this city is a memory for me

the concrete jungle is as well…

all the cities of america are;

block after block of an old life

I tried so hard to be proud of

the love songs

the failures

are all a reminder

heavy irons dragging my –

dragging me and all of my –

they are all an exhausting reminder of unattainable dreams;

a belief in a success

only possible through

manipulation and amorous isolation;

a promise never meant to be kept

it is not healthy

this city living

it is not supposed to be…

everyone knows this…

it is why we all work so hard to forget

af

(written with pen on paper)

The suit

pillar of American exceptionalism

gentleman of gentlemen

understanding the true value of the human experience;

up before the sun, working long after she’s gone to sleep

dedicated to the father-knows-best desires of this nanny-state

forced to be angry, shrewd, flattering

saying being doing all that is expected

mask carved from the finest ivory

necessarily sacrificed because sacrifice is necessary

The suit spends his life fighting the good fight

so as to live his final years in prosperity and relaxation

content that the puzzle is completed, game won

and he is the winner of all destiny

So

if you see one at the bar

staring into the bottom of his empty glass

say a silent prayer for him

and please judge him not

He is the soldier of conformity for the safe society

the people desirably deserve

and he is a protector from the anarchy of us poets

af

(written with pen on paper)

Take the time to remember

Slow Down

It’s what everyone says

(they only want to pass you up)

otherwise

consumption takes an eighth inch blade

beautiful rays of sun gleam

from the titanium edge;

upon contact

the skin folds back like a flower blooming

rich red pollen pours out

feeding the ground

(stop talking)

Focus

the criticism becomes endless

there is no soundtrack, no script

a train with no breaks has

more options for control

Choices

Choices

all there seems to be

a serpent of the underworld

choices

make one decision

multiple more appear

more and more paths

It

Never

Ends

Then the catch, the twenty-two

it doesn’t feel wrong

this notion of success

Want

Work

Have

Simple

Not Right

It Is Not Right

What is the purpose of working too hard

if we never live out our accomplishments?

Breathe

One project at a time

because being able to

should not justify

doing so

Take your time

it is the only way

to create

fully

and acknowledge

fully

the one choice to make

that breathes no other options

but gratuity for an accomplishment

af

(written with pen on paper)

nothing is ever completely said

sure

the human being tries

sure

the individual and the person and the mother and the daughter

try

but we are possessed by our own spirits

there are no defenses

from that perfect occult

but

out of love

some kind, whatever kind

we try

these are often proud moments

that need and want to be spoken of

the admiration of a child’s strength

the humility of facing realities

of being surpassed in

honor and integrity and inner courage, inexhaustible drive

the trust of stepping aside

you lose

hurt, search, question, scream and fuck-all to the world

then you sit in that vacuum

the lessons never taught, never learned

buildings collapse

yet you tear free from the rubble

always

so, here

here I am

veins open

humble before my work of art

my blood creating yours

scarred

and you

with me

much stronger than you’ll ever know

af

(written on computer)

I really do not know how to stop myself

Clean and sober or as fucked up as my abandoned mother

I crave

I desire

I am all intense all the time at all moments

It has become addictive

I have only been gone for two months

but I have to be honest

(I am a poet

and I am writing a poem

and it is in my sacred oath

to be as creatively honest as possible)

but this is the truth…

years have gone by;

Time does not exist for me as it does for most others

and I suppose

as a poet

it is supposed to be my secret

this ability I have

and just create within it

but it is all new to me

regardless of how cool I attempt to come across

it is all surprising, all exciting

and it makes me feel good

I want more, all the time,

every fucking week-long second

Then I push

and push

and look and stare and ask and

at some point

I always feel as if I cross some imaginary

puritan line of false innocence

and floods begin pouring

it becomes all too much

with nothing left to do but write write

words words write write

working into a slumber to forget, once again,

the lonely ending

Then a message came through

one that never had before

from an unexpected lady

an old soul

coming a step further with me

then walking past, encouraging me to go even further…

It has thus far been a year in a day

and I somehow seem to finally

for once

look forward to what tomorrow brings

twenty-four long months

of hope

my humble gratuity

af

(written on computer)

when you have given so much

regardless of the reasons

right or wrong

when you still labored through your angry

pity hanging on your back

rounding your shoulders from the weight

of your family’s history

the disease waiting patiently dormant in your roots

hoping someone, throughout the years

will one day remember

when you are long gone

long past the calls or the need or the want

alone

it is never fair

and it is never right

and some habits just cannot be overcome

time is often too powerful

for a tree to change breeds

they do think of you

when you are alone in a hallow house

choking peace and piercing memories

echoing through the bedrooms of a life well lived

know

please

that they do remember

reality is what it is, though

just listen to the silence, not the noise

when perched in your empty nest

af

(written on computer)

A writer needs his muse.

For weeks, I was unstoppable;

the freedom from the young ex

the peace of the wanderer

words, emotions, love pouring from me

the hope that a woman I desired

finally

desired me more and more with each poem, each try

I have been reduced to starving again

wandering for the sake of

numbing my emotions because

each time I love,

each muse who invades then retracts

leaves my soul a little more exposed

raw, sensitive, taking with them

a thin layer of my creativity

a singular time in my life so original and pure

making me more scarred, more timid, more in pain

as a result

until it, everything, anything, ceases to hurt anymore

and I am able to write once again

I need a new muse…

Ironic,

the necessity of this lonely wanderer

af

(written with pen on paper)