Fortuna ~ Monday, 28 October 2019

Some people are lucky, 

on the sidewalk they find 

money, twenty dollars, 

exchange it for quick picks, 

play the lottery, wait, 

end up a big winner, 

on the sidewalk, homeless 

people asleep, reach down, 

leave them twenty dollars, 

exchange their luck for hope, 

act wisely, help others, 

reinvest the winnings, 

exchange hope for success, 

leave others better off, 

understand finances, 

create the conditions, 

kiss the world goodbye, die, 

yet, leave a legacy. 

Vruvvi ~ Sunday, 27 October 2019

Life is short. Make the best with what you have. This moment will never happen again. Magic occurs when things fall into place. If we try to force magic to happen we control nothing but our discontent. Happiness and unhappiness are both simply passing phases, ephemeral, fleeting as emotions and memories, without content to ground reality. When we choose to make the right decisions, to embrace reality as it is, to let go of control, just let things be, magic occurs and time becomes immense, not our personal time, but time itself, the many facets of the diamond mind. Be good to yourselves, kind to each other. Love, support and trust builds relationships, care, compassion and consideration make communication open and free. To disregard this message, to ignore the spirit of freedom and liberty, hard won through struggles with adversity, is to accept your own experience, and let the wisdom of others convey the truth you cannot as yet understand. Life is short. We don't get a second chance. Make this moment work, live in this moment. The past and future are only figments of our imagination, the present, this moment, is the gift we give away. Embrace her, then let her go, a strong hug. We live for these fleeting moments, make peace. 

Unsatisfactoriness ~ Sunday, 27 October 2019

Duḥkha arises with disappointment, 

in circumstances beyond my control, 

seeing events unfold, watching mistakes 

arrive at my front door, the money spent, 

packages of useful items like shoes, 

parcels arrive, but do not fit, too small, 

only my feet are no larger, sour grapes, 

in the same vein, I become like a fox, 

nothing ventured, nothing gained, still I lose, 

the whole endeavor to solve the problem, 

mentally takes its toll, a marathon 

ends badly only if it's badly run, 

no runner wants to race in old shoes, gone 

to the dogs, duḥkha arrives with each box.

Genuflect ~ Saturday, 26 October 2019

As Mr. Gabidar descends 

briskly the pale gray concrete steps, 

under the second floor window 

left open in July, he finds 

lost from her comrades, a bullet, 

entire, unused, dropped by mistake, 

troubled by this strange encounter 

on his way to work, he glances 

nowhere especially profound, 

as the metal jacket glistens, 

catching his eye, he stoops to snatch 

otherwise dangerous ordnance, 

nimbly reaching down to pocket 

cartridge case carelessly misplaced, 

reeling from his find, Gabriel 

ends up going back up the stairs, 

turning the key inside its lock, 

entering the front door and up...

slipping on the marble staircase, 

twisting his ankle at the top, 

only the bullet in his hand 

opens fire on impact, shooting 

pain into Mr. Gabidar... 

close call, the bullet grazed his cheek, 

left hand singed by spent cartridge, 

only his humility lost, 

saved by his own misadventure, 

even his boss could not believe, 

but found on the doctor's report, 

yes, Mr. Gabidar skipped work, 

a nurse bandaged his face and hand, 

smothering him in the process, 

miserable Mr. Gabidar 

on the phone to his wife explains 

the problem of proximity 

he encounters with strange people, 

except she has much more concern 

regarding his welfare than hear 

insipid remarks on nurses, 

noting her indifference to him 

giving her all his frustrations, 

she tells him she's glad he's okay, 

only then he realizes 

under different circumstances, 

the fact he's alive and breathing 

has not dawned on him otherwise, 

everyday is an adventure, 

recognizing the southern sea, 

nestled on a map of Europe, 

seems to awaken Gabriel, 

ever attentive to details 

and strange things out of place, his life 

surfaced like the sea, spreadeagled, 

placed on the globe with intention, 

resourceful Greek sailors swept past, 

ever so playfully, his mind, 

a thought arose and disappeared, 

disappeared behind a locked door, 

eagles of the Aegean Sea, 

as he sat in a hard wheelchair, 

given his slight frame, his buttocks 

longed to rest on a gurney bed, 

even better his bed at home, 

difficult to explain his need, 

on the face of things, to get up, 

not say anything and just leave, 

a hospital is no island, 

no indeed, his home was a mile 

in the direction of sunrise, 

since the sun rises in the east, 

little did he see his logic 

and how bewildered he appeared, 

no, he needed cognitive tests 

done before he could leave, to see 

behind the facade of his face, 

yes, this eccentric little man 

must face hospital staff for hours, 

yesterday, he could not foresee 

kind people paying attention 

not to his warped sense of humor, 

even though, hospital staff laugh, 

emergencies take precedence. 

---

Acrostic Format Derived From: 

"Henry's Confession" by John Berryman 

A bullet on a concrete stoop 

close by a smothering southern sea 

spreadeagled on an island, by my knee. 

Icarus ~ Saturday, 26 October 2019

Is it any wonder 

      when a poet ponders, 

            "The future may be full 

                  of second thoughts, no doubt." 

Second thoughts flutter by 

      on wings of butterflies, 

            egrets without regrets 

                  crane their necks at a crash. 

If we fly close enough 

      to the sun the heat melts 

            our spacecraft to a pool 

                  of atoms, particles 

time forgot, remember 

      we once walked on this earth 

            among giants, egos 

                  so grand we buried them 

all inside pianos, 

      not baby grands, mind you, 

            but giant pianos,  

                  we cut a deal, coffins 

nobody wants to rest 

      in for eternity, 

            or until the Rapture, 

                  if you believe in hope,  

yesterday, feathers fell 

      from the sky, imagine 

            our spacecraft entering 

                  the atmosphere on fire. 

Window washers stand tall 

      on a highrise platform, 

            the wind plays tricks, jostles 

                  the workers during lunch, 

on a lark, the wind blows 

      hard, sending them flying, 

            in Chicago, it takes 

                  firefighters a moment, 

no longer, to respond, 

      the call to save people 

            trapped in circumstances 

                  beyond their control, takes 

determination, guts, 

      focus to see beyond 

            the problem at hand, view 

                  a solution to help 

endangered immigrants, 

      the only folks willing 

            to risk their necks to wash 

                  windows not worth cleaning 

really, who wants to die 

      falling from skyscrapers, 

            we may have second thoughts 

                  if we ponder their fate. 

---

Acrostic Format Derived From: 

"Terminus" by Seamus Heaney

Is it any wonder 
when I thought 
I would have second 
thoughts?

Undocumented ~ Thursday, 24 October 2019

The desert neglects to advise people 

how important it is to drink water, 

even the cacti know how to hydrate, 

left to their own devices, immigrants, 

on condition of anonymity, 

neglect to observe the border crossing, 

enter the desert without a compass, 

as if hoping for a miracle, ghosts 

neglect to inform them they are now ghouls, 

damned to walk the desert until their bones 

leave the level plane of desiccated 

earth, sand hard-packed, pressed 

      into massive sheets, 

volume density based on saline mass, 

even long before Christ died on the Cross, 

left forsaken by his own disciples, 

sand is a bounteous commodity 

as much as water is one limited 

not so much by the heat, but the axis 

determined every twenty thousand years, 

seems time evaporates on a grand scale, 

still, the immigrants and their families 

take into account that within a week 

reasonable activity will cause 

eventual, inevitable death, 

trusting in God and the Holy Spirit, 

chances are they will die, Heaven can wait, 

humans disappear among the cacti, 

foreigners seek the American Dream, 

adversity builds character, water 

restores humanity against systems 

ancient as Ozymandias himself, 

wasting away, the desert dismantles 

archaic, obsolete forms, a statue 

yields to no one, broken, crushed into sand. 

---

Acrostic Format Derived From: 

"Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley 

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Le Parfum ~ Saturday, 19 October 2019

Onions, parsley, and garlic simmer down, 

fragrant in the kitchen, a splash of oil, 

restless in the skillet, imbues the air, 

emanates in eminent aromas, 

sensible with a nose for savory 

tempestuous affairs between oysters, 

left waiting for reprieve from the head chef, 

en attendant Godot, in her office, 

silence from the governor means sure death, 

still life, better than the electric chair, 

nights last an eternity in prison, 

insane fellow felons screaming their lungs 

green from gastric juices, drunk with despair, 

humans go stir crazy without options, 

their freedoms selectively stripped of hope, 

stripped naked in a cell with their faeces, 

ignorant guards ignore the screams, or taunt 

notably ignoble inmates with rape, 

one-night stands in cheap motels, 

      rundown dives 

noted for vice squad raids for prostitutes, 

elegantly-dressed in tattered fur coats, 

narcotics abound with sleazy pushers, 

insisting smack addicts use their product, 

gin and tonic for the night manager, 

hungry sex addicts crave the attention 

tawdry laced sex workers offer clients, 

cheap as sparrows chattering in the bush, 

helpless, haunted, hungry for what their wives 

elect not to offer their staid husbands, 

advocates for unadventurous lives, 

prostitutes from Eastern Europe adore 

humble bankers, doctors, lawyers with cash, 

old men with their erectile dysfunctions, 

trembling with Parkinson's disease, forget 

even how to untie their shoe laces, 

letting the sex workers do all the work, 

servants to their master, Andrew Jackson. 

Angry, frustrated housewives cannot find 

neutral tones on their blank canvas, they scan 

descending lines for coordinate points, 

slumping in their chairs, sawdust at their feet, 

as they eat Oysters over Angel Hair, 

women discuss the taste of the garlic, 

demonstrating a subtle awareness, 

understanding intuitively what 

salt accentuates flavor in dishes 

tossed with Parmigiano-Reggiano, 

restaurateurs watch their patrons enter, 

eat, and leave, taking their conversations, 

struck in earnest, in appreciation 

that time with good friends is fleeting, at best, 

at worst, non-existent, empty as space 

under the watchful eye of the head chef, 

rested from a short nap on her chaise longue, 

ants appear from on high, people down low, 

nothing but the older ladies painting 

their still life studies of a bowl of fruit, 

simply adorned on a wooden table, 

wicked read, Shark's Fin & Sichuan Pepper, 

in her spare time, the head chef 

      digests lunch, 

troubled by her brother and twin sisters, 

her mind needs rest but seeks out adventure, 

only who has time cash to travel, 

yes, when she was a student she studied 

subtle odors in Paris and New York, 

thinking she would create new fragrances, 

ending up in a kitchen cooking soups, 

reality sets in when it's too late, 

simply apply the mortar to the bricks, 

hindsight consoles egrets of their regrets, 

exiting the revolving door, ladies 

lift their wet canvases with a light touch, 

little do they believe their art worthwhile, 

some painters take years before they use red. 

---

Acrostic Format Derived From: 

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot (lines 6-7)

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 

Miles ~ Wednesday, 16 October 2019

The rage my father had slept deep inside, 

he transferred the energy, his demons, 

electricity passed into my brain, 

rage transfers, a chemical reaction, 

anger elicits attention, fight, flight, 

gin and tonic, rum and coke, whiskey neat, 

endless supplies release with a beverage, 

murder never entered my mind, to kill, 

yes, to kill them in their sleep, too easy, 

fuck me if you think I want to enter 

an exclusive club, juvenile felons, 

take your horseshit justice system, 

      get stuffed, 

heat I can take, but they fucked me for life, 

even at fifty, I cannot forget, 

remember to forgive, again, 

      get stuffed, 

humans forgive themselves 

      for getting fucked, 

as a child, I grew up with alcohol, 

despite my intelligence, their logic 

slipped under my radar, I caught no blips, 

little I could do but rebel, take drugs, 

enter my private hell, my own demons, 

perhaps they were my father's demons, too, 

tripping on acid was my one escape, 

drugs took my attention off of the pain, 

effaced my confusion with one small hit, 

enter the world of lysergic acid, 

psychedelic trips inside my own mind, 

inside the suffering, sorrow and pain, 

nothing I felt, blasted out of my mind, 

slipped into depression for three decades, 

in his fist, the amateur pugilist, 

dropped me into his private hell, descend 

endlessly until death ended his rage. 

Rainwater ~ Wednesday, 16 October 2019

To run a marathon, a droplet of water floating in a river, either you float along in pace with the river and the other droplets, or the river rushes around you, too heavy to flow with the others, droplets bump into you, you continue onward, battered and bruised, cramping, demoralized, your faith in training collapses, you shuffle to the end, you finish, defeated, you look back, in hindsight, to hydrate earlier, a better pair of shoes would help your feet feel good, you hurt from waist to toes, but worst is your ego, battered, bruised and broken, you trained for seven months to fail in your one goal, to achieve total flow, maximum river pace, into the zone of zen, absolute harmony, maybe if you're lucky, next year, the year after, you will ride the current with the other droplets as one with the nameless wonder of the spirit, ecstatic, blissfully mysterious pure joy. 

Chicago ~ Sunday, 13 October 2019

The City of Big Shoulders means 

ain't no problem too big to solve, 

ain't no person so small to disappear 

from the long arms of the law... 

                                                      to hug. 

Soulless ~ Wednesday, 9 October 2019

You know you will never 

      see a photo 

of yourself 

      in an obituary, 

under the circumstances, 

      the weather 

kissing the leaves, brushing 

      trees with a shake, 

nobody expects to die 

      in autumn, 

only seeing the world 

      through the living, 

wondering how you got 

      on the inside, 

you see the world 

      with their vision, 

            their eyes, 

only without rhyme 

      or reason, poignant, 

understanding their grief, 

      or indifference, 

wondering how you got here, 

      and what's next, 

if this fleeting moment, 

      ephemeral, 

lasts all eternity, processing 

      time, 

lingering over old wounds, 

      feeling dead, 

not unexpected but 

      still not living, 

endless participation 

      in sorrow, 

virtual reality, 

      like a game, 

exactly so, 

      hyper-realistic, 

realism gone overboard, 

      the ship 

sails from New York Harbor 

      to Port au Prince, 

even though you don't know 

      French, le français, 

earthquakes aside, Haitians 

      see hurricanes 

as important as the language 

      you speak, 

pretend the Atlantic 

      isn't that cold, 

however no one can see 

      that you've gone 

overboard, 

      into the frigid waters, 

to feel your spirit drown 

      in the ocean, 

only this is better than 

      feeling dead. 

Frames Steward ~ Tuesday, 8 October 2019

False friends come 

      in pretty wrappers, 

always charming, full 

            of themselves, 

little do they care 

                  to cut ties, 

simply selfish, beyond 

                        belief, 

egocentric, 

                  ego-driven, 

false friends come 

      in pretty wrappers, 

real cool, too cool, schooled 

            in manners, 

in East Coast smooth, 

                  propriety, 

ending your friendship 

                        on their terms, 

nothing but cash money 

                  keeps their 

distraction in check, 

            to stay friends, 

simply open wide 

                  your billfold, 

currency remains 

                        the language 

of false friends, candy 

                  wrappers tossed, 

may you never see them 

                                    naked, 

especially hard 

                        to resist, 

in a heartbeat, 

                  they drop people, 

no one but their vested 

                              interests, 

pathetically ignorant, 

                                    cash 

remains their prime 

                        focus in life, 

endlessly preoccupied 

                                    with 

turning a buck 

                  into hundreds, 

turning hundreds 

                        into millions, 

yet, capital, 

            accrued interest, 

win over no one 

                  but false friends, 

reminding themselves 

                        of their worth, 

assets like wives 

            and property, 

properly assessed 

                  by false friends, 

pertain 

      only to accountants, 

eventually, they find 

                        themselves 

reflected 

            by associates, 

surrounded 

      by their own image. 

Death ~ Tuesday, 8 October 2019

Out of the blue, I got a call, 

unexpected coincidence, 

the night after I saw Belew, 

out of the blue, you up and died, 

for the love of God, no one knew, 

the cancer you had quietly 

harvested your body for health, 

ending your life on a blue note, 

believe me, I know why you kept 

literally, your privacy, 

under the radar, you flew low 

enough to crash and burn alone, 

I say alone but you had friends, 

granted precious few the knowledge 

of your suffering and sorrow, 

the experience of cancer, 

and who am I, a long lost friend, 

come and go, unlike family, 

appear and disappear, as friends 

leave town, lose touch, left in the dark, 

languish elsewhere in ignorance. 

Aquarium ~ Monday, 7 October 2019

Buddha at the bottom of the fish tank, 

underwater with the algae eater, 

deep in contemplative meditation, 

drowning from complete lack of oxygen, 

hastens to grasp nirvana by the balls 

and overcome his being a statue, 

at the bottom of the fish tank, he waits, 

transcends the unknown of the universe, 

tries to explain practice to the guppies, 

however they cannot stay still for long, 

exactly when he says "enlightenment," 

biting at the tails of the angelfish 

ordain a different method of approach, 

to observe the orange buddha beneath 

the surface seated in lotus posture, 

only made me realize, the Buddha 

makes his appearance when necessary, 

originally, I grew up Roman 

fucking Catholic, but then, I found God 

trembling at his own insignificance, 

hidden within books of metaphysics, 

evidently, the presumption of guilt 

found within texts of dogma, disturbed him, 

including the conceit of existence, 

simply mindboggling for his image, 

haunted him like black ghost knifefish, silly 

to imagine the creator of all, 

all things seen and unseen, at the bottom, 

noticeably conferring with Buddha, 

killing time before his execution. 

Cranberries ~ Saturday, 5 October 2019

Dear Mary, 

      Sorry, no time to visit, 

even for a cup of coffee or tea, 

as the days pass 

      and we all move away, 

remember the good times 

      when we would sit, 

Maybe for the last time, 

      driving around, 

as "Dreams" and "Linger" 

      dropped in '93, 

repeatedly the station 

      chose to play 

yesterday's hits with barely 

      a set list, 

Dreary Irish vocals, 

      you loved their sound, 

remember how cold 

      it was in the car, 

even with the heat 

      on full blast, winter 

arrived on time for Memphis, 

      closed the bar, 

music lingers in my ears 

      as splinters 

you must pull out with tweezers, 

      with a twist. 

---

R.I.P. Mary Burns ( - 2019)

Picnic ~ Thursday, 3 October 2019

Take a year to ponder double standards, 

how one tribe invents a malicious word, 

even after the other tribe adopts 

Paw for pick a winner, no substitute, 

as the n-word is no substitute for 

winner, nor the reverse, such is the curse, 

Paw is the man who speaks so self-righteous, 

as to tell another right versus wrong, 

wrong is the winner of an argument, 

Not so nice, the n-word, no so genteel, 

ever since slavery, uppity blacks 

get angry when non-blacks use the n-word, 

relax Oprah, chill Frames Steward, you wear 

on your sleeve, censorship, worn as a badge, 

Badge of honor, badge of hypocrisy, 

lo and behold the blowtorch I ignite, 

on your use of "friend" on my Instagram, 

when you say, "as a friend," you uppity, 

token black from the East Coast,       righteousness 

on your sleeve, a badge that says, 

      "Oprah's bitch," 

remain superficially black, your skin, 

choice of rhetoric, you enunciate 

humanity with a dagger, "Brute?" 

Annual ~ Thursday, 3 October 2019

Why am I always broke in October, 

homeless in November, help me sister, 

yes, it's cold on the streets in December, 

ask me why I forgot to pay the rent, 

maybe I don't like to take cold showers, 

I don't think anyone cares about why, 

as January and February 

leave me hidden under a viaduct, 

wonders never cease when I hit it big, 

as March turns to April, I find two bucks, 

yep, under a rock with a note, "Good luck!" 

superstitious, I play Mega Millions, 

bam! I hit it big, win the lottery, 

real sweet in June, travel around the world, 

on my birthday in July, I get drunk, 

kiss a cop and spend the night behind bars, 

even after two weeks in confinement 

in August, they set me free, a jailbird, 

nobody knows how hot it is inside. 

Only I had some cash to grease the wheel, 

cooped up in that cell with all the howling 

those wolves make, trapped, 

                  never to see the world 

outside their cell, prison is hell, but time 

builds character, if nothing else, set free, 

everyone is my friend in September, 

robbed of it all, I'm broke in October. 

Photograph ~ Thursday, 3 October 2019

He felt the need to tell me I look like... 

even if he saw a resemblance, how, 

for the love of Christ Almighty, could he 

even for a moment find a photo, 

lifelike representations in art, for 

the image of Jesus was in the Word, 

the Word was God, and the Word was with God, 

heaven knows in the beginning, the Word 

exists as the sole representation, 

no need to tell me I look like Jesus, 

ever since I grew out my beard, people 

entered a moment of entitlement, 

decidedly, they felt the need to speak, 

to tell me what they could not possibly... 

obviously, I am not mistaken, 

to imagine people see Jesus Christ, 

even as wishful thinking, they are wrong, 

let me say this, no one would recognize, 

let alone embrace the messiah, for 

me, I hear it as a threat from far off, 

enter the voice of Spirit, imagine 

I walk downtown and people see Jesus, 

like people would recognize him again, 

on the street, ordering mango smoothies, 

obviously, I am not mistaken, 

kill me if I am, as you did Jesus, 

lame little lamb crossing the road, I walk 

in the crosswalk at State and Madison, 

kill me here and now, here in Chicago, 

epicenter of the Apocalypse. 

Yeshua ~ Thursday, 3 October 2019

Who took his pulse? The man was dead, 

how did infantrymen confirm his death, 

or did they place him in a crypt to heal, 

to recover from the worst punishment, 

of excruciating measures, his pain 

over time dissolved by execution, 

killing the man in body, but his mind... 

his mind overcame death itself by rest, 

in solitude within a crypt, a cave, 

silence heals wounds too crimson to bury, 

perhaps the man had no pulse, no heartbeat, 

understand the medicine of these times, 

left alone, perhaps someone recovers, 

sickness unto death, his resurrection, 

everyone knows he died that day, don't they? 

The man they call the son of God, worship 

him as you do chocolate Easter bunnies, 

even Santa Claus, Rudolph the Reindeer, 

must you contrive to mock what you believe, 

ask yourself if your faith could dare withstand 

no longer celebrating without gifts, 

we imagine his death, this man, each year, 

as spring approaches, as rites we practice 

simply to remember antiquity, 

demonstrations of piety descend 

excruciatingly from crucifix 

and asphyxiation to exhaustion, 

despite the fact he walked away from death. 

Varnish ~ Tuesday, 1 October 2019

Beside his bedside table, he stands still, 

everything inside pitch black, pouring rain 

slaps his face as he watches 

      the lightning strike, 

in terror yet entranced, he counts, seconds 

diminish before the thunder rumbles, 

even the curtains couldn't hide the rain, 

his face wet, he cannot close the window, 

in fear he waits for the storm to pass through, 

still, on the road, he hears two men argue, 

beside his bedside table, rainwater 

enters the open window, the floorboards, 

despite a fresh coat of varnish applied, 

soaked between the cracks, warped 

      beyond repair, 

in time, his father will hire these two men, 

despite their argument over a bet, 

even they get along as contractors, 

trouble is tonight, the storm doesn't move, 

as the rain comes down, the men get angry, 

bitterness over poverty and years 

left alone together, not as brothers, 

even they would get along, but soldiers, 

he stands still and watches as the two men 

engage in drunken street fighting, the rain 

slaps his face wet inside his dark bedroom, 

the argument outside turns violent 

as one man shoots the other in the head, 

nothing but the wind howling 

      through the trees, 

despite the darkness inside, the small boy 

sees the murder take place, 

      no one else knows, 

seven months later during a warm night, 

the boy shows his father how he watches 

in the dark, the street life, outside their home, 

left to make his own conclusions, his dad 

led his son to the judge to testify. 

Secret ~ Monday, 30 September 2019

Some people ask me, "What is your secret?" 

on that note, I tell them dark, sinister 

mischievous dealings with our lord, Satan, 

even as their eyes pop out, mouths agape, 

people hear what I have to say, then watch 

ever curious to see, if in truth, 

on this earth walks a man who knows Satan, 

people are naive, gullible creatures, 

logic evades their attempts to see past 

everyday banter into stone cold lies, 

arguments beyond imagination, 

seeking a refutation of my words, 

killing themselves to see a good man wrong, 

maybe I should infer they mean the beard, 

ever so long after three years of growth. 

Portugal ~ Monday, 30 September 2019

When you see my name, 

how much do you know... 

ever imagine 

night enter a ship, 

yes, deep in the hold, 

only as cargo, 

understand the cost, 

sleeping in the dark, 

ever-present death, 

everyday, I cry, 

maybe you don't know, 

yes, the slave traders, 

no one imagines 

about my dark past, 

my dead ancestors, 

even I must weep. 

Banished ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Nine years old and my older brother tests 

insanity by using batteries, 

nine volt batteries on his brother's tongue, 

enter my cousin and they were a team, 

victims of childhood abuse and trauma 

only know how to lash out on others, 

left on my own, I found my own victims, 

the women who wanted to be my friends, 

trust, love, acceptance, all became suspect, 

on my tongue, I tested each battery, 

nothing more shocking than betrayal, neglect, 

given this was the seventies, no one 

understood the loneliness of exile, 

exiled in a foreign country called home. 

Ominous ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Maybe if I had punched them in the face, 

as a consequence for picking on me, 

yes, bullies were everywhere, in the home, 

bullies at school, as teachers, as students, 

engaged in everyday activities, 

if my mother, father, and brother cared, 

for instance, maybe I wouldn't have to... 

I wouldn't have to kill them all, murder, 

has a sound like thunder in pouring rain, 

after the lightning strikes, flashes brightly, 

diminishes behind ominous clouds, 

perhaps if my brother didn't hate me, 

unable to take care of me, he taught 

neighborhood kids what a freak he thought I was, 

cared only to throw me under the bus, 

how I wish I had killed him as a child, 

except then I would be scarred far, far worse, 

despite being raised by sadistic wolves, 

today it is better never to speak, 

however much they think they are family, 

even in their delusion, they presume, 

yes, they imagine I grew up happy, 

isolated from family, my friends knew 

nothing, how sad I was deep in my heart, 

that childhood in paradise could be worse, 

however likely, became apparent, 

even as my faith in religion failed, 

faith in the family, for me, was a lie, 

as they saw me as a sociopath, 

correction, I am an articulate, 

enduring human being, a poet. 

Hiding in Plain Sight ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Where did I go wrong, 

hindsight makes me think 

everyone picks on 

really small children, 

even mom and dad, 

drunk uncle, cousins, 

indeed everyone, 

did you pick on me?

Imagine you did, 

guess I should have been 

overtly direct, 

would that I could change, 

remember the past 

on my own terms, tears 

no one sees blind me, 

grief at the movies. 

Quicksand ~ Saturday, 28 September 2019

Poor Bill Brillo lost his mind on acid, 

on the inside, inside the asylum, 

ontology took a back seat to drugs, 

respectfully, these drugs aren't for you, kid, 

Bill threw himself out from a speeding car, 

inside the asylum, his voice grew numb, 

left to his own devices, he lacked hugs, 

left alone on the inside, he lacked friends, 

Brillo was brilliant, a real superstar, 

remember Mirror Theory, his old band, 

influenced by post-punk, he played guitar, 

little did we know how deep in quicksand, 

little could we imagine just how far, 

only a rope could save him, no one sends. 

Genuflect ~ Friday, 27 September 2019

"Hands up who wants to die," 

and so we came inside, 

naked down to the waist, 

dripping in sweat, how great 

sons of war heroes burn, 

urns full of ashes, learn 

proper etiquette, kill 

who in affirmative 

holds hands high, regardless 

of our deceitful web, 

who imagines our game 

as thoughtlessly inane, 

no donkey dung beside 

the road, we walk the line, 

senseless, this ring of fire, 

to walk slow down the aisle, 

our intentions, certain, 

damned were we to care if, 

in all likelihood, they 

ended up kneeling, prey. 

---

Quote: "Hands up who wants to die." ~ Nick Cave, from "Sonny's Burning" ~ The Birthday Party 

Opportunity ~ Thursday, 26 September 2019

I knocked on her front door, 

kissed my good friend goodbye, 

never saw her again, 

on parting, did I cry, 

crying was for softies, 

kill yourself, quelle surprise, 

even if I could stop 

death, she found suicide, 

obviously, her death, 

no one could imagine, 

how many got a chance, 

everyone asked me why, 

really, I hurt inside, 

from the moment we met, 

remaining friends for life, 

on her front porch, I knocked, 

no one answered the door, 

the fact was, she was dead, 

dead or alive, hanging 

on the end of a rope, 

on the wrong end, a noose, 

really, I want to cry. 

Deliverance ~ Thursday, 26 September 2019

To the devil with you my son, 

on this day, you are no longer 

to enter our home, off-limits, 

however you get by, this day 

ends our relationship, my boy, 

devil take you in his embrace, 

evil resides within your heart, 

vengeance like no other, angels 

in heaven fallen down to earth 

live as you do, lost, wayward souls, 

winds blow, and you tumble, a weed 

in trouble with the law, in truth, 

trampled by your older brother, 

how you chose to kill him, kills me, 

you, my son, my only son left, 

on this day, I have no more sons, 

understand my sorrow, my guilt, 

my shame, knowing I must send you, 

yes you, my boy, to the devil, 

something in me fights against this, 

on this day, my conscience cries out, 

no more misery, no more death. 

Keeshond ~ Sunday, 22 September 2019

On the way to school, we 

never spoke about it, 

the way he died, brothers 

have to know the difference, 

explicit or tacit, 

with only two of us 

and a runaway dog, 

yes, the dog ran away 

twice, then after a year, 

one night, he came back home, 

still, dad took down the fence 

covering at the top, 

he said to put Cody, 

our dog, on the long chain, 

over the fence he jumped, 

lynched by his need to run. 

Humanity ~ Friday, 20 September 2019

Dear Mom, 

Even though we argue, 

always will I love you, 

remember that during 

   the next pogrom. 

Mother Russia, you left 

others to kill your chosen few, 

maybe you had your excuses, 

      like 

            Jesus wept.