.

Nameless.

Lost amid the aimless
inside a place that’s timeless
vast and hollow emptiness
hostage to the heartless
washed up against the nameless
hung to dry with the airless
swinging on the line of the hapless
in a repeated pattern that’s effortless.

Not Without Challenge.

How many nights,
just like this one…
brought with them,
tears…
to roll slowly,
to fall coldly…
over sharp cheekbones?
Dropped from mine,
my own eyes…
saturated in sadness,
absorbed…
nothing else,
besides myself…
on and on my spirit drones.
Missing the beats,
deeply flawed…
without any hope,
questions…
without answer,
tumorless cancer…
concocting cures on my own.
in how many ways,
must I prove to myself…
not without challenge,
truths…
so unsavory,
and, unwavering…
before I drive the message home?