I gotta get this steaming pressure cooker off my chest. I don’t know what I am searching for, but maybe I will find it when I get there. I think it is the journey that I want and nothing else. It’s all about that road with failures that we take to get to victory.

I know faith is something we need, in love and creativity, with a capacity that is magnificent. This landscape is my painting and I have lived many colors. I do NOT wish to be a bitter Scottish rutabaga, but would love to leave vibrant colors on an anointed canvas.

I have kept my wits about me all these years even with our divisions. My intentions are to follow through on this no matter how often I want to give up. I won’t give up even when I end up in grave danger. We are all headed to our graves someday, somehow.

So, it is essential that we leave inklings of us behind so we can trace our electronic signature onto artwork for others to discover when we bask in a promise land. The message will never die because there are plenty of us.

If I could capture an audience so that they could see a glimpse of what I see,  I would give us the steam from a sauna that would keep our spirit bodies wet for eternity. I would be waist deep grasping fish out of lake mud. I would give my life to have all the divided people love each other.

I have made mistakes, I have fallen on my face a thousand times. I have fallen from grace twenty-seven-thousand-n-a-half times more. These imperfections made me stronger. This experience made me ready to headstrong a war against devils.

The corporations and hemoglobin suckers. The pig-profiteering banksters living at the Federal Reserve. The Monsantos of the Earth that have multiplied skyscrapers to eat away at the linings of Heaven.

Souls are connected to lustful obsessions that have attached us to possessions of waste. The entire anthill is fed the next fashion that continues to enslave us in our land of the free.

I will battle beasts that thieve the moments we find clarity. Those moments when we believe that humanity isn’t all meaningless and for profit. Those moments when we give compassion to the heartbroken.

The drug addicted. The weak of heart. The contrived ones. The woman beaten an inch of her life. The homeless family men. The afflicted soldiers. The abused children. The will-broken. The suicidal ills. The unjustly ridiculed. The grieving widows. The handicapped.

The ones that hate you for being human. The debt-stricken dreamers. The cancer patients. The freedom-stripped. The lust-battlers. The mentally bitter. The sad comedians. The praying sons and daughters. The rebellious teenagers. The innocent prisoners with life sentences.

The infinite tragedies that every human knows are there but refuses to speak upon.

I dillydally in Midwest farmland and Native American Mounds.

I’m a city-born man who became Ohio lorn.

Some long to find the city to which they belong.

I listen to a weatherman claim global warming,

And experts can’t predict rain any given week.

Meteorologist’s might someday predict right, a storm or two,

The gusts will disembowel chunks of Earth.

I’ll use my left hand to lasso a grass-grazing cow from a tornado,

And squeeze its udders until I retrieve the richest milk.

I will fill jugs like the milk man still delivers to porches,

And inject unpasteurized milk to shift a culture.

A barista’s coffee curlies beam in morning bright,

Like a western coast wave swallows a surfer.

I’ve lost my board, um,

I feel my heart flutter beneath my abdomen,

Like my fisherman’s dinghy sailed into the maelstrom of Saltstraumen.

And I’ve been pummeled to Mariana’s trench,

In a lonely submarine peering through glass.

And I have drank to dry roasted breath at this hostel,

Blessed by the bustling breadth of stories,

And words, and laughter, like a Sunday matinee.

I write my inklings, my storylines,

college essays, prompts, and my titles.

Still I draw closer to the beach,

expressing novels in rhythm,

like modern street Poet’s,

Put their souls in Hip hop.

Every one’s poetry vibrates its way to my inner ears and floats silently in brain fluids. When locomotives of thought collide, a poem bounces with buoyancy as a beautiful projection. Light flickers upon a projector screen before the path blackens again. Every moment I sift through this sea of letters I become more Sisyphean and this struggle never ends. I borderline obsess over sentences strung elegantly between imaginary pink and blue lines, but when I am here I feel I am right where I belong.


We are prisoners of conscious.
I need to be awake on my own.
Let us burrow into our minds.
We have roots.
And we can plant seeds.
Let us create ourselves.

Shut off our toys for the day.
No Facebooking.
No tweets.
No Tumblr.
No texting.
No game apps.

No Droid.
No Instagram.
We have enough picayune things.
I will carry a Polaroid.
I want to move you with painted words.
Though they stand still.

Delete that keyboard entry in your text space.
I want you here to talk with me.
Your hand gestures and interpretations inspire me.
I need your touching eyes,
Pressing on me like wet violets.
I need to live, so I don’t forget how.

I want to be lost in the woods,
Basking in the light shimmering off leaves,
Drinking from a sacred tree trunk of Methuselah,
To ingest the sap that leaves the air behind me clear.
And gasp in the breath of beholden beauty,
Latched in a skeleton-keyhole chest.

Funny, I publish posts in a blogosphere.
I love the idea,
Of ideas lying nimble on this nimbus.
I write my heart on paper as thoughts strike me in the head.
I express them here because I struggle to bottle the words,
Though I carry hundreds of hidden pages by the spine.

I write below trees until my wrist is writhing.
Unplugged from wires I find my equilibrium.
I can’t maneuver from being this man.
I need to disconnect to begin being connected.
I remember that I am dust and water,
And I bathe exquisitely in the dirty recess of my mind.

A Pessimist’s Butterfly Story

A second chance,
Butterflies are God’s proof,
The universe has its hand killing us again,
Clipping wing after wing. 
Wings, witches can cast aflame any moment.
Douse us until we’re cauldron stew.
Watch the liner in the air nose dive.
If our backs even grow wings.
If we even moult from the larva.
They want us to cater to the pillars of the black book.
It can swallow the cocoon whole before you fly to the sun.
We become Imago.

Our second death,
Memories are God’s proof,
The darkness has its hand at clasping our souls again,
Spiraling minute after minute.
Minutes that clocks can stop dead any moment.
Age us until we’re brittle boned,
Celebrating the day of the dead when millions fly.
If our backs even grow wings.
If we even moult from the larva.
They want us to flutter with the rabble of the signature kaleidoscope,
Until the year the Monarch doesn’t appear again.
We become imagination.