Think about me

I am the keeper of many things:
Idle breaths,
momentary fantasies,
the ardent desires of your heart,
illicit thoughts that purge your soul.
They all reside with me,
tamed under the supervision of an irascible bravado,
walled by years of carnal knowledge,
only to be set free by the humble remorse of your being.
I am your conscience

made for each other

Insanity begets insanity
just as misery loves company.
My unfulfilled promisies
sharpen your angst
as we attempt to cajole
hand in hand down our aisle.
Empty fervors regurgitate from our lips
as we recite age old pronouncements.
So dear, take not my hand
and abide not by my words
because these vows are empty.

For you

Grief abides
with tear soaked eyes
as my hand comforts her thighs
and back.
Stale midnight breath
only knows what was spoken
offering words as a token
as she copes with a heart that was broken,
trying to understand.
Drawing from within
to me she cried
in me did she confide
feelings for one who had died
so underservedly.
Shed not your tears,
because all is not lost,
and all life comes with a cost
ours was paid for on the cross,
be not afraid.
Baby take comfort
with each sunrise
comes new bright eyes
and the abundance of lives,
grief ebbs with time.
I love you

Is there room for me

My fettered consciousness
suffers from acute economic starvation.
My life is positioned
under The Thumb,
with guided breaths
and guided steps;
sloshed through
the trough of life
and ushered into place.
The stagnant air
serves as a constant reminder
of the low ceiling
that is my zenith.
Aspirations dashed
as gravity massages the acrid taste
of reality down my throat.
Defined lines and
"divine" placement
express the unnatural order of things.
Everyone knows whats good for me
just as long as I remember my place.

Anchored

Begirded by introspective reflection
averting the outwardly critical eyes
for self deprecation has far more ubiquitous implications.
We examine our rapport with fair-weather associates
against the palette of social intimacy.
Guided by the false winds of pressure
we find ourselves compromising our shore
corroding our very foundation.
We drift far from our standards
only to find we are ill-equipped for our return.

Pause

Intimacy hesitates
in the shadow cast between us.
The passing of time has not drawn us nigh,
nor has it harkened reconciliation’s draft,
rather, it fills the void with this intangible space.
Seemingly innocuous statements
carry peculiar weight,
transfiguring tentacles
calculating the distance between us.
Feigned ambivalence and
heavy-handed words from dry breath
define my betrayal.
Pushing to pull:
because embracing hands are the sign of weakness.
Two pawns positioning themselves in boundless battle;
light’s liberation dare not enter
and disturb our shadow of doubt.

Proverbs of a repubate mind revisited

I am not who you think I am,
I am not who I pretend to be
I am not who I believe I am,
I am not my reflection.
I am an amorphous sac
attached by a cord of breath,
sating the libidos
of passerbyes.
Inhale, exhale,
ingest me,
until I am used up.
What’s your fancy?
I am a liar, a cheat, and a devourer of idylls,
a raper of innocence spewing profane guile,
I am your disparate tones of infidelity,
your irreconcilable lies justified in truths.
Drink of me,
but do so in secret;
the best indulgences are always in secret.
Hide me away in your heart
wear not my scent on your skin
lest my name linger on your breath
and all will know of your indiscretion.


All my desires, my contents, my visions are as fleeting as the winter wind, one step ahead but ever embracing. It is like I strive for failure. I win at failure, mediocre at best. I am drowning with my eyes above water level. I can see and feel everything coming to fruition but I just can’t quite get there. I build my empire with fallible mortar, who am I to judge, I have no foundation. A king of nothing, desolate, emptiness, I reign supreme. When is it my time? The list has to be complete, who will attend, where will it be, too many loose ends to tie, the time isn’t right now. I am so afraid of who I have become, it is almost as if I have become what I despise. I don’t even know who I am or where I stand. I see shame in my reflection, I see disappointment, I see a façade, but I don’t see me. Somehwhere beneath all that refuse must lie a person, a person who thinks and feels, has an identity, has a focus, has a goal. Where are you, where have you been and why have you let this man’s life get so cluttered and confused? Its your turn to clean up the sully mess, this has gone on for way too long, you are delinquent in every sense of the word. But as you fade into the background, beneath the shadows, redemption comes, staring at you in the mirror.

Cold Intimacy

I love with numb passion.
My flesh lies with you,
but my thoughts,
elsewhere.
I imitate actions,
mimicking my perception
of what love is
to you.
Just enough to keep you.
You may have my body,
but my heart,
You will never have.

Actuated

Random lines
from an uninspired poet.
My pen taxies
across the page,
spewing utterances
from a Zen mind:
Nothing
is something,
When you don’t have anything.

Absence

Where have you been
as the leaves have mulched
into the compost that is your life.
Undisturbed tremors
quiet my quickened soul.
Words won’t let me
advocate my heart’s position.
Our judas embrace domiciles
in the abscess of time
where they buried my love,
face down
seven feet deep.

Parting Touch

We awkwardly progress together
with the uncertain
propelled steps of a fledgling.
Passion bridling our brio
channeled by the gnarled hand of love.
Our lives fraught with battles,
free will vs. commitment,
expressio unius est exclusio alterius.
Inept,
I have to let you go
because I commit treason
on the object I have scabbled.
Hellos fade into goodbyes,
the bitterness
a klatch on your tongue,
a corset to your dreams.
The undulating extraordinary tales
that reverberated off of your fantasies
have lost their color,
and like the greys of yesterday
they are engulfed in the shadow of history.

The well settled Triplet

His deception averts her minds eye.
viewing through an opaque lens,
her jaded perception
functions on the arbitrary
and capricious levels
of a guidance counselor
bedaubed with ineffectualness.
With his misguided love
he has widdled her existence
into his nothingness.
Prescribing balms
for her soon to be empty
existence.


Emotionally betrayed
by a comforting tongue.
Our argot
now laiden with discord.
My ears now know
my souls discomfort.
Completely unsettled,
I rummage
amongst the refuse
to find my dignity
and self respect.


The beginning is merely an
introduction to the end.
Whispers of demise
ride the tail end
of summers breath
gazing on a blossom
that only knows its bloom.
It strains toward the sun
only to be pruned by its planter.
No one knows the end
until it slips in
and takes your breath away.

Two for you

Slumped in a silent chair,
the transgressing lines on her face
sing the melancholy song of a love
that was lost.
“I’ve been busy
waiting for you,
and you’ve been busy
Forgetting me.”
Words,
her burden
Silence,
her safe haven.
Uncried tears flow inside
quelling the passive rage.
“Goodbye,”
perched on her lips
but it will not fly,
burdened by her spirits
she cannot give it leave.
Instead it clings
like the residue of kiss,
so precious, yet so futile.
Loneliness awaits its departure.
What good are memories?
simply devices to avoid reality,
a personal time machine logged in our thoughts.
Cloaking herself in unhappiness
she hazards out into the free world.


Now thrown back into the gene pool
a breeding ground for the undesirables.
Her barren womb
now lay fallow,
for no seed
will ever take root
in this parched land,
killing all the birds and bees
from the moon to the swinging trees.

Scrivener

Simple strokes of graphite
etch temporal markings
into the sea of composition.
Carving fleeting characters
in an arranged marraige
ascribing meaning.
Emissaries and diplomats of a mind
delivered in credible form,
advocating their position
confirming their presupposed existence.
Accepting eyes and inclined ears
are a welcomed audience to my sequacious ambivalence.

Manifesto

Like a 1970’s porno flic, or the sound of loose change in your grandfather’s pockets, they can hear you coming a mile away. They know the game, they know your m.o., but there is something about your profligate nature that they can’t shake. You are the bad good boy, with that heart of gold, but the tongue and mind of a car salesman. Like a pool cube, your straightness specious, but put that bad boy on the table, watch him roll and let the truth be told. Just like your father, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, just far enough for refined replication. But your father, and his father and his father before him lay espial, ever vigilant, engendering this uncontrollable obeisance that has been engrained since birth. “You are your father’s son,” your sobbing mother whispered to you in your sleep. You are forever marked with this scarlet letter, an indelible trait in your dna, never errant, constantly augmented and masked like a virus, but always participating. We can only hope to ensconce the outward symptoms or manifestations of this illness, but it is deeply rooted coursing through your veins, recharged with every breath.

Sifting through the ashes of my actions,
Can I say it was all worth it?
Mind altering cocktails
offering potent rocks of delusion,
lubricating parcels of lies packaged as gospel.
Forked tongue utterances:
twice deceiving,
twice beguiling,
delivering messages from an honest heart,
from a disconnected mouth.
Actions guided by the wolf who knows the truth.
What is the truth?
If the truth be told then lies are bounded.
Fortified in a chambers of veracity,
taming the lies.
Little white lies slip,
sometimes getting jumbled with the truth.
So if the truth be told,
it’s tainted with a whisper of lie.