The tower of Babel
was destined to fall
not because of the
wrath of God,
but the hatred

We shoot for superiority.
The best of the idea,
the winning match and set
game for the domination.
I, with masculine energy,

At first, I was the reveling masq
In a dozen wanton nights,
with a lack of fright for social a
I sought to receive.
I sought to breath

I was Marcus Arelius in love.
Eh rm, except with a woman.
I was an excited spark in flight,
Ah hmm, albeit alone.
My want is mine own, young und old

...in a desert of boredom. Or ennu
The words flutter like a salacious
Foaming at the mouth, inappropriat
Baudelaire on drugs.
A reading, by a poet,

I wish my memories were translated
Reflections of my life,
entranced in melody,
I wonder how they would sound.
The music of my memories...

I’m surrounded by broken things–
red dust deposits in the windowsil
chipped mugs, clamped keys, worn o
a matted rug, drained vase and dyi
dead water and the rising smoke fr

A heart of sadness,
on a spectators’ pilgrimage
to the regions of the unknown.
I wish I knew.
I wish I could recuperate.

Oh how I wish
my talent with words
were like
that of a painter
with color and dimension.

This little book of rhyme
holds captive my heart.
No, my mind’s the real upstart.
Credit to my heart’s a crime.
Desperation took the real blow

It is a good thing
to have words
melted at the sunset.
Beyond sense,
sybaritic,

Inner burst of joy-
from a caffeine fix-
The modern day call to action.
I do not stand, I sit for miles
and transfixed on the

If I could pray,
I would pray that you all
enjoy your lives.
Final, but not ultimate, enjoyment
of the self and restlessness.

Why choose misery over
the joy found when
mugs on the table
hide their secrets
and pour out everything

I shall make for me
some natural herb tea,
my unquestioning remedy,
for what, to me, remains elusive..
a good night’s sleep.

French Vanilla,
a sweet taste
I haven’t had in a while.
Came back suddenly
when I stared too intently

Stardust in the mind,
I contemplate in exact answers,
precise manners,
for the fulfillment of a question
that beckons forgiveness.

The rain was not refreshing.
we waited and waited
on those barren, thirsty
desert hills.
But no rain came.

I really wanted to die
underneath that heavenly blue sky,
and leave behind the tensions and
and float upwards and away from th
No longer called a buffoon,

You’ve got to bleed life
and be able to write it
with a grip in your hand
that knows no limit,
clenching 'til the roots

Do your work and remove yourself.
Don’t check the follower count.
You are a rock, immoveable in your
You are the river that breathes an
You are provider. And receiver.

He haunts me every night
a ghostly light highlights a darkl
Skin the color of starlight in mem
Dreaded demon of conscious-less em
He is my demented tormentor

Inside the gas station’s
public restroom
was an interesting looking old coo
that caught me off guard.
He was wearing a heart-shaped eye

Do I dare sing of love
in the middle of the night?
When ghosts of family past
stand in my sight?
They judge me

It’s loud here.
Friday darkness,
with voices clamoring
over the clinking of
plates and utensils.

Here’s the bet.
What’s a blind?
Pass the pretzels bro.
I’ve never had this beer before.
Have these cards been shuffled?

You must be you. Truly.
Inner truth, intuition, unrepentan
that sings the songs of days for d
I will hear that greatness, let us
Rising to the world,

Alas my fellow poets, have I foun
amongst your fold: fellow stoics,
Kindred in spirit and dreamers of
Oh sweet apathy, I write of your
Oh lady I will be your beer speak

Fire and Water
sensations
rinses and rises
as a dutiful procedure.
Felt within,

I view death as my friend.
Sitting on my bed, playing
a guitar like a silent weeping wom
who has just lost a child.
I view life as a mustard seed.

The humming of the electrical wire
gently existing
outside my window
as the birds lay alongside there,
napping

I’m hesitant,
a little anxious and
KINDA NERVOUS.
I haven’t talked to anybody
at all this week

The feeling came again.
Love or Lust?
Neither I hope,
I hate writing of love.
It invokes a powerlessness

The quiet hum,
perpetual ticking
of the large grey
soda fountain in the lobby
is the only sound I hear now.

In this moment, I am tired.
Dare to stay exhausted?
Tonight - inspired-
yet I’m tired, off to bed.
Don't sleep, be free.

~Read the tome. And read it again
Stories meant to never end
but always beginning again.
I felt new refrain
as I gathered my mind.