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

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.