Ode to Self-Discovery

To hell with the insipid emptiness

That keeps good people ineptly drowned!

Gaze into the perplexed distress and bless

The self that is so often shackle bound!

This is my pledge to the introspection

That so often is betrayed or unknown

Or left to rot in the gutter of dread

And then scavenged for the insurrection.

Together we starve and wither alone

Our thirst being a statement left unsaid.

 

There is numbness that grasps the bone

Which is surrounded by layer upon layer

Of prickle that persistently drones

Out experiences that do conjure

Recurrent traumas of spirits within.

Like swollen flesh, nothingness throbs

Throughout enduring routine of day

Expanding its reign under your skin

Until your inner turmoil sobs

Containing misery you cannot delay.

 

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Dining Room Discourse

Come travel the depths of this lonely night

Where knotted roots grope for a morsel

Amid the pale faces of flesh undressed

Whose pathways are smitten with pools of blood

That had once been pumped by a vital heart

Now lay stagnant, solitary tear drops.

“Besides,” she says: head bowing, smile sly,

“My boyfriend would really hurt you if he

Found out I was going to leave him for you.”

And suddenly I am flushed through the vein

Into cavern where the vultures might digest

The grim reality we all might call truth.

Outside I dine in tavern with maiden,

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The Male Heart

In the company of his own fellowship

A coldness impales the male persona

As he stands in a barren winter field

Where the rapidly shifting wind throws his

Chilled stiff body into nothingness.

He stands trying to conceal his shiver.

 

Above the infinite eye of the night

Glares down upon the stupid smallness

Of his existence, reminding him

That millions have died in war, all of whom

Have been embedded into the cold ice

Of this winter night. Masculinity

 

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A Cowboy Y Whoop

dedicated to the X generation

Can your phone number really resuscitate

His junkyard of childhood squalor?

Clamped to excess his hand pleads for more,

Probes darkness like a Buddha incarnate,

Clutches for survival, squeezes his mate!

And still the sponge holds water, ever more!

As his orange does citrus, opens the sore!

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Joe’s Deli

There is a quiet stillness every night

After dishes have been washed in the sink,

Surfaces wiped down, the floor moped, the grill

Scraped clean, and utensils like the spatula

Placed neatly on aluminum foil. The day’s work

Is over and Joe can go home to rest.

 

Joe’s intrinsic sense of order does rests

In his kitchen when he leaves for the night.

Usually he gets so backed up with work

That dirty dishes pile high in the sink,

Food debris covers the metal spatula,

And black grease cakes the surface of the grill.

 

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The Love She Keeps

But what is this I am seeing in her:

Scraggle screaming its way out of her head?

Bleach stains on her shirt where colors have bled?

If not her stout torso top maimed femurs

That wheel-chairs homeless through jungle plunder

Living the life that mother proclaimed dead,

When mother did lie to asylum heads;

Than what is this I am seeing in her

Fifty years later while daughter dismisses

The existence that rolls in antithesis

Through districts where violence and junkies creep

Starved, beat down; defamed and maimed by street disses?

What is it I see in her, through all this?

I see enduring eyes that love themselves deep.

I see enduring eyes that love themselves deep.

That there dadeo is the love that she keeps!