Protection

I want to bury her in my body,
And shield her from the warring world.

And I will let its savage spears,
Pick my flesh to pieces,
While she stays sensitive,
And painlessly petite,
Inside my arms.

Youth's Last Lament

Youth's last lament,
Shivers at its eulogy,
Suffers at new prospects,
Wipes the sweat from its brow,
Weeps over loss,
And stares amazedly into the distance.

The Sad Day

That day was a sad day. One filled with strange emotions, empty efforts, shattered hearts. Your right ventricle now lays in the toilet bowl; it is completely submerged. The clear water is colored, red. I can only envision its awful taint and smell its putrid pain.

But what a cleansing flush it could be! Your heart was festering, I recognize the feeling. Let the blue water sterilize and renew. Let your bout with death open your psyche and bring you peace. Let your depressive disease rot in the city's sewers along with the woes of all those who feel pain as strongly as you.

Flush your right ventricle down the pipes. I know you can make do with the left one.

Those who grapple with death understand life. And only those who understand life behold the roots of the universe. It is true that the roots are sickly, shriveled, and plague-ridden. It is true that the dirt that nourishes them is filled with maggots, over-nourished maggots who writhe in spasmodic horror.

Yet we must breathe it in, we must taste the mud, we must digest that putrescence. It is a duty unconsciously placed upon our shoulders by the unenlightened. It is our duty as responsible, intelligent citizens of Earth. What we have is a blessed curse. It is the unasked-for power of the poet. Its unending burn blisters the soul.

We are all buzzing flies in the stagnant air. But there is a web that was spun by who knows what, and a Black Widow lurks at the very center. And some of us get caught in the net and struggle and struggle. The more we struggle the more entangled we become, and our buzzing cries are ignored by the world at large. Some of us stop struggling and will the eight-legged predator to descend and drain our lifeblood with her painless fangs. We are fearful and enervated at the same time, and her poison deadens our senses at the very end. We smile as consciousness languidly slips away. Reality becomes nothing but a bad dream.

But us flies can sense a threat; it is our communal duty to save our kin. And so we slash the web with the most natural love beating in our hearts. It is a love that should be louder than thunder and is lightninged by the moment.

The Vacationer's Outlook

I want the vacationer's outlook to take hold of me again. It is light and airy. It is filled with buoyant promise. It makes one glad to be young and joyful to be alive. You feel life's color and are awestruck by its beauty. There is a joke beneath every grimace, a sun behind every cloud. You owe everything to yourself and are obligated to no one. You are free of society's claws. You can laugh like a maniac and effortlessly shrug off public disdain, urinating wherever you please.

Happiness?

I am going to write of happiness.

Of children laughing and rainbows blooming,
Of lovers living and suns smiling,
Of candy raining and colors golden,
Of linear houses and pearl teeth,
Of Christian minds and ignorant options,
Of dirty money and awful laws,
Of grim slavery and social hells.

Happiness lies at the top of a beer.

Laughter

Laughter, intelligent laughter.

I feel it tickle my face and swell my stomach. It feels transient, but I know it could last if the vengeful fates only granted it. I smile and look to the skies, and see the stars, and their light crinkles my eyes.

Laughter, lovely laughter.

It's the medicine that the country needs. It's the balm the working class lacks, for the rich have monopolized it. Their lazy laughter is stung by dollar signs. Let it lift the woes away.

Laughter, orgasmic laughter.

Light as a feather, but sunk in premonition. Fearful of the future. I feel happiness at last. Let it last, and last, and last, and last.

To Hide Behind Shelter...

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. For the wind freezes the bones and strips the skin. When the skin is stripped the bones are bare. The homeless know this. See their rags.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Have you ever ran before its might? It chases me wherever it goes. My hair is ever ruffled.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Huddle against the concrete column; feel the dying warmth of the sleeping sun as the night's dramatic wings flap with anguish.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Let the shelter stand until the body can't feel. Then the wind may buffet me as much as it wants, my teeth won't chatter, and my Heart will slow.

I Return Again.

My heater is finally working. I had sat, trembling, willing the machine to function. I had sat, staring, hating its unwillingness to respond. It was the impotence that disturbed me. That frustrating helplessness is the first stage of despair, and the start of incompetence. Incompetence is the muddy bog one trods through when dumped in the land of depression. It feels endless, and it often is.

But my heater is finally working. I feel my lifeblood resurfacing. My eyes have opened. My brain is ticking. My breath is fruitful.

I am the Prince of the Deep. And I have emerged from a scorched landscape to come here now. Gaze into my eyes and see my far off pain. Paint my portrait and catch the craters in the background but don't forget the foreground's laughter.

I am the Prince of the Deep because my heater runs once more. I return from the grave with a smile on my face and a glow on my skin. Come to me for warmth. Stretch your hands toward me and absorb the comforting hum--now while it lasts.

I am the Prince of the Deep. My name is irrelevant; my presence is critical. I am at war with the Czar's Army of the Shallow. I am meticulous in my bloodlust. My glimmering sword points to the capitol. It thirsts for oppression.

I am the Prince of the Deep. I am both magician and teacher. I smile forever and hate no more. My scorn is comical; my laughter lies just below the murky surface.

I am the Prince of the Deep, and I return again because I have regained my equilibrium.

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.