Monday, February 28, 2011


I know the formula
I have a plan
Yet reasons pass me
As to who it was that said I can,

It’s all so simple, it really is,
When permission’s granted
Deviate and disagree if so you must,
Someone, sometime you’ll have to trust,

Truth must be told to tell your tale
But told too often it shall grow stale
With each word misplaced,
A distortion is embraced

Blind I was but now I can flee
That those lies told are seen catching
At first the convulsions made me laugh
But now I hide from its growing path

Ode to Metal

As vibrations shimmy up the leg
Laying claim to the chambers in my head
Resonate and Reverberate, the rise, the fall
A possession of the body, overtaking it all

Piercing thoughts escape this cage
Subliminal concept replacing sight
Urging violence, seeking fights
A forgotten shell consumed with rage

I hate metal
For how it makes me feel
Alive, awake
Cold as steel
I hate metal
Because it’s more real than real

A bass-line outlines my every step
A haunting rhythm with each breath
Today, tomorrow I’ll have no choice,
Despite the anger and the pain
There’s but one thing I can possibly do
And that’s Metal, I declare myself to you

I wrote this poem a few years ago, and to be perfectly honest, I'm beat.  I wrote a couple haikus earlier today and as pitiful as it might sound, It knocked me out.  Did some reading, some great poems over at the Dual-Themed Poetics tonight, but my fingers betray me, refusing to type, even know as I write this simple note.  So, that all said, i'll be back around to visit tomorrow, when hopefully this exhaustion will take it's leave.  After all, one can only sleep so much in a day right?  But enough of that.  Swing on over to D'Verse, where Brian and Gretchen are co-hosting.  I had this piece about music, which conveniently fit into Gretchen's theme, Brian's mad libs post is definitely something I'll try using, perhaps for tomorrow's post.  In any case, swing on by and get your fill on some excellent poetry.

Sunday, February 27, 2011


Heavy Metal Rainfall
Upon a conduit of steel,
Hold me up, push me high,
Only inches separate what is
And what is higher,

Thunder from the sky above,
Penetrates the vestige known so well,
The groundwork quaked with premise,
The setting altered time and place
Thematically dislocated, dissolving from the stage

A thumping baseline
Quivers through the ear
Resonating in syncopated irony
Fluctuates the man with polarity of choice,
 Retreat or for scabbard reach

The assault at this point is unknown,
To forecast now, premature, it could call upon
The scholar or the man unskilled,
The former would develop strategy he could not apply,
The latter could not devise, but come the moment he’d react

A Fairy Tale Incomplete

I met her a day many Mays ago,
Storybook in structure yet storyboard in form,
Inkless pages from a fruitless vine,
She was flesh, she was pulp,
Sticky sweet, endorphins releasing tastefully,
A delicate recipe, with ingredients defining delicacy,
No brushstrokes necessary, this image solves the easel
Natural shades and brilliant tones,
 Heart rates spike peering each trace the prisms spawn,
So subtle the hue one barely takes the time,
To pause would be to ingest,
 The rhythmic flavor the artist so designed,

Like many others I feigned approach,
As confidence trembled from voice to throat,
 A citric splash philosophy soured any optimism,
Any chance, left hollow; betrayed of opportunity,
To allow a moment, an attempt at thoughtful unknotting,

I do not know what became of her,
Often I dream of what could have been,
Perhaps someday, some other time,
I’d like to pretend that chance I’ll one day get,
I like to think she too regrets our time not spent

A Mind Built Through Isolation

A barren workspace I do seek:
There’s an Independence found in Isolation,
Solitude by choice not by placement or creative construct,
I despise those impersonators, and their convenient smocks of white,
Cloning chickens, splicing genes, for the greater good,

Walls are blank
Only if your thoughts are faint
If they grow and are allowed to blossom
Those bare walls will be vivid, bright and pretty awesome
You’ll have images and memories
Reflections and theories
Chasing after one another
All for your innovation
And perhaps somewhat amusing
In how it all unfolds,

Each crevice, every slat of matter
Left brain, right brain,
There is no such thing as a wrong brain
The mind is the most fertile place of all,
A little sunlight and a lot of knowledge
Will move it from that potted soil
And it will outgrow that tiny ledge on the wall
Isolations not a bad thing at all

A Monster

Raving maniacal,
Clavicles below a mind tyrannical
Fear of monsters as a child, explained away with light,
This monster I assure exists; it knows no affliction, I can attest to this, 

Are the drops
Of blood
As they fall from
Calloused palms
Daily repeating

Behind covered barriers
I steady the fingers
Focus attention to the man
The undead collaboration
Of a demon and a wretched whore
Adrenalin surges as each atrocity concludes
I wish to turn my head and gulp away the nausea,
But turn it won’t, as oddly tasting saliva drains down my throat,
I fear he’ll find me, in hiding,
Recruited then I’d be

Saturday, February 26, 2011

The Days of Side Arms

The days of side-arms for every man,
Might be forgotten by the majority,
Yet remain habit for a few,
Reaching for their holster at the slightest sign ado
Waiting to snap the leather from its clasp,
Seeing conflict as a revolution,
To which they must commit,

The planks are set fifty feet out at sea,
The waves are violent,
The fish swarm,
To the scent of blood forthcoming,

Three men standing side by side
A crowd waits in earnest
As the ropes are tied
Each offered a moment for apologies
Yet most claim injustice is being served
One kick of the chair,
A drop in the floor,
Cease their words forever more

Speaking In Droughts

To speak in droughts is to leave words out,
You divulge your scheme
By imbedding the theme
In code and weaves
Imply but do not state
Leave the reader
The job to evaluate
To equate product and sum
Enable them
As a father would a son
Give them the keys they will require
Infer your desires when
Speaking of all the things in life they could acquire
Be fair and balanced
Create an atmosphere of knowledge
Let every description be their guide,
If they fall they will undoubtedly arise,
Rarely will they option the faulty device a second time,
They will abandon the tool but not the course,
The course will stand as does that shed,
After all you’ve provided them the keys,
Let their imaginations develop for themselves.

On Descending

On Descending
The scales align the same
Whether fur, metal or flesh,
Yet the eyes, they determine the value
What an object is worth,
The more trinkets to enjoy
The brighter the toy is on display,
The largest of the three
Will capture the majority
Increase its rise in popularity
And enjoy its lifetime to the fullest
While the peasants and straw hats
Are tossed by the side of the road
For all to forget
Only to remember a measure of time
Removed from here, only to understand
The ignorance displayed, partially by their hand
And this castaway has since gone underground
With no intention of resurfacing
Simply to scrape away the cruelty you’ve created
A repentant soul is worth saving, 
Yet there are those not worth
The muddying and rekindling of the tears
Developed on your own, in which case
Your soul is better not descending the forgiving path

Delineation of a crumbling mind

Water wet
And sweat is cold
You’ve a thirst for everything
That’s ever betrayed you,

It’s not healthy,
It’ll drive you away,
From society and your own individuality
Down corridors of desperate measures
Into the mirrors of a corroded mind,

You’ll grow mad,
Perhaps insane,
Without direction
You’ll wander lost
Roaming for something
To clutch and grab,
Something solid to hold on to,

You’ll begin dissertations with yourself
And come up with impossible answers
To the problems of someone else,
You’ll die, like us all, but you won’t even know you’re dead,
You will scale the walls and scratch away,
First the heart wilts, then the brain dissolves

The Shadows Execution

Amidst violent winds
And scattered showers
The cold meets the singe of flesh
To some it simmers,
To others scold,
Fanning in the same manner it flames out,

Thrashing waves of corruption come
Bearing down a decreasing sun,
The heat awaits the frost bite of the soul
For some it will freeze and blister,
 For others it may numb and paralyze,
A blizzard burns the same way it cools,

You may be aware of the reasons for,
You may not know the meanings of,
Of these questions you ponder
You are not alone

Within a shroud of banality
An image returns from the bowels below,
A shadows rise,
A shadows fall,
 Contingent upon the light the dark provides
Independent and combined, shadows die as quickly as they grow.

Friday, February 25, 2011


The fertility of the soil
Reflects the barren future
In this world, this vulgarity
Under a crimson sky we hide

The length of time
The words we use
Hostages taken in
Shortened sight
Symbolic, Ever-present,
Pieces of omniscience
Blessing the atheist in each of us, for all our sins combined,

Fuel is splattering like a hose,
As children, racing across the grassy fields,
Evading droplets as they approach,
The hearts are filled with laughter,
The scent of their smiles saturate the air,

Flames intend to warm the soul
A blend of cascading whites and blues
An inferno, a helping hand,
Igniting the spark, destined to scorch
All written history, erasing the evidence
We were ever here

Tactile Agony

The hollow Oak, that unseen hand,
At a distant slope, in an obscure land,
Caress our every hope-filled memory with
Theories of identity which border the
Insanity, the delusional solemnity our clones afar
Leave us with an inner battle, over what is real and which is dreamt,
Erodes every absolution we’ve come to know,

Allowing sin to reemerge and reengage,
Growing in a wavelike
Overthrow, of who we are, and what we stand for,
Nearly, completely, dissolving all the truths, we’ve held dear,
You are left alone, questioning your own identity

A to Z

Aren’t we the crafty fox?
Brats and traffic, same allegory, different category,
Cryptic are the wishes of the child,
Dense and withdrawn,
Engaged yet elsewhere,
Find me a cryptographer, a cipher, and translator
Get the message turned around before
Hysteria takes control
I will refuse the directive if it arrives second hand,
Join the ranks of disaster-proof, if a hero is your mirrored goal
Kill the innuendoes, if truth is what you’re after
Let me be, and truth be told.
Messages written in code,
Necromancy, alive and bold,
Obscure processional of thoughts
Pondering the forward, the backward, the anagrams,
Questioning authority and the words of every man,
Reverse engineered animated form
Suspending disbelief, in efforts to get it right
True Believer, here I am,
Uncanny key-holder of a strange, strange land
Victory is ahead.   Don’t allow cryonics to slow you down,
Would it make it easier if I spelled this out?
X is the place it all occurs
You, me, the last and first,
Zero, it’s always a zero that starts it all

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Sisyphus acts a lot like me

A sacrifice would imply I’ve given something up,
But to forgo without a reason,
Outside the cloak of lazy
I have no permission to use such a word,

Another time to open my eyes,
I still see a darkened chamber
Where a brief triangle of light pervades,
Bound by not knowing what else to do,
Arise, awaken,
The day is half way through,

Hours grow strained
And time seems trivial
Information is thrown about
So quickly I cannot reflect
Before the next barrage comes to,

A cyclical persistence and the rut it forms
Endless walks with déjà vu, an automaton I’ve become,
Pushing rocks up the same old hill,
Imprisoned by the actions of a former self,
No voice or choosing which stone I touch,
Ever-knowing the outcome, with each push I wait for progress to appear,
The view is of dreams, with hope alive, and then I reach the peak,
Then what follows has before.   Tomorrow I shall push some more.

Bound for Forgiveness

Thoughts are hidden,
So is intent,
A voice is external,
An outward expression of what’s inside,
A scream is visceral and dangerous
To heart and home, from tomb to throne,
And Jade is the smarter older brother, the color
Of the man who pretends,

It shouldn’t be easy
Until your vision is built, and passions aligned,
Some location, mid-rift of guidance and hope,
On which the sidewalk lanterns burn,

Slight, this even keel atmosphere seems to me,
With blades of green, ambitions hinder prosperity,
Tainted are the wild eyes, roving in a ginger walk,
Hidden behind pleasantry’s veil, choice words concealing animus
Another encounter bound for forgiveness,
Another promise which fails to last,

A triage mentality will only heal you once you’re harmed,
Ignoring the obvious, you clink your glasses,
Soon to drown in a milquetoast, drawn by hand

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


Grayest clouds hover above your every step.
Each stone crumbles under feet so dead,
Bones snapping, too brittle to escape,
Scabs are where blood once was,
The scars that paint the skin,
Milestones, marking where you’ve been,

Poetry swirls around your every thought,
Moving images to play a part,
Emphasizing things so trivial,
Repressing those that aren’t,
The silence which shields the ears,
Milestones, blocking all your sins

Life Reincarnated

It appears an eternity has been erased,
There is a static beginning,
And a fluid end, obviously yet to come,
But the parts in-between seem to have
Traversed this lifetime,
And I am left awaiting its return,

Dreams are like foreign films,
Familiar images in dissimilar scenes,
These are the memories of someone else, a person I’ve never known,

It seems the understanding has returned,
To all the chariots, go forth and tell the world,
Your king has returned,

We are all given two things, life and death,
These are the only constants that connect us all,
It’s what we do in that sacred field of experience,
That pasture of plentitude, that chasm of what cannot be,
It is in this place we cast our unique molds,
And tonight I cast my own,
All the images in my head are nightmares I must bear,
Yet I’ve been given that, which I’ve yet to hear,
A life a death, a Rebirth
Where the only similarities lie within the face


I was followed home one afternoon,
As the sun was bathing the foliage, keeping it company, keeping it warm,
The days grow cooler, and would soon be cold, the days shorter, and the nighttime long,

A cat, orange and malnourished,
Maybe it was someone’s pet
That got lost and couldn’t find a way to return,
A few scars, a patch of hair missing
I noticed as it weaved its body between these legs of mine,

I felt bad, maybe even identified,
The first few nights I left a can of tuna, and a bowl of milk,
Inside the garage and out of the cold,

I thought I’d awake and find it had gone,
I created this scenario where it jumped up high,
Into an ever elated nervous owners arms,
My visions never play out,
So a few cans later,
As the temperature declined,
I opened up the door
And let this creature become a friend of mine,
And orange will have to be its name

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Bottle Rocket

Bottle Rocket
Siphons property
From your intellect,
Is the web, these
Rabid vixens weave,

Dislocate yourself from
From any framework
Foul in construction,
Run, very far from buildings
Such as these

Invest in sensors,
To alarm you when they change
From lover to savage
From confidant to faux friend,
Distrust any, who only states
An aim to please,

Arm yourself at dawn this day,
If not with Gun and Blade,
Bring the bottle rocket and smoke grenades
This is not the cinema,
You can’t simply close your eyes,
And wish the scary parts away

In My Absence

In My Absence
Believing in something, someone
Is all you can wish for,

Please don’t walk away,
Do not leave based on things you hear,
Any worry, any fear,
Release yourself from this my dear,

I will not let you down,
And If I do, understand it was not my intent,

You will not be alone again,
 And if fate requires me to not return,
Close your eyes and see the solution,
You are prepared,
You’ll persevere,

In my absence,
Know that I’ll be fine,
That in you I’ve found
That something to believe in

Monday, February 21, 2011

Wretched, Beloved

I never was,
I could not be,
Meandering in a bloodless flow,
What’s obscure for you, is clarity to me,

This woman would not let this go,
Quietly I refute each advance,
Yet she forced upon me a recant,

Persistence is a pestilence to the uninitiated,
And its vaccine firmly rests upon her lips,
 Ever obstacle, every stage,
I could not avoid,
Impossible to evade,
This wretched, beloved,
Intent on saving me,

I hate this, countless regressions, dispossessions of
Powerless ambivalence,
I love her, each day more than the one before,
Succumbed to this portent rising, an impetus
I still don’t have an answer to,
A question I’ve lost long ago.


Each is born with a trait,
Some nurture it, promoting growth,
Others do not water it, and waste the gift God gave to them,
I do neither, yet the trait remains the same,

I understand definitions,
But the meaning, the emotions,
I must pretend and watch, then follow others, silently in tow,

 Incoherency is all I hear,
As you whisper to my ear,
Others certainly would be seduced,
Instead I must ask what you spoke,

The majority of the who am I, doesn’t bother me,
The coldness seems to act as a guardian or a shield,
If others sentiments are interpreted as they were meant,
But without feelings, I am left unknowing,
And sadness if I could hold, its voice would unfold in such a scene,
You are here, and so am I, dote you do, oh so lovingly,
But then I catch an odd notion from your eyes,
As they understand this endearing tenderness
Means nothing to me

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Along came an Angel

Along Came an Angel
An Angel stood before me, and didn’t speak a word,
As beautiful as she was, I sensed her equally disturbed,
Reaching out, palm open, I only sought a touch,
But before our fingers paused,
She disappeared, seemingly into dust,
An Angel stood before me,
Perfection to a word, silent and statuesque,
Her face was ever changing, morphing to and from, all the girls I’ve ever loved,
 As if these wings would span, I tried my best,
The harps song drained, a melody took its’ place,

An Angel stands before me, half bent, bloodied from the side,
Her arms they called to me, as tears cascaded from above,
I went to her gently then, shielding her eyes from tufts stained red,
She didn’t speak or cry, not a word was said,
Teardrops told the story all the same,
Her lips she put a finger to, her other to my face,
 As if comforting me was her only aim,

I held her close, the only thing I could do,
 Shame formed inside, as peace passed through,
Sweetly she spoke my name, smiling she offered an apology,
 As she slipped away, disappeared out of sight,
Yet a feather she left behind, of which I think of her from time to time

Heart In a Locket

Heart’s in a locket,
The locket is real,
Hung ‘round the neck
True love’s revealed,

A heart in a locket,
A message conveyed, an image so real,
 A chain of love knows no bounds,
 Never can it fade, its links forever unbroken,
No words or descriptions,
Can discount or diminish thoughts unspoken

When close to the heart
Rhythm’s skips about
When the other is afar,
It beats strong, it palpitates,

Asleep or awake,
Alive or at peace,
This love shared,
Is ever binding and eternal,

It’s not possible to keep apart,
Those connected at the heart

A Revolt Against Sleeping Sirens

As a sickle sickly sets itself,
Between fat and the shoulder,
A Butchers block prevents
The second sirens’ sentence shortened,

With Rhythm, rhyme, and cadence intact,
A sultry sash of epitaph,
Is bound to splice the diameter in half,
Singing sweet and wistful words tonight,
A seductive sonnet, a sweeping lullaby,

Clashing spirits disencumbered,
Alive the crimson flows asunder,
Risen tall, the barometer plummets
Below the point of somber bellow,
A writhing witch wields magic in her lips,
Wriggling ravaged fancies from tongues unknown,
Potions spoken blurred and bothered,
Reveals a cross-stitched tome bathed in silver,
Further dabbling in linguistic prowess
Unveils the shields, to which the Sirens owe their power,
For without, never a man would speak of the sinful voice,

Spewing softly prayers to angels,
The book awaits the scribe, the signer of entries soon to come

Saturday, February 19, 2011

A Sound in the Mirror

A sound in the mirror
Priceless, crystal effigy
Confronts the creator
The facilitator of its very life
Uncanny the obscure mixing with the familiarity,
Gestures, movements, even emotion
A constant reflection
Born in static symmetrical proportion
Its mimicry of motion
A pristine duplication,
Every detail, every scar
Artistic transcriptions
Dedication to minutia and scale,
Even the air passing quietly
Can be seen in each moving follicle of hair

Twist and squirm, gasping for air,
Too Surreal for me to bear
As a second silhouette systematically appears,
It too, a genetic anomaly, a precise duplicate
From clothing to stature,
From vision to voice, it speaks, I hear, I had no choice
Dropping to my knees, in defeat and victory,
One man and his clone unite, shattered on the floor,
While the first mirror remained, silent, still.

A Tactile Understanding

Tonsils swollen
Tongue bitten
Words fail to appear
Yet in my throat they are still,

Their tone, once violent,
Has now repealed,
They blame epiglottis
As the lungs expand
In disillusion
Towards an effort, a goal
Whose breath shall not breathe the scent of air

Skin ashen to sight,
To touch, smooth despite the pattern,
The softness reveals,

As the hands clasp my wrist,
Exerting warmth,
Your attempt to comfort,
Your way to console,
Yet when fingers quickly unlatch
And your body rigors in repeal
A point I’ve feared for very long,
A coldness, bloodless feeling, I’ve often dwelled upon

The Wombat and the Wolverine

As the Wombat licks clean the leaves
From a perch amongst the spacious trees
A wolverine in search of food
Observes a Caribou through
An undistributed rocky ledge
To which it drools a puddle
Of hunger and desire,
Engage it does,
Expedient and free,
Only to get snared
In a web so wide and deep,
Thrashing, claws provoked
Each limb further wrapped
With each thrust and movement
The spider who designed this trap
Toggles the fringes in passive wait
Until the wolverine’s will disintegrates
Giving the Wombat a most unexpected show

Reposted for Poetry Picnic 34: Plants, Creatures and the Cosmos.

Within a Pyramid's Reflection

Within A Pyramids Reflection
Flowers flower and bloom, she
Waits no longer as the first is lost
 Upon the wicked cruelty, the trivial and the
Meaningless, the softness hope clings to, the will
To wriggle, as well as be moved, offering prayers to
Blossom, but unaware is where the memory would live
Blind to the remainder of hours, it still persists towards any
Connection or intertwined desire.  Dreams time will offer no longer.

Friday, February 18, 2011

The Silhouette of the Spin Doctor

The lyrics had a special sort of mass appeal, reproaching castes,
Early to rise, above the truth, no consequence ever paid,
The expressed sorrow, shallower than all the pity shown,
As they sit forty stories high, above the unmarked graves
Lining scapegoats from a broken throne,

The fire would spread, throughout the fields
Over time forgotten, burning the crops,
As dignity falls, so do the barns,
Without reprieve or aid, the dirt rises, lifting ashes atop straw lining,
The dust forms with every affidavit lost,
Is this image obscene, for a voice to not be heard?
Are these words not clear, is no one scared?

The hate was mass produced,
Concocted not in playgrounds like they promote
But in the assembly lines we support,
The will of the people is not the alarm,
It’s the warning shot not issued,
Kin held back by yellow tape,
Breeding a new found rage
A delicate, synthetic hate,
One that will not quit, stewing and hunting,
Allowing justice to be served so quick, resolving, probing
A result from a corrupted politic, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

Thursday, February 17, 2011

For Which I Bleed

Several hours have since past
Since I last counted the days
Since you left my side
Broken, like a crippled child
Alone, a brand new world revealed,
From the womb they get thrust right in
Taught forever about wrong and right
Then they get diagnosed, something is not alright,
 The Parents are by the child, at its side,
As they bury conviction, suppress emotions,
Weeks may pass, months perhaps,
Where their inner anger clouds decision,
Constructing rationale for irrational thought,
And just about this time, these ideas start making sense,
To have no choice, no other option
To feel a sense of failure,
For first the self, and then the child,
Soon it travels to all extensions in your life,
Finally that feeling of failure turns to blame,
It’s everybody else’s fault to which everything falls apart
But the infant does not know, cannot understand,
And derision it is deadly to the touch, deadlier without,

To the child tears and sobs become the sounds and sights of life,
At least to the one they know, they life they will soon recognize,
Themselves as the center, the cause,
Just looking for a reason to be wrong,
But that comfort never comes,
First comes reflection, then a connection, finally an acceptance,
At this point rehabilitation is years long and rivers wide,
For all the misunderstanding they’ve since mastered,
And from each tear they’ve ever crafted,
But these ones are still able for rescue,
Then there are the others,
Those who’ve lost all comfort from a tear,
They’ve since moved to closets in the dark,
Removing so much of what is real,
They create a detached composite, a comfort zone,
All this pain easily evaded, if the parent chose to do what mattered most,
Instead of allowing fear to dictate what matters to them most,
If they only did their job, at least if they tried to,
The outcome much different perhaps, the child’s life changed a fact
The child’s life changed, a fact
In situations like this, for example,
I shed my coat and extend an arm,
Where the simplest of embraces to the most desolate of faces,
May extinguish the residue from a life of harm,
These all and many more, are but a few of the reasons, for which I bleed