Steal this poem.

He came over the hill

equipped with the time

But had no idea

Of the things he'd find:

Amongst the strange glow brewing with trouble,

Lay the remains of the sane mixed in the jungle of rubble

And what's worse is we discover

That the lips of another

Flutter from the tongue and cheek of this month's week

But before we begin with digitized lies,

Let's not forget that the beginning of "why's"

Lies not at the end of a corroded liver

But rather is delivered with blisters

So expose your gums to your audience

To let them know that you're serious

And remember to repeat this sermon

Determined on leaning how to spot vermin:

Look past the lies that lie on lion's teeth

Read in between the lines of a tiger's striped sheets

Don't trust the spots that cheetah's tend to speak

And never let the panther persuade that today is this month's week

False prophecies.

I hoped for sun to do the undone

But it's rays only chose to blind me

I prayed for rain but it never came

So I prayed for hail and lightning

Black and yellow.

In spite of what you may have heard

I'm not dead

Yes in spite of the crushed lungs, chipped teeth and holes in my head

Pause

Reflect

Remember when progression left

A bleeding heart tied to the back of a crow rains blood of a new

Irrational passion passing through

from the end of this tounge to the tips

of my fingers that fly like this

Pause and reflect, remember all that I truly miss

But know when to move on

Move on like this

From a child on the swing crying from a bee-sting

The bastard flew in my ear

I just heard a buzz and smacked my head like that

My brain rang as salt water adorned my face

and that's just one memory that I haven't erased

But the days of sorrow in that place

Can't be an excuse of the trials I now face

So move on

Still got oil in your blood and an engine in your brain

gears for guts and a heart that sustains

Somehow after all these years

So move on

Come on and move on

the dead deer in the lake are gone

so move on

come on and move on

sad crying clown in an iron lung

Hell hath no fury

Like a mind in a hurry

Repeating sermons in tongues

Wearing through the holes in our lungs

Our hearts need more resting

So let it be known

Our thoughts won't be shown

Before ends of friends show their faces

Carcinogens begin again leaving familiar places

If we hand fingers, we'd count our blessings

Show up some time

You and I will chew the rind

Of hospitalized hoaxes we have to offer

As slow as the grind we pursue with such honor

Filled with the bliss we've been investing

It's going to be a long summer.

So it whispered under a listener's breath:

If you kill the Sunshine

You'll always live in night

As cancer grows in blossoming fruit

To dilute the truth as she dies with youth

Leave the leaves to the trees

And the roots to the dirt

Both the fools and the thieves

Know hatchets in stumps hurt

Yet dumb flirts fling in reverse

And blistered cheeks seek payment for pursuits

If a crimson moon grins kindly

Can the tide reflect chartreuse?

Or is there any use in trying to decipher

Troops of letters that have nothing better

Than to be some sort of therapy

During the change of weather

I ask...

I stand steadfast within the mast of a half black cast
There are thoughts which gleam somewhere in between you and me
Lost within selfish thoughts that ought not come into question at this point
But the way the tree sways rarely decides where the tides will end up crashing
The salute of passing time documented on the demented section of heraldic heretic's questions
At the last forthcoming of wrath racked on Atlas' back
And the rots of the have and half-knots deem with the lighting
Blotting out the worms in a raven's broken beak that speaks in tongues that anoint
Although we know that such things are for those who find home in fasting the everlasting
Depriving one's heart of the ends and the start too smart for a hope and love worth mentioning
Saw off the limbs and clever whims that clash
With rigged bowels back-lashed over trash not taken out to sea
To choke with smoke and oil laced boils attracting light of a dying joint
Where we drink to deliver livers to the shivering quivers our hands are sustaining
Without complaining about feigning maintaining of an obese thesis of modern determinations
Growing within the pours of the poor like a rash
Empty men start again without learning the vital points of being a being
Swallowing pride until insides subside like flies flying in the ointment's mouth
And the queries and theories started then scribbled out begin a routine remaining
The ego cannot slow down by a smile defeating the frown if there is no inner revelations
So sew the few left rights by sipping at a flask
Ruining a serene scene of the cracks and what lies in between such things
If the point of a finger is dull enough to linger on inane memories gone south
Should it not be bent back to the owner's bones broken by bowing a head now failing
Yet sailing on a journey now turning intestines invested in questions of our own creations?

good.night

sleeping pills and booze seem to soothe

the things i choose to do

the calming tone of a cigarette seems to calm the thoughts

i manifest

at best i can't recall when my eyes stayed on the ball

and i could shut out the world with a word

A little legend of the dance.

She was a dancer. Her hair seemed to lead the way. Forecasting each step. To and fro. To and fro.

The sun grew a smile as he shed light on our sin. A beggar asked for changed when he knows such things come within.

Still she danced.

The Earth opened wide, said come on inside. A child's clothes collected static as he slid down the slide.

Still she danced.

The moon frowned down, as if to say goodnight. I repeated said phrase, as if to be polite.

Still she danced.

God laughed and teased at all the thoughts he stirred. I took a couple pills and drinks as my vision blurred.

Still she danced.

The light dimmed and the room began to spin. A beggar asked for change when he knows such things come from within.

And she fell asleep without him.

Pour another. It's still early.

I'm going to stab through a rainbow

Stand under the black black rain

I'm going to shake my fist towards the sky

When I know I'm to blame

Put the car in neutral

To match a similar life

Where blades of grass see their maker

And we stare at wrists in hopes that time

Will make it all better

Will make this sweater

Transparent

So I can finally see three hands telling me

That it will be okay

As long as the crops get watered

Drawn Out

I draw self-portraits with a ruler. In frames with blood-stains, it's ominously honest. These days the conversations taste like morning sickness vomit. Make-shift bull-shit of wit makes up for most of it. The desire to spill my guts is heavy, but the confessions won't let me mention their secrets. So I swat at flies as I caress the emptiness of a hallowed out chest. And I ask myself as If I care: Was there ever anything there or has this body always been so bare? Slow-motion Sundays hum in a familiar tone. My sheets are still dirty, yet my bed is tired and alone. Airplanes shake my dreams awake. Adorn me with cold sweat and headaches. If I said I knew what I was doing, I'm not sure what I meant. If only it were easier. If only I had a clue. Even with a compass, I couldn't draw you.

Meet me in the mourning.

Tonguing a hole in my molar, I dropped change into the metal slot.
I nodded my head, shuffled past the old folks, and picked a fitting spot.
My breath on the cold bus window grew a circle of unflossed distortion.
As we jerked forward, my hope scoured for the warmth of the rising sun.
And there she was, her gray hair matching the mood.
I looked at the seat next to me, hoping she would too.

Her hips popped as she lowered herself by my breath.
She said, "By god, son. You look like you know regret."
The past years legibly on my face, I decided not to lie for once.
Guarded, yet honest, my lips spoke to their slim audience:
"You might be right about that, dear, but I'll tell you where you're wrong;
Life is something to detest at best and should never be lived so long."

Her thought process, not what it was in her youth,
Gave me a stare, blanketing me with the heat of truth.
But when the over-sized coffin on wheels hit a dip,
What broke in that old lady was more than her fragile hips.
Several people watched and some even laughed.
As brittle hair fell into my lap with her head attached.

It was a sight to see, especially so early in the morning.
Of course, bodies are fickle things and can fall apart without warning.
Fingering her face, my digits sunk into her dry and sticky sockets.
Joining my remaining change, I shoved her wrinkled face into my waiting pocket.
The sun crept up, as if to tell us that we hadn't missed it.
With a pull of the cord, a red sign blinked NEXT STOP REQUESTED.

The doors flung open and I let myself out.
I said, "Keep going, but I know a better route."

For: Boo Boo, Seymour, Holden, Theodore, the Dufarges and more.

Just for tonight, listen as I write.
And know wet words on screens cause fires.
Typed by bony hands that beg to understand
how someone so low can dream of somewhere higher.
Think of a wish, be it flying with the fish,
or finally making a speech in a public setting.
It won't come true. At least not for you.
So, son, pack your things and start regretting.
Write a last good-bye, wet a couple eyes,
we say, "be safe" but really mean, "stay away"
Catch the next car, near by ain't far,
at least, not enough for the likes of you.
Polka-dotted handkerchiefs and baked beans on chapped lips
are in fictitious bits for children's books and cartoons.
While life on the tracks, halos are black
clouds that rain on a sunny day in the afternoon.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new town.
With newer shoes, and older news,
you could fit in with those highs now, not the downs.
And there's the dream and goal for the youth getting old.
Convinced a new home can drown out the old cracked wood
of your childhood tree-house or father with a new spouse.
Anywhere you go, ain't going to be no good.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new life.
But each suit that suits the likes of you
won't have big enough pockets for your switchblade knife.
So put it down.