God ain't a sadist as sadists pretend He's not into flesh burning, a sizzling steak. He is the good Guy all cloud banks is He. So here's how this unportfolioed prophet Sees eternity: Hell is just Heaven with the shades drawn far down. We still have the halos, the whispers of joy. The only difference we the risen will find It's devoid of the memories we left behind. No ma's baking bread smells in anyone's hearth. No remembering your best friend's dumb jokes No poker with friends laughing loud like car horns As the four of you take turns on tokes. Every sweet past event from your book's massive pages Erased and forgotten though you feel they are there. Holes in your soul, devoid of light and of air. Every smile you smiled at kittens and kids Every comforting purr you got from Snickers the cat. If you even saw her in her three fluffy colors You'd puzzle out, what is that? Your triple King size bed says that you're home But you live there forever warm and alone.

They live and march around In an agenda driven rut. Truth in abundance runs freely Around above But they are scared to look Above the rim. They think doing THAT Is watching fake news or A kind of vile sin. I'd pity them if I were a better Christian And if that rut weren't growing deeper Every day Until it cuts though the Center of the earth, and we all Unjust float away.

Each of us is the residue Of our ancestors, Phoenix rising from their ashes Riding higher into the looming sky. Not only farther above the shrinking earth But in the quality of the questions As to why.

People who've never fought dragons Find it easy to say just obey Obey them or pay. You die, your fault. Comply or die. They of course are invisible to dragons Who only see dark shapes, Not people. People Are comfortably defined, WaaIn their finery, their mantles of white; Dragons only attack The innocent, the guilty All who resemble the night.

The things we were too scared to do Haunt us more than any ghosts. At least the spirits we see Who lived and died Have edges in our darkened rooms. But all we never did, we never tried Inside our empty places do reside They are infinite in their scope, their size For each one echoes off all our memories Breed a thousand lies About why we didn’t do them, Why we ran away. Why we put them off For non-existent future days. So in the gloom of our last eroded life. We cling to all the joy we had and lost. But unless we made of them a story Complete and whole. What we never had can eat our soul.

Home is where the heart is so many say. But is that the only place? Isn't it also where you can sit your naked butt And not be chased away? Isn't it where you can watch TV Get up and make a snack? A place you feel you most belong And not where you must go back? And how about those who never found A place to place their heart? Does that mean they have no home, Must forever feel apart? So in my humble opinion Home must always be Where you've the least worries, Where you truly feel most free.

She is my beauty in a broken bowl. Venus clothed in tattered zen. The only woman I never should have loved - A monument to all the might have been.   I longed to bathe and bask In the dark downpours of her hair. Instead my feet were cut to shreds By the shards of her quiet "I won't care."   Her legs are longer than a dreamer's sigh. Her stomach more taut than a beachboat's sail In a warm-whipped wind. Her shoulders more narrow than a rich man's mind. Her breasts more round than a saint's first sin.   Yes, her face is a trifle long But no trifles are her slit-sharp eyes. Her smile puts old Mona's on the block, Hinting at truth and youth and lies.   She thinks it is safer to know 100 men Than it is to know just one. Just as it is safer to light 100 candles Than to have a single sun.   She might be the catalyst to change myself From the life I follow to the life I lead. Though she'd never permit herself To find out if I succeed.   I pray to a God I'm not sure is really there: It is the only way I have to show I care That maybe at last she'll be at peace in her shuttered soul And realize it doesn't matter Who broke the broken bowl.   ------------------------------------------------ Wrote this for a woman I knew a long time ago. I tried to encapsulate to the best of my ability. It isn't perfect but I am proud of it.

Perhaps old Darwin Had a blind spot for us. The rest of living things Move sporadically But inexorably Down his assembly line, Trillions of dioramas in a blur Before the universe's eyes, Gleeful bleats, soft purrs, grrrs And anguished cries. But us? We kill the strongest of us In wars, constructions of our fears, Our egos and our lust: Leave behind the weak, the old, The ones we cannot trust. There is no evolution to be seen In this. Only a blood eroded iron fist.

They say the company’s in tip top shape. With a product all other firms would ape. A CEO of sterling rep And a senior staff of exquisite depth But there’s no candy in the candy dish.   They bought two rivals the other day. Less competitors, the American way. And profits bloomed, though sales were down “That’s normal, please, oh please don’t  frown…” But there’s no candy in the candy dish.   Stock is at an all-time high, Investors are rioting to buy  Buy  BUY. They even gave themselves a raise, THESE are the company’s better days But there’s no candy in the candy dish.   Those layoffs just make us lean and mean. Your pension’s wealth will be obscene. We only keep you from cashing out To protect you from a spending bout But there’s no candy in the candy dish.

She would be the coefficient of my love Were she not as real as an imaginary number. Oh what thunder we would generate In the quietude of lonliness…   Please Lord, give me a sine.

The orcs are rising. Perverts they are, From Russia, the Palestinian territories. Monsters who glory in turning the spigots To open rivers of blood, and mud, And fear. All are pawns in their games of chess, Of messes they revel in for in silence They must hear the cacophony of who And what they are. It is baroque patchwork Of scars bandaged over with abuse and lies and loathing. So they must have noise, be it the whistling Of rockets, the thump of bombs, The chatter of weapons that eat up human flesh As if each bullet is an acid but without the softness. Hard. It is all hard. Every shard that ends futures, No sutures for these wounds. They are open Mouths like demons shouting out into the Smoking air. There are the smells of vomit, shit, piss, Bile, gunpowder, surfur and brimstone. Everyone alone when they die. Shared tears Are an illusion at the last: that only work When the wounds will not last. For this they will last until time is gone. I pray that there will be a last and long song.  A trumpet to sound and all the creatures that kill Find nothing but silence, an eternity, darkness   An ultimate still.

I am a poet. My skies are always blue or angry. My love is always true or unrequited. My words are clipped like a kidnapper might From poetry books I read but never got. So techinally I'm a poet But in my {titter} heart of hearts, I know I've really not.

Organ music. An odd phrase, Slimy even, disquieting. The heart is An organ. Is its resolute beating, Every second of every moment of Every hour of every day of every year Of every decade of every life MUSIC? Is the hammering of nails Into a block of wood, the birth of houses, MUSIC? The stomach is an organ of course. Now there is slimy. Is its gurgling MUSIC? Does that mean the urge to fill it Is akin to the tuning of instruments? That need to be sure your flow is Fed by clean tools. No dust. There should be no dust on an organ As if it has been abandoned. There is the organ. It is solid, As solid as a cleansing breath. It breathes Of course. All things that sing breathe. Lungs are certainly slimy, but from them Come every kind of music: humming, Laughing, singing, speaking, comforting. That indeed is its purpose, To sing, to SING so loud it vibrates Your butt, your gut, your lungs, Your sons, your soul. It embraces you, makes you whole In places you never knew you had. Yet, underneath it makes us multidimensionally sad. In the end it is about the dust. The filthy damned dust. Below us, on us, above us... Us.

My "dad" (in quotes of course though they are inadequate For the job, they're all I got) left before I was born. My good angel sits on my left shoulder Used to be the right til that damned GQP tainted the word With her face usually in her hands, Looks up and since its her job to see the best in people, Says "maybe he never knew". My bad angel stands on the tainted side, frustrated, impatient Wondering why I don't quite step over that wavy line. "Of course he knew but for a good screw, why would he care?" Me in the middle fit as a bloated and busted fiddle. It's been three score and twelve Apostles And I still hate him sorta, like a shrugging why not? Because it don't matter if he knew. The sin as I see it... he never asked.

Some go from soft shell to fluttering into a brief but brilliant moment. Some go from hard shell to hard shell factory. Some go from timid to revealing everything in a loud and lovely voice. Some go from cowardly to leading an army into Hell. Life in the end is about what we are forced or freely choose To travel through. Do not pretend what you are TODAY is some unbreakable, unshakable, Eternal rule. So become who you know you want to be. I wish you hope and wish you well.

We see the shadows, Grumbling along, Nibbling at the concrete day. They change its color, temperature, Depth, change all that's in their way. The irony of this That if they stop their meals... Everything would burn.

A blue sky is Hell A sweet song sky is Heaven: Poets aren't mold-y.

Is there joy in the completed circle? Or is there sorrow that the book's been closed? I guess metaphors can support either illusion Depending on the emotions knocking on the door. Sometimes I think both are equally true/untrue Quantum emotions are the hardest to understand. Which is why for the majority of human apes They are so God and Demon damned so few.

We often pay for our mistakes By living the last of our lives In the vestibule of an echoed house - A grave with amenities.