The Building.

I saw a building built,
As time marched.

I saw little men on rafters,
Walking on its skeleton.

When it was erected,
The machines hummed,
And the hammers clanged.

The lights are on,
It glows like a night bug,
Stationary and omnipotent,
Constricting my pupils,
Invading the evening.

What creature creates,
Something greater,
And larger,
Than its puny self?

Humans:
The animals of progress,
Always striving for more,
But ending with less.

Untitled

I talked to her after an eon,
Over the phone,
And her voice sounded shaky, charged.

The miles separated us,
Her beauty rode on sound waves.

She is a romantic,
Blessed, sensitive.

There are wrinkles below my eyes,
With her name underneath.

I absorbed her problems,
And my heart pumped harder,
With the added weight.

Only A Poet

Only a poet could sense the sea's emotion.

Only a poet could submerge and still breathe.

Only a poet drown himself and live.

Where's the Stimulation?

Where's the stimulation?

I'm back in the land,
Where the wind blows dry sand into eyes,
Where sirens disturb sleep.

I'm back in the land,
Where the sun is weak,
Where the air is hostile.

I'm back in the land,
Where problems loom,
Where threats cackle,
Where temperament wavers.

I'm back in the land of dirty frowns,
Where sadness lodges behind the eyes,
And steps echo lonesomely,
In dark, hollow streets.

Our Connection

The ocean breathes like a proud mother,
Whose expansive breast,
Suckles the thirsty beach.

Her white fingers leap out,
And coldly tickle the hairs on my chest,
Welcoming me into her vibrant folds.

She is playful and innocent,
Though her power over me,
Is immense.

She could drown me
In her waving arms,
If she so chose.

I pray her mood holds,
So that her beauty lasts,
And our connection,
Remains constant.

Interested Eyes

Her eyes brush across mine roughly, like a stiff broom. And when they linger, she leaves red scratch marks on the whites of my eyes. Her rough face appeals to my future, and I am immediately pinpricked.

The bartender is beautiful, dumb, flirtatious: the perfect female. Her eyes are fake, and they melt against my barrier like butter to fire, drizzling slowly, predictably, unimpressively.

The other's eyes are watery and deceptive and tinged with drink. Her self-styled soul leers out from them at this time, but tomorrow it will be protected by the savage wrinkles in her bastard brain. I love and hate her terrible temperament.

And in the midst of it,
I bless myself,
With a semi-magical estrangement.

What Condition is Your Scab In?

The mind is a scab that should not be picked or prodded for it is thin and the fluids beneath are dying to burst. Yet there are not band-aids enough to protect it. It bursts and regrows and bursts and regrows. This is the life cycle of the mind until its demise.

Some people's scabs are ruptured rarely. Others are torn daily. Yet it is difficult to say who is better off. People with pristine scabs know nothing of the mind. It is forever in quarantine, layered by Neosporin. People with mean, pus-riddled scabs have seen the mind's insides spill forth into the daylight. And, like it or not, they have seen and even studied the contents. What condition is your scab in?

Raging Crickets

Tonight, the crickets rage.

Why on earth do they cry out at such a ripe hour? An insignificant assemblage of pitched voices, their grating, chaotic chorus has jarred me quite out of sleep. Together, they have created a sound loud enough to be heard in the subconscious world. It surrounds me, unseen, and cascades against the receiving walls, branding them badly.

The voices are filled with meaningless complaints that are superficial in content and arrogant in persistence. They have stolen my peace and deliberately destroyed their own. I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the evening and am indignant. What insolence!

The crickets sleep in the day, while I sleep night. They know this. Of that I am positive. Why can't they make their banter when the sun is shining and the world is alive? Because the imps take glee in pestering me. I called the police and ordered them to issue a noise ordinance to these unruly neighbors of mine, but they raged and hung up on me. They raged louder than the raging crickets, and there is now a ringing in my ear.

The night is waning fast, and my bloodshot eyes can just make out the insides of my domain. The crickets have finally stopped their raging and are settling down, I assume, in their cool, comfortable beds ready for sleep. They have had a long night of raging.

I'll wait until they are all asleep, and the sun is high. Then I'll walk outside and shout obscenities until the evening comes and my voice is shot.

The Daycare is Aflame

The daycare is aflame,
And the apple-red fire engine,
Is en route,
Wheels turning,
Bells clanging.

The children wail,
Lost in the smoke,
A cacophony of infant fear,
The simplest language in existence.

The daycare is aflame,
And the blood-red fire engine,
Arrives,
Wheels screeching,
Bells quavering.

But the children still wail,
Lost in the smoke,
Because they are alone,
Though rescue be near.

The New Day

A new day dawns in the world of man. It lacks in hope but glints with promise, whose subtle shimmer shortens our breath and quickens our hearts. Blood flows to our appendages with a beautiful speed, enlivening our limbs and animating our slouching, gray brains.

The new day is filled with the simple and understandable. There are few shadows for complexity to breed within. You can close your eyes and still see the light of day through the lids. Outstretch your arm, spread your fingers, and feel the unleavened air dancing upon the tips. It whirls with poetry, the most holy of the sacred arts.

Innocence turns the new day's world. Well-being stretches the sun's warm fingers down to the earth. Contentment throws clear-complexioned, half smiles on the faces of the people.

But it is doubt that brings the moon's lampshade over all. Doubt that the new day may never return. Fear that the zenith has been reached and that the familiar descent has finally begun.

My Will

My will is a wounded bird, whose broken wings twitch with pain and memory. On the gum encrusted pavement it lays beak down and trembling. It is susceptible to all awful predators on the prowl.

My will is a besieged fortress, whose walls are cracked and crumbling. The engines of war pepper it mercilessly. It is always on the brink of collapse.

My will is a starving child who devours all manner of meat thrown its way, regardless of putrefaction and disease. It never learns from painful experience for an irrational hunger bars its logic.

My will is a dying patient in ICU. It only clings to life because it fears what death may bring.

But its fate,

Looms,
On the foreboding horizon.

It came straight from the horse's mouth,

But then you kicked it in the teeth.

A pool of blood has stained the straw.

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This is the body of the working man,
Wiry and thin,
Muscled in strange places,
Aching and quaking,
Chronically fatigued.

This is the body of the working man,
Shiftless and needful,
Addicted and deprived,
Desperate and impulsive.

This is the body of the working man,
Branded by society,
Neglected in health,
Abused by self.

This is the body of the working man,
Breaking slowly,
Aging quickly,
Dying fast.

Dream Ahead

Dream ahead,
Realist,
And wait for the coming dawn.

Already the moon fades,
And uncertainty's veil lifts.

Dream ahead,
In youth and age,
Toward the oasis,
Beyond the swamp.

Ahead are the laughs life owes you,
Ahead depression's debts will be paid,
Ahead lays harmony and good health.

So dream ahead and not behind,
Because the past is dead and oft unkind,
Dream ahead til the end of time.

The Legal Whip

There is a time and a date that the whip will descend. Its daunting shadow grows larger on the marble floor. It approaches his back with every second. His body aches in submission; his knees are red and raw. He wishes he could stand with a proud back, but his posture has been altered.

The small of his soul worries over the future, but its indignant majority spits bile and rebels. The acid grows and grows until his stomach bulges and the lining thins. It'll wreak havoc in his blood soon enough. For the balance has vanished.

Fascism stomps on the fangless breed who hiss and moan and cry and wail before silent shame's sweaty tears taint the defamed faces.

Scarred sockets crater his gums, and a lawyer chews his food for him, smiling cleanly through golden canines before slopping it out onto the pristine plate before him.

I'll hold that sickly porcelain saliva sound within my mind's captive ears forever and ever.

The lawyer's glassy, barrel eyes freeze his blood as he picks up the fork, and brings the retched gruel to his resistant lips.

The jaw creaks open,
And I munch,
And I gag.

America's nylon flutters
And I munch,
And I gag.

I stare at freedom's flag,
And I munch,
And I gag.

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Until the wind blows clear,
And whispers in my ear,
"Never fear!"

I forgot what I was going to write.
Honesty is a bad trait...
I forgot what I was going to write.

It was so profound,
It spun me around,
I danced to its sound.

But I forgot what I was going to write.
A left handed habit kills.
I forgot what I was going to write.