Everyone’s in the game

smooth talking the elderly and homeless alike

knowing less than they should

but selling the creamy bullshit better than most

It is the secret of the business

flash and grin with the charm

to alleviate the odor from an insignificant waste

of Pan-given resources

Wood to wood, stoop to steaming stoop in

the melting summers of the American institution

a little too loud, slightly too proud

masked in marshmallow sweetness

to conceal the sour intention of a lost belief in the

muses and nymphs who once brought truth to

a Bohemian humanity from which the

cells of the redundant have evolved

One bite, teeth sinking deep into the sweetness of lust

powdered sugary coating the hours that seem to always

hide the insecurity of never quite knowing a place of existence

The salesman trudges door to door

peddling dreams of the lost highways that once hitched

clear across a once great country while believing in the simplicity of

the fantasy of one delicious marshmallow man

af

(written drunk with pen on paper)

Don’t become numb

to the violence

Do not look

at the television

We have already evolved from the Wild West

for a reason

Let us not go back

The news is not a movie

the carnage is real

The twenty-four hour loop

is of someone’s son

The analysis

is of a husband’s wife

It is all too much to handle

and it should be

Your depression and anxiety

is a blessing

Because the slaughters have become entertaining

Entertainment makes money

And…

Stop looking

Put away your presumptions

One question has many answers

and you

alone

are responsible

…a massacre, these days, demands top dollar

af

(written with pen on paper)

It is so difficult not to be sad

with the compassion for all my neighbors

loving my enemies while helplessly feeling

that my mere mortal words

have no ability but to brighten a sliver of a moment

Nowadays it seems that there is a struggle

in every sensation and crevice of existence

and as we are trying so hard to climb towards light

it often feels as if we are really

clawing out of quicksand, drowning in dry catastrophe

that suffocates the love from the lungs

I stare into people’s eyes

whenever I can because I hope they will hear

my plea for them to smile and understand

that they are human

the most beautiful of all;

I want people to know that the sadness

is normal, is a part of normalcy

is not all-defining, even when it becomes the

most wonderfully awful emotion of misunderstood loneliness

For me, though, it is worth it,

taking upon myself the sadness for your anguish

Washing myself clean of sorrow is easy

when I know you are clean of it as well

af

(written with pen on paper)

Poetry need not be written when of sound mind

No energy, inspiration or motivation is necessary

Poetry is everything and everything

not just the tangible

Poetry should be used in a form

that will be most beneficial to you

the writer

Poetry can be used to cure a hangover

to awaken from a nap

to clear the cobwebs from uncertainty

In fact,

Poetry need not even make sense

jibberish sliding glibberishness into

erratic cacophonies of lettered nonsense;

Poetry is

all poetry

all beauty

all expression

all human

all necessary

Poetry need not be anything

its existence is purpose enough

af

(written with pen on paper)

If you find yourself biting the pen cap

shaking from anger and caffeine

astonished by cruel relinquished

screams filing your throat like

compacted melting snow suffocating its release

bleeding from eating away all the flesh

from inside your mouth

bewildered by the last train of decency

leaving the station empty while

hordes of others bombard it with their

rotted ambivalence

frustrated by  all the lack of effort

when effort in itself takes such little effort to execute

furious when you find all good deeds rewarded

with contemptuous mockery

and above all this

you find yourself embracing these emotions,

then you are as correct as any person can be

you understand that you have

the gift

of creation’s passion

(after-all…all creation began with a bang)

af

(written with pen on paper)

I am at peace

yet

I have fits of rage

stay calm

but what of the resentment?

I dwell on the egocentricity of my loneliness

trying to accept that

the world is not plotting against

my instincts

my ways

i am not that important

(few are in the eyes of the world)

Rejection carves a bigger hole than normal

in a mind and heart as mine,

born into vulnerability as a product of my starts

raised in conspiracy and loathing

matured with misguided uncertainty

I am sure this feeling will pass

They all come and go

as long as I keep hope, right?

Right?

af

(written with pen on paper)

Decide what a poem should be;

That’s what the heroes say

I try

Then someone, always someone,

asks me again,

“You writin’ a novel?”

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