the crowd rolls in

poetry

like shared experience so far removed
from their reality
we find no one to share it with
foot is placed in front of foot
and decisions are made as though
everything is normal when
everything is definitely not normal
and you find yourself standing
in a crowd holding things you cannot
explain
but no one is wondering about them
for they cannot begin to fathom

The ground once cold will become warm again

poetry

At the end of the tunnel, the winter’s wind threatens

But he has done everything as planned

excellent grades/wife/house/kids

he has done everything on time

and in order.

The sky can sink and disappear

Him, he has done everything as planned

If the sun shines today,

it’s out of rivalry with the one

who learned how to become his own best ally.

But at the horizon,

the winter’s wind hurls in its furrows

a golden scythe which moves to cut

the tall rigid grasses at the end of their season.

His uprooted and fragmented existence quietly goes

into hiding between the empty rows of a library,

the blank space between words in the book of the living

forever dwelling there till it doesn’t matter anymore.

Gas, food, and lodging

poetry

In that welcome phrase
is found all of the necesities
of a happy, joyous life,
traveling the road,
going to and fro,
never stopping, always moving,
observing, trying, surviving,
new things, new adventures, new places,
new people, new voices, new faces,
seeing giant balls of string,
and giant bells that ring,
towers that scrape the sky,
and fields that roll before the eye.
For what else is there for longing
after gas, food, and lodging?

on thoughts and things you forgot

poetry

left alone to my own devices
i find the thoughts i’ve pursued
lead to the emptiness at the end
of the same hallway from the night
on which
thinking i was alone i stepped into
the dark to search out the movement
is sensed and when you jumped
out to say a big ‘boo’ i
nearly scraped my head on the ceiling

and then wondering why i came to
the conclusions i did
i go back to my poor habits
leading further into darkness the fear
encapsulating my emerged emotions

graphite crap

poetry

the tip of my pencil is no longer made
from lead but i’m told has been swapped
for something called graphite
they claim it will kill me much slower
but i’m afraid before it begins to affect
my body or even my brain it has already
killed my plight

for if that which i use to write with has
no affect on the longevity of my life
i find i must seek for acidic paper
or take up drugs while writing so i can
bleed over these pages and hope
the future holds something terrible
as i spit out my fears on the page

begging the last few words will somehow
be dabbled in blood from my sweat filled
brow.

alas, i’m too hopeful and perhaps too healthy
which helps my dreams for the future

we cannot say we feel your pain, only that we will not forget you mumbai

poetry

anyone who ever said
that life was good
and could be done
by anyone
never slept in a bed
while the building next door
exploded and shook
the whole room until
we stood in the door way
hoping (and then pray
ing) we would live to see
another day

no one who ever talked
such a way knows what it really
is to lose and loss so numbing
they forget to pass on the wisdom
to the next generation

orgasmic states

poetry

Hurtling along these highway streets,
traveling through the night
as the music pounds its way
into my head, heart, soul
driving!
Pushing!!
POUNDING!!!
faster!
Further!!
HARder!!!
HARDER!!!!
into the night,
into the darkness,
into the music,
wherever it may lead

bloody nose

poetry

this was a stinging
critique on love,
and the insanity of it
or the insanity of me
and my bipolar disorder
and my anxiety
and my hatred
and how i’ve probably not trusted a soul my entire life and have subsequent problems doing so in the present or any forsee-able future,
but it ended up
dead as the leaves
replaced with something
now as i re-read it,
decidedly more dead
and probably
better.