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.

Around.

You don’t know what my tears taste like,

because your lips do not catch their’ fall,

and the tendency to judge my actions…

well, you’re nobody to judge me at all.

You don’t have a clue what I’ve come through,

I don’t care where you think that you’ve been,

as soon as you’ve perfected your own shit…

maybe, come back and take a crack at me again.

I don’t need a single person’s approval,

and most certainly wasn’t looking for yours,

I know who I am, against your presumptions…

I stand for the steps you’ve never taken before.

People like you only shrink when compared to,

somebody with half of a beating heart,

I’m not sure why it shines so sure from your eyes…

a slice of humanity would break you apart.

Please keep your greed from my scenery,

if you own the slightest hint of a clue,

of how much I despise the habit of lies…

take heed, if you know what’s good for you.

Because, one day you will taste my teardrops,

you will feel the fathoms of my own grief,

despite all of your efforts at destruction and doom…

someday your reflection will look just like me.

Soup.

Fuck doing what’s right to do
might have to confront the truth
and you may actually
at last, and finally
have to step up and pay your dues
every single bridge
burned down to a crisp
take the drama and dishonesty
as far as you can get from me
I can’t function like this
there you have stood silently by
done your part to take what’s mine
when all is done
and you have no one
don’t come crying to me this time
you’ve helped to construct
a place that is fucked
from wall to wall
trumping any and all
good in the things you should touch
Fuck staying in this primordial soup
this fucking unhealthy familial loop
when I am no more
around like before
who will catch your boot?
Always choose to color me wrong
over and over until the color was gone
but you can’t tell me what is right
you wouldn’t recognize the sight
pull your blade from my back and move along.

Offering.

I offer up
no apology,
for the wounds
that I leave,
like the moon as it hangs,
so mockingly cruel,
in a swoon from the pangs,
so hungrily fueled;

I rebuff the
hypotheses,
that claim to love
everything,
like a beast in a cage,
such disparate woe,
through a ill-induced rage,
I see the face of my foe;

I will erupt
eventually,
boiling over
from the heat,
like a kamikaze bomb,
so much emptiness,
in the place I’m from,
it all looks like this;

I request
no sympathy,
for these wounds
bleeding perpetually,
like the neck lain upon,
the guillotine’s blade,
here, and then gone,
without a final word said.

Propinquity.

It is all born
of a unique fact
the long-gone act
of the way we tie
closely together
through space and time;
the closeness defined
stronger than steel
your back against mine;
knowledge of Life
given to us by;
the archaically blessed
and most ancient of divine;
passed along down
a dried-out bloodline;
the circumstance
concocted like potion
of happenstance;
that tickling, vague notion
rolling and bending
like the tides in the ocean;
but never broken
beneath such crushing mass
a written word –
not anything spoken;
the act of
being based upon;
a kindred spiritual root
that grows deep and ever-long;
they tried to bury
something so incredibly strong
a truth they’ve kept in secrecy
and in the midst
of their stupidity,
the feebleness makes them forget
a scary variant
the element
of our propinquity.

Sledgehammer.

Like a bus

that couldn’t stop,

its driver, legs locked-

board-straight,

baring down-

the desperate weight,

the failing of brakes;

beneath heavy feet,

where the tires

touch street

screeching, scraping

metal shavings

but, all forsaking

can’t quite stop

in time not to

run right over me.

The Sledgehammer swings,

it’s wielder, well-meaning-

momentous force-

impact to the chest

sets into course,

broken by the best

of darkness creeping

right in through

my own big mouth.

Misery’s Metronome.

I find that often

during times

when I reflect

back down the line

A saddening

has indeed been

a constant thing

to cruelly

pre-define

a trend

in the bending

of a tragedy

misery’s timeline

when I look

more closely

at the heavy

weighing down

dragging the line

of my ever-darkening

own, grown legacy

the only thing

then, that truly seems

left for me

to dare perceive

as belonging to me

to conceive or believe

as I also lose

and also find

my mind, in time

I find that

I’m at borderline

just temporarily

it’s all so clear

fleeting moments

fully aware

heavy torment

I can hardly bear

the darkness here

or the sunshine there

I always sink

atonement

beyond every brink

fathomless

bottomless pits

dark omens

where blackness persists

among settling bones

misery’s metronome

tick – tick – tick

within the inner hollow

Life’s slowing drip

no more grip

on tomorrow

the present moment

is all of my sorrow

silt settling on bones

dirt shoveled over

our buried loved ones

a human component

the final atonement

the weight

from the shoulders

too late

and it’s over.