Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
blowing through all the lies.

A reacquainting,
with the shadows left behind,
as those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to all I escaped from hopefully,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Bus Misser.

I must’ve missed the bus for the class someone gave,

that instructed all of us how to communicate,

because no matter who,

it is I’m talking to,

no matter what I say or do,

there’s no soul in the stuff other people convey;

I seem to be stuck in the same Gods damned place,

a blood feud with Luck and a hit out on Fate,

epoxy stuck on my shoe sole,

paradoxy of the spiteful,

            a Hellish Life in a carnival,

            and I’ve smiled through a face of clown paint.



A Duet written by me and “Python” the tech geek, who doesn’t have a blog, but is someone I know offline. I’m in italics.


Let me please you.

Let me do the little things that you love.

Like holding your hand,

Or stroking your hair,

Or hugging you for no special reason

Or just making you smile.


Let me believe you,

Let me renew through little things you do.

Like holding my heart,

Or stroking my ego,

Or hugging me when no one else can,

Or how you just make me smile.


Let me please you.

Let me make you feel the eloquence.

Like making you feel spoiled,

Or taking you to nice places,

Or buying you fine things,

Or just cooking a special dinner for you.

Even if it tastes awful !


Let me believe you.

Let me bask in all your radiance.

Like spoiling me with your presence,

I don’t need to see nice places,

Or want you to buy me nice things,

I will eat anything you’ve crafted with your love,

as such a thing could never taste awful.


Let me please you.

Let me say the little things that I feel.

Like singing soft words,

Or writing poems of love,

Or telling you how I feel right now,

Or just reminding you that I love you.


Let me believe you.

When you say the little things you feel.

It sounds like sung words,

Or inky words spilled into calligraphy,

By telling you how I feel right now,

shall I remind you how I love you?


Let me please you.

Let me take you to places I’ve been.

Like faraway lands,

Or places of beauty,

Or to see things I’ve seen,

Or just someplace, where I once thought of you.


Let me believe you,

take me to your secret places,

no matter where they may be,

the beauty of them multiplies,

by the smile shining back at me,

anywhere, when I am with you is just fine.


Let me tease you.

Let me show you how playful I am.

Like sending you things, for your eyes alone,

Or reminders of pleasures we’ve shared,

Or writing you stories that make your heart skip,

Or just making you blush at the right moment.


Let me touch you,

Let me make the rain fall down.

Like sending you to The Heavens,

Never a moment can pass between,

that another page isn’t added to our story,

a story that makes me blush to read.


Let me please you.

Let me give you my fire.

Like sharing nights of passion,

Or giving you pleasures you never thought yours,

Or taking your senses to the edge of heaven,

Or just holding you close on nights when it’s cold…

Like this night


Let me believe you.

Let me sparkle in your every ember.

nights of passion and days of motion,

A Life of pleasures that I’ve thought impossible,

Like teetering on the brink of Always,

precarious in your arms when it’s cold…

Every night.

Crooked Finger.

I know you’ve made the effort,

to fish me out and throw me aloft,

you’ve been on belay for a decade,

awaiting the tension on my end to let off,

you typically would never bother with,

hand-holding of the incompetent,

you have no patience or tolerance,

with things that lean to your detriment,

yet somehow your open palmed hand,

remains out to me, wherever I am,

even if I don’t know where I stand,

the bear blazes trails to the lamb,

I probably disappoint your mind,

and let your spirit down all the time,

I probably don’t very well epitomize,

the things you stand for in my own eyes,

I guess I feel heavy against your soaring flight,

like a weight on your ankle without any right,

I want you to achieve the dreams in your life,

with both of your hands free to win the fight,

            you’ll need both hands to accept the trophies,

            to stab at the person breaking and entering,

            to sign checks, breaks necks with your badassery,

            keep your hands free from the mess known as 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.





I dropped myself backwards over the stern,

you stood at the bow, unwilling to learn,

refusing to follow the map I had drawn,

stagnantly anchored there all the night long,

your disgust was apparent as I swam farther away,

you began to pull the anchor up immediately,

but your head-games had already turned me cold,

so I kept on dog-paddling and cursed you, tenfold,

and as I saw you sail away without me,

just as I should’ve felt my most empty,

the weight of the ocean’s fathomless depths,

vacuumed me up with one huge, inhaled breath,

tucked me safely within its motherly net,

and whispered with love that I wasn’t dead yet,

seeming to rise from the uncharted deep,

a ghostly phantom too long  gone to sleep,

to guide my tired mind and broken body,

to a place of solid earth and humanity,

I found you once again so long afterward,

you were too frozen in place to utter a word,

and I simply conveyed my thanks to you,

for forcing me to see the true colors in you.




A 13-Point Word.

You’d never guess
by my snippiness
that I call somewhere “home”;

And, based on the way
that I feel everyday
I might as well be all alone;

It occurs to most
how such a sullen host
would hardly have any desire;

As well as who, indeed
compelled by what need
might sit at my dying fire;

I see the happiness
feel such coziness
as it swirls in my periphery;

But, remains the fact
such warmth is in abstract
belonging nowhere on my scene.