

the Nameless
I am
the consequences—
the collection
of rotting fleshes
laying mangled
and neglected
by the wayside,
desecrated
withered
and aged
from your hate,
then needle-poked
and sewn
by your string of insults
laced with prejudice.
Born
from your selfish labours,
and malevolence,
I am
the leftovers,
the discarded scraps,
scar tissue,
stapled, bolted,
and hacked
hardly held together enough
to contain
an ordinary man
much less
an eight-foot-monstrosity—
You sought perfection
based on nothing
but insecurities
driving yourself mad enough
to inject the blood
of a thousand toxic souls
into a single empty cavity—
An unhinged obsession
ending in bioelectric rage
creating a paraspinal pulse
and legitimizing
an impossible science.
A necromancy
disproving everyone
including yourself
because
the moment you exclaimed
that I was in fact “alive”
beneath that melancholy sky
you were convinced
I was neither dead
or alive,
or worthy of either
so, you rejected me,
left me alone
and confused
on that frigid trestle bed
without a name
my heart palpitating
and eyes filled
with the fresh glaze
of newborn sweat.
Congratulations
Mrs. Societal Shelly,
You
created life from death
only to kill it again
with abandonment
then buried it
under a pile
of despair
that is my body
and sealed it
within my hollowed core
just before
tossing me into a heartless world
to fend off mankind
alone.
I rose
unbeknown to my fate
eager to find love
while wearing ignorance as a smile
and holding hope in an open palm
wishing it to be filled by another.
But an adolescent mind,
only needs the clock hands
to revolve the sun
a few times
to grasp how cruel,
“Out there” will treat you.
I’ve been spit on
shot at
and chewed out,
then chased off,
beat up,
and knocked down
too many times to count.
I’ve been ripped at the seams,
bruised beyond repair,
and my patience is stretched
as thin as my skin,
and I blame you
for making me see the world
for what it is,
and never being there to warn me how ugly
they thought I’d be.
Never once,
had I considered beauty
an attribute to measure character
nor had I stood by a mirror
weeping relentlessly,
but here I stand.
After constant beratement
and never meeting
a single soul with good intentions,
I’ve started to believe.
For the first time
in the mirror
I see what they’re afraid of.
I’m a walking graveyard
contorted by cruelty and pain
suffering from
social arthritis
deforming my limbs
and swelling my joints into mountains.
I’m a hideous mistake,
a horrible life
of your creation
worthy
to the flames of condemnation
but only after
your misery is complete.
Ashamed of who I am
I turn out the lights
I dry my sunken eyes
until I realize
I’ve acquired night vision.
I must have adapted to the dark
After all these years
becoming accustomed to
the absence of light
thanks to the ones
with pitchforks and spears,
the ones with guns
and knives,
and the ones holding fire
with hateful tongues,
but mostly
thanks to you,
Mrs. Shelly,
Thanks to you,
I see clearly in the dark.
I see what I am now.
and I see what I must do!
My eyes sink deeper,
and grimmer
becoming soulless ebony circles
fully dilated
with one clear purpose.
“I was benevolent and good;
misery made me a fiend
and if I cannot inspire love,
I will cause fear.”
I am your Adam,
but also, the fallen angel
warning you
that I’m unafraid
because
I am what
nightmare’s fear
and I’ll be the whispers
that follow you
through the streets
while bystander’s gossip
as to what keeps them awake
and there won’t be
one mention of the name they dread
because when you left me deserted
on that grim November night,
I was born nameless
and that’s
how you’ll know it's me.
-Your Monster
Processed Cheese and Cheddar Pipe Dreams
Hope dangles just out of reach but always in clear view
encouraging us to run in place until we die, and so, we do.
Look at us
rodents racing
chasing tails
gnawing on
arsenic-laced
success.
How fancy!
Sprinting faster
circling nowhere
on a looped track
leading us back
to start again.
But it's all about that journey, right?
Hope
is a charcuterie board
with a torsion spring,
and we wash it all down
with sour curds
from “farm-raised” teats
the size of smokestacks.
What was once
good for your bones
now may cross them.
So, bottoms up and Bon Appetit!
It seems
we’ll all die early
having forgotten
to think for ourselves
because
we left our
anticoagulated
minds back
in elementary.
A lesson never learned
as a new litter is born every
two-hundred seventy days
and with every new wave,
heeded warnings
turn into echoes
of older mice
choking through foam
already too far gone
to realize hope was an illusion—
they never had a chance anyways.
Lambs and Lions
I exist in a haze. My head’s a Rolodex cranking through a thousand thoughts for how I’ll survive the next eighteen months, but I expend no effort walking the painted line because everything here is planned out for us—I just need to follow orders, lay low, and do my time. Eighteen fucking months’ worth of time. My sandals drag over polished tile. I stay glued to the faded D.O.C. taunting me between the shoulders of another man's whites while nine of us are escorted to D-Unit. If we’re fresh fish in a glass bowl, I’d hate to meet the sharks. Each of us is a little rough, probably cut from similar lives, but the tension of this place has everyone's pride tucked between our legs. It makes us walk funny. Fear and body odor become the stench that stings my nose like a cheap prison cologne. I don’t know what anyone’s in for and don’t give a fuck ’cause I’m too concerned about myself, but I’d be willing to bet most of us only got dirty to keep our loved ones clean. They're under God's watch now. Regardless, we’re unwashed men, and we’re here.
to be continued...
Write for No One
Of all the ways
words can be expressed
it’s impossible to know
if what one imparts
into the world
will be impactful enough
to leave a mark
at any depth
under any person’s skin
nor
is it reasonable to assume
someone
will catch on
to your words
during your lifetime
considering the best ones
are beloved
long after they’re dead.
Therefore,
a poet’s obligation
is simple:
You must
speak for yourself
satisfying every compulsion to communicate
before all else
because in your world
your words matter the most.
You must
jot down anything
that excites your heart enough
to leap from your chest
because if passion isn’t pumping out of you
then you’re already
more than halfway dead.
You must
archive every sentiment
flooding your mind
without restraint
or influence
because when your voice departs this realm
a unique frequency will be left behind
connecting us with you
in the afterlife.
and
most importantly
You must
never hold back the truth
even if it kills you
because in an age where honesty is hard to come by
your words could empower
a bullied child
to muster the courage to say “NO,”
or a mother with a swollen jaw
to regain the proper footing to walk away,
or a divided nation
to disassemble their broken machine
only to rebuild it again so it runs new.
and
you must
do this all
without an audience in mind,
without a contingency plan,
without love or praise
cheering for you at the finish line,
and without tomorrow
because there may never be a
tomorrow.
Now
is when a poet should write.
You should write selfishly,
be unrelenting with your words,
and tell it raw—
Speak Fucking Raw!
Who cares who you please
or if it's politically correct?
Who determines what’s right anyway?
As a poet
you must be willing to rebel,
and do it often
because who else will?
You should
write a beginning
sometimes skip the middle
and always leave out the end
because dreams
are only dreamed
when free thought
is given room to exist
not
when they’re charted out for you
to the very end,
and
A Good Poet
is a cartographer of the heart
who doesn’t point you to a definitive X
on a hand-drawn map,
but instead
helps you navigate
to the buried treasures deep within.
The poets
who write for themselves,
who think for themselves,
who are their authentic selves,
will write for everyone.
So,
at all costs,
write for no one.
Plucked
It’s true
an apple
never falls
too far
from the Braeburn tree,
that’s just how Gravity works
unless,
it's picked
and carried away
by Someone
who stopped to appreciate
the potential
within its center,
or if by some miracle
it catches the right roll
on the right day
during favorable weather,
and it continues onward
until reaching the very end
of a rugged and winding footpath.
It is only then
that the destiny
of it rotting
under the same branches
as it’s siblings
will be averted,
and only then
will it become more
than a moldering corpse
atop a grassy grave,
like the fermenting tree
that bore it,
but instead,
be celebrated
for the raw sweetness
contained
just under its skin.
Mr. Elemental
In the beginning, I was naïve— too eager to preserve life, too blinded by saving the world, and for centuries I did, but a sanctuary exposes one major flaw, overabundance. Humans multiplied. Cities Overcrowded. Agitation sprouted hate. Hellbent on destroying themselves the planet became their battleground— a war-torn dumpster, forcing many creatures into extinction. I couldn’t save them all. A species that once reveled in enlightenment and face-to-face connection now measures success by “likes” on smartphones— their thumbs replacing mouths.
Humans are pestilent, a malignancy sucking life from its host. I cannot sit by anymore.
I must destroy the disease.
Cracking the Egg
Carried away
with exhaust fumes
was my sister
and Childhood—
Goodbye forever
unspoken through
greyhound glass.
Palm shadows
swallowed
precious memories
and one-way suitcases.
The Florida heat
tasted saltier
as Donna Lewis's
"I Love You Always Forever"
complemented the ride home.
Mother reassured me,
“It's gonna be ok kid.”
She lied.
Marilyn Monroe Was The Second Shooter
“Happy
Birthday
to You,”
She whispered with grace—
Her warm breath
teased the folds
of my anxious earlobe,
providing
a cool pleasant air
to contrast my
rising temperature.
Her fingers
grazed my neck,
then melted into
my shoulders.
She traveled lower,
squeezing onto my thighs,
and eventually ending
at my knees.
She spread them wide
and began unwrapping
my present.
Our eyes locked
as she sang another line—
My belt gripped in her hand.
“Happy
Birthday
to You.”
She let the leather snap playfully.
I was caught in a trance.
She was my everything—
Experienced,
Confident,
Careful yet rough
when I needed it;
My Marilyn Monroe.
I was almost there
rounding the corner
down that final stretch
of no return
until she stopped
without warning,
and waved off
my confused look
with a bite of her lip—
A tease.
She called the shots.
I called off
my guard.
“Happy
Birthday
Mr. President.”
Her sinful smile,
sent chills
to where I throbbed.
Her pupils
maintained control
over my hypnosis,
and only when I acknowledged
her power
did she continue
my re-election campaign.
She was hired instantly.
I’d let her run
all my campaigns
from this point forward.
but then,
she began
really blowing my mind.
A sharpshooter
with a tongue
hitting all the right spots
with precision.
It happened quickly.
My body propelled
forward involuntarily,
and I tensed up.
Then she hit me with
a second attempt,
the one
with her face hidden in my
grassy knoll,
and it sent shockwaves
around the world.
My head tilted
back and to the left.
and I flatlined.
The rest became our
little history.
In exactly 26.6 seconds
I was dead to her rights,
and she had my heart.
My frosting hung
from the edge of her lip,
after she finished
blowing out my candle.
She leaned back
holding
that sexy smile
while lighting a Cuban Cigar
and she blew her smoke
at my face with sedition.
“Happy
Birthday
to You.”
I guess there won’t be a second term
for this President.
Bushwhacked
I often daydream when I’m alone. Today is no different…
It’s the same every time. I find myself floating above the ground, not too high where if I’d fall it’d be an instant death, but just high enough where I acquire a new perspective on life. I hide among the trees to observe the silence found within the woods. The bluebirds share a morning bath while gossiping, Creekside. A few of them shiver off the excess water in a beautiful display—the mist catches the sunrise glow. A scurry of squirrels darts out from their home for a brisk jog deeper into the forest eventually disappearing behind the hemlocks. A wandering doe with her fawn pass beneath me forging for acorns under fresh oak leaves—their favorite autumn snack. I’m at peace, not alone, but in a land where nothing matters besides natural instincts and survival, and I’m without her—A fresh breath that I can learn to live with.
This cigarette isn’t going to light itself. I strike a match. The new tobacco hisses like a meddling serpent offering me an indescribable bliss I haven’t felt in twenty-two years. I slump against the boulder I just wrestled into place deserving a moment for myself, but I take three instead ignoring the dull thuds heard from below. The backward curiosity of your playful tone turning to agonizing pleas after you’ve realized I closed the doors on you for good, is priceless. Your voice reverberates utter fear within the tomb I built just for you—a melody so perfect, I think of scales lifting off the pages and the notes reoccurring forever in the most elegant loop pirouetting across the undertaker's dream; my dream. This wasn’t the trip you thought it was, I suppose you know that now. We’ve been nearing the end of days for some time and you were oblivious, never taking the hints I was unhappy or needing to talk. When you expel hate’s last breath out from your dried-up lips, I’ll sip it down like an aged bourbon on the rocks, savoring every cubic foot until all that is useful is absorbed, then provide myself a toast to many years to come, while you gasp and choke trying to count the minutes till darkness.
Only then will I carry on telling an alternate truth to the ones I know will miss you. I’ll say, you died “naturally” in the woods on a hike somewhere in the Alaskan bush, and a large brown predator pulled you away from me forever. Oh, what a shame I shall express with salted sobs. She was my only love. It was a heartbreaking, unexpected loss that I’ll never recover from. My distraught wrist bends toward a sorrowed brow in a telling attempt to sell it.
Oh, and sell it I will because I have unnatural motives you’ll never live to see and while I wait at your doorstep for you to finally quiet down, I ponder where I will travel next in my new life's journey after of course the "mourning period" as any hint of suspicion would be detrimental. I guess it's goodbye my darling, and if I forgot to say it earlier, Happy Anniversary.
I often daydream when I’m alone. Today is no different, except today my dream comes true, and in roughly thirty minutes, I’ll finally be at peace.
American Hero
I’m daydreaming of crackerjacks and temporary tattoos when the organ suddenly stops mid-song and the announcer's voice echoes throughout the stadium...
“Today’s game
is brought to you by
Liberty Dick Hot Dogs
offering
a two-for-one combo
on processed pig lips
and bleached buttholes.
Stop by your nearest
concession booth to get your
jumbo-sized
cancer cocks all day long.
For your convenience
they’ve been
pressure-cooked and formed
into steaming tubes of garbage
so, all you fatties who love
tossing America’s salad
can enjoy
your favorite pastime
uninhibited
while filling
your gaping pie holes
in one convenient bite.
To optimize your experience
we offer dump truck rides
to your limo-stretched seats,
à la carte delivery
of carbonated IVs,
and tiny pillows
for your mid-game naps
if of course,
you find yourself falling asleep.”
---
Section 117, row 10, seat 6.
I have a first-base view
to observe
my fellow Americans
like rats
in a barnyard
scurrying in and out
of sunlight,
while nibbling on rodenticide.
I too gnaw along with them
as my neck beads with sweat.
I lean to my wife
to discuss how the Romans
two-thousand years ago
designed a special shade
for their arenas
to protect their patrons from the sun
and how this stadium’s engineers
obviously dropped the ball.
The crackle of a microphone
switching on
from the off-key-never-made-it-big-weekend singer
alerts our eyes to the limp-dick flag
draped over a thirty-foot pole
which remains stagnant in the summer heat,
but we rise anyways
and our brainwashed hats cover our tits—
some fake, some flat, and some men’s.
It’s not long before we finish
circle-jerking freedom
onto the backs of those in front of us
and we seat ourselves
in preparation for filling our faces
with a pair of dogs
and a bucket of fries—
our savory salute
to the fallen soldiers
granting us today’s opportunity.
Next to me
the crazy lady with season tickets
seems more concerned about where I worship
rather than the score
or my hopes of eating in quiet.
So, I tell her
"I worship between my woman's legs,"
and now
I feel I need God more than ever.
I also assume her new-found silence
means she’s praying for me,
but doubt it’ll work.
Behind me, the nearest smoking section
turns into a ticking time bomb
as a group of hover-round rough riders
plugged into oxygen tanks
balance the thin line between life and death
while lighting cigarettes for one another.
Unfortunately for us,
we are close enough
to take on some shrapnel
if it all goes south.
A young mother passes by
shoving ice cream smoothies
down her toddler's throat
preparing him
to be among the next generation
of baseball fans,
and in a full-circle irony
her child's future is foreshadowed,
when a fat man in row three
chokes on a bite
taken too large
to swallow
only to chew it back down again
after being donkey-punched
by someone trying to save him,
and I don’t blame him,
because these hot dogs have gotten fucking expensive.
I nod in approval
as I look around
thinking
Fuck yeah,
this is Freedom
and as sick as it is,
I’m proud,
yet at the same time
I’m entirely scared
of our future
because if we’re ever invaded,
America is certainly fucked.
But my thoughts are interrupted
by the crack of a bat
and a foul ball
ascending just above my section.
It blocks the sun for only a moment,
and it's then that I declare
this fucker’s mine!
If I’ve done one thing right with my life,
is that I’m a man of my word
even to myself,
so, I pull the wild cherry IV from my arm,
toss the spud bucket to my old lady,
and jump out of my seat
toward destiny.
I push through the cult lady
still praying for my soul
somersault over
the hoover-round gang
coughing up their remaining lungs
and extend my arm high toward the sky
ready to receive
the American Dream
until I’m surrounded
by short feeble bodies
tugging at my clothes
and fighting for position against me.
But I'm unfazed,
determined,
and much taller.
I shrug them off
standing strong for my country
and hold my ground
like the Ft. McHenry banner
the woman just sang about
and I follow the ball
until it lands into my greasy palms
over a half dozen disappointed heads.
What a win!
To celebrate,
I raise a single hand showing off the stitches,
inviting the crowd
to honor my victory alongside me,
but when there are no cheers
I’m forced to savor it alone
and I do,
but It's then that I notice
everyone scouring at me with anticipation,
as if I am supposed too
give up my hard-earned prize,
to one of these failed loser kids.
Fuck them!
I grip my souvenir with pride
while being followed to my seat
by boos from the stadium
attempting to shame me into submission,
but I have no shame—
I am an American.
The best thing for those kids
is to learn how to fight for what they want
earn what they get,
and that there are no participation trophies in life.
If anything,
I am an American Hero.
You can all thank me later.
…and when I get home
I’ll throw this token of triumph
into the backyard
for my dog to chew on,
because I prefer hockey
and think baseball is shit.
Plus I was never rooting
for the home team anyway.