Sometime in October, 2016.

A stable, sweet laugh ruptures,
which comes all the way from the cavernous depths of your chest
and it echoes throughout my ears
But then a brittle croak comes from the back of your throat.
And I know what is coming.
It is Almost as if an impostor is in control of your lungs
Taking your respiratory system hostage,
Forcing out that crippling sigh of despondency.

A Speech well Rehearsed,
Saturated so sweetly with the sad sound of regret.
The last sentence filled with immeasurable longing…
a voice echoing with contempt.
“It can’t happen here” I thought to myself,
as I watched you smoke.
But it can,

and it did.

Hapless Souls

Frailties buried into oblivion
mental infirmity
Feeble,
constantly drowning at the thought
of all your insecurities
Apprehended by the Divine Virtue
as well as the distinct attribution of inferiority
which in turn, curses everyone with
Insipid
interests
and leaves little to no taste
in the mouth.
Combustion.
These are most of the Original
Stories About Real Life told by
everyone
that you know and love.

Hardly anyone nowadays imprints
useful lessons on the mind
and that is why
everyone’s distasteful choices
have become fucking
Infectious.

Misery has encroached your heart,
but your tears,
and flesh
are reserved, only to be shown to certain characters
who are more
Helpless than you.
Degraded  humanity
Filled with vulgar sorrows
And absolutely no empathy.

Chaotic Masses
with a fair look rising in their eyes
Only to be brought down
by the slaves of Opinion
which rules them with
absolute Sway and Guilt.
And this
is why,
we are and always will be
the Hapless Souls.

What is the Sidewalk?

A child said, What is the sidewalk? pointing timidly to it with tiny, frail hands;
What was my answer for the child? . . . . I know not what to say because I haven’t
thought of it until this very day.

I guess it must be where asphalt flowers go to grow
And where they stay, wilted and unseen.

Or I guess it is the messages written in faded pink chalk,
A gift from another child selflessly scrawled, on to the sidewalk.
Only to never be identified, only to be walked on, shuffled on, and ran on.

Or I guess the sidewalk is itself a child . . . . the produced masterpiece
created by two parents; the construction worker and the concrete… or the tarmac, the asphalt, brick, or slab

Or I guess it is a sacred path created for us to walk upon
Which also allows us to take wrong turns,
And also encourages us to go in unforeseen directions
It is the path that leads us to our favorite coffee shops with our beloved friends,
or it is the path that leads us to our first dates with beautiful strangers
Or the path that leads us to the park in the dead of night all by yourself

A path not yet known
Universal ways to choose your own
But the path is always made of concrete,
But not set in stone

And now the sidewalk seems to be
The only place you can see
The true reflection of the moon
And it seems to me, to be beautiful in all of its faded glory.

 

\\\\Poem inspired by Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass\\\\

Dumpster Diving

The garbage doubles as the
pornography sitting
in the dumpster keeps
stacking
Up.
What is available
is what you will take.
“Can’t be picky around here”
You don’t like all the uneasy
Energy coming from the
seeping piles of trash
Banana peels, juice boxes,
used condoms.

A moan escapes from a garbage bag
The moan groans over the loud drone
of the loud speaker

All of these choices are

making you queasy
No one ever told you that
rummaging through
this garbage can that is life
would be easy
The garbage can can’t be washed
or cleansed
And once you’ve

Dived

in the dumpster

that is life
you will always be used
to that scent.

The rot cannot be fought,

the rot cannot be avoided.

you think you forgot

but that thought should be voided.

The garbage that is the enigma of life
Is just a garbage can filled with stench
and strife.

The garbage can is life.

The Difference Is…

Southern clear stars
Roses and old Magick
an acid trip in the desert
Wholesome flowers
Twined and clung to
Hot Wet Skin
the rounded moon,

Killing time.
A loss of the self,
but it’s accompanied by a quiet gain,
With a new dream,
And a new day.

Luminous.

To be able to shed your own skin.
I do not wish to contradict you,
But somehow I feel as if
you will never really be my salvation

Sad Hearts and
Old Lies.

Now,

It’s Northern foggy skies.
Cracked concrete and city spells
A drunk night downtown,
corrupt store fronts
Infinite long and winding streets, filled with
hills and covered in sin.
Cold Clammy Skin.
the new moon, invisible to us all.
I love this life with a love filled with doom.

 

Lousy Heart

The lousy rip
of your heart rages but yet,
you still feel
Indifferent somehow.

The remaining flesh rots inside

and through-out,

It’s within.

How will you cope, with this starvation
Of the skin?
Decreasing weight shifts
the axis,
so you don’t even notice that you’re starving.
You were so ashamed that you
were lamenting on the past too much,
that you didn’t
even notice the symptoms.

Was the diagnosis just
a misprint in the results?
It’s just a shame that you were

too busy lamenting over lost
Love and Missed opportunities

that you didn’t even notice

the final rip of your lousy heart.
It’s a good thing you were always indifferent

In the first place.