Upon growing older, we are presented with the option of bettering ourselves, only by then we are so overwrought with baggage that the burden seems impossible and immense. We reach a point of desiring a holy path, but remain at a loss as to its course. The attempt comes in repentance and resolution, but rarely extends past that initial excitement. Rather, the fires of longing are quickly squelched by reality, beaten down by the people we’ve become. Apathy and long term depression result, although faintly amid the ruin lies a pulse.

Knowledge Of Good & Evil

In the garden, where

you first saw the light,

you took your liberties,

and brought eternal night

to all the children

you would never have to see;

you sentenced us to rot in our

allotment of depravity.

Your blessing is meaningless

when all you left is

this horrendous mess;

and heritage means less to me

when I find mine is

blasphemy and sin,

pulling me in.

Lost In The Storm

Anchors away;

you sail through the day

like a ship tossed around

by the wind.

Clouds hide the sun,

and you’re thrown, or you run;

feeling trapped under

fragments, you’re pinned.

Turbulent waters crash into

the bow with their wrath;

whirlpools making it hard

to continue your path.

Long for the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

Down through the years,

the ocean of fears

fills itself with

delusions and lies.

So ends the wish,

like a half-eaten fish,

sinks down through

the water and dies.

Treading the waves just to

keep your head above the crest;

no one in range to hear you

cry out in distress.

Dream of the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

Salt water seas, chilled by the breezes,

collide under dark shades of gray.

Earth spins around with a deafening sound,

throwing comets to children at play.

Blinded by flashes of light

from the gods up above,

the sea raises arms up to

strangle an overhead dove.

Reach for the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

Dichotomy

There are two natures inside me,

one that’s chained down and one quite free;

one moment I can be astonishingly happy,

the next I’ll be weighed down by utter misery.

There are two spirits, dually employed,

one that creates and one that destroys;

spirit one with hope to spare, spirit two devoid,

one of them a hardened man, and one small boy.

And I try to find the fine line,

but I cross it every time;

I seek to speak redemptive words,

but curses redefine.

There are two loves sharing my heart,

one of graffiti and one the finer arts,

one should be ending soon, one should kick-start,

one should be mended and one torn apart.

There are two characters inside,

one that I show and one I try to hide,

one tells the truth, while the other of them lies,

one I’ve accepted and one I deny.

And I try to find the fine line,

but I lost it all to crime;

on my knees and weakened,

just a beacon to the blind.

I walk in two worlds that never meet;

weary eyelids close like folding sheets.

In defeat, I must concede that I’ve been beaten

by my own fleet, from my nosebleed seats.

There are two editors I write for,

one guardian angel and one washed-up whore,

one of them a prison and the other one a door,

one has had enough now, one insists on more.

There are ideas in my mind,

conflicting thoughts of several designs;

some are all-seeing and some black as night,

some ever present and some out of sight.

And I try to find the fine line,

but I toss it like a dime,

reach to please the Trinity,

and breach the reasoned rhyme.

I’m trying to live for God,

and I’m dying to live for good,

and I’m striving to live by faith,

but it’s so hard.

The Trauma Of Motherhood

Mother, I am feverish and cold

at the notion of growing so old.

Have I kicked apart the foothold,

been avalanched by mountains of snow?

Can you still wrap me in your throw?

Mother, I am going down again;

though from the shore you watch

me drown, you can’t jump in.

I have thrown myself below

sea level, choking on a whim; Mother,

you never taught me how to swim.

Mother, there’s a blade’s end

at my chest; did you really feel your

motherhood was blessed?

Words may go unpardoned now,

somehow devoid of rest; Mother,

do you feel it in your breast?

Mother, your corrections of my ways

have been haunting me

throughout my fruitless days.

I wish I’d given listen now to

stern rebukes and praise; Mother,

now what would you say?

Mother, there are warnings in your eyes;

I know you want to tell me what is wise.

But you refuse to interfere,

despite aquariums of tears;

“Good bye,” you cry, in one final reprise.

Dismal Baptismal

Lowering gently, descent from above,

fall from the heavens like targeted doves,

torn into pieces and ripped into shreds,

face down in the river and taken for dead,

adrift with the deadwood, away with the tide,

shot out of the air by the thorn in my side,

fading to darkness, warding off light,

straying from paths now obscured from sight,

crying out helplessly, curses and pleas,

sorrow infecting the cuts in my knees,

ghastly appearance, a wretched disgrace,

swollen glands haunting my miserable face,

frantically flailing and gasping for air,

swallowing gallons of scalding despair,

violently gagging on human remains,

spitting up mouthfuls of lament and pain,

slipping through fingers and failing the test,

striking the bottom and coming to rest.

Jeu Parti

Secrets—well, we all have regrets;

like nails across sharp slate,

bore pointed fingertips.

Friction—our affliction;

superstitious, mixed religious

fiction, false benediction.

End soon, this misfortune,

before life itself means nothing

else than weeping over you.

Forgive what has done me in;

I only kept those things, burnt

offerings you hated more than sin.

When the past catches up,

I hope I’m already long gone;

I don’t want to be around when

you decide you should move on.

The longer I stay, the further

I fall in jeopardy.

Stalemate, and a firm belief in fate;

all my undesirable traits

—I know you can’t relate.

Motionless, such a meaningless

request, petrified by fresh success,

a mesh of clouded interests.

When my promises catch up

to me and echo, torturous,

I hope my sudden flight won’t

startle you with too undue duress.

The longer I stay, the further

I fall in jeopardy.

When the flowers cover over me,

ten thorns to every stem,

and the petals, nettles, nestle,

beckon starling, crow, and wren;

then, my welcome outstayed,

I’ll wither and fade in jeopardy.

Your patience outweighed

my graciously jaded jeopardy.

Brother To A Black Sheep, Parts I, II, & III

Growing up was never easy,

but thanks to you it, it sure was fun.

I can’t imagine life without you;

it’d be like taking out the sun.

I remember all the good times

in all the places we called home,

like having wars with plastic figures

and pillow fights with bits of foam.

Brother, you’ve always known how much I care.

Brother, I’m glad I had you there.

Brother, I thank my precious Lord that you’re

my brother; I hope you were aware.

No one said you had to like me

or take the time to be my friend;

I guess I could have been a hassle,

a little bugger to defend.

I know sometimes I was tough to love,

that I was stubborn and a pest,

so I thank you for not killing me;

you tried your very, very best.

Brother, I always knew that you were there.

Brother, I don’t know why you cared.

Brother, I don’t know what to say to you,

my brother… but I’m scared.

Turn your head the other way now,

I don’t want you to see what I have become.

Close the door behind—it’s getting cold outside.

But it’s too late, I’ve met my fate;

my heart is cold, my soul is numb.

III

As I sort through all the memories

of the fights and of the games,

I am overcome and colored by

my deep regret and shame.

You have turned out stronger

than I ever hope to be;

I cannot look at you in the

same godly way you look at me.

Brother, don’t be disappointed in me,

but I am not the man I ever thought I’d be.

I’m very, awfully sorry, and it

makes me want to scream,

but you will always be brother to a black sheep.

The years could not make up

their minds what to do with us;

they led to very different lives—

I don’t deserve your trust.

Don’t feel the need to fend for me,

I’m not a child now;

eventually, you will agree with

all these shearing sounds.

Brother, don’t be disappointed, but it’s true;

the things I hate seem near the only ones I do.

I’m awfully sorry, and I cut myself with glee,

but you will always be brother to a black sheep.

You have always been a brother to a black sheep.

Darker Than Sin

Cold sweeps the chill across your teeth,

like the wind through the wheat.

Your words mean nothing anymore;

I feel the draft beneath the door.

What’s coming over me?

Darker than sin rushes this depth;

I spiral down into your breath.

You lift your hand and turn away;

I grip your noose at the fray.

What’s coming over me?

You Can’t Know

In the morning, when you look to my

bloodshot eyes, through the blinking

and the shades, don’t be surprised;

you only see me under canopies of sun.

Don’t inquire as to last night’s fire in town,

don’t approach my emotional spiral down;

such taboo subjects are overdone.

You never hear me when

I’m screaming out at night;

forehead wet with insomnia,

crystallizing into fright.

You can’t know the thoughts that terrorize me,

harsher than your worst nightmares;

thumbtacks pinned to a police chief’s map.

At that, I wake up, gasping for air.

Another day lost, and time to retire;

excuse the smashed glass and the worn tire iron

—mixed emotions… time to go to sleep.

Mull over conversation and talk, get out of bed

twice to make sure the door is locked;

keep hearing stairs and floorboards creak.

You never heed me when

I’m freaking out and tight;

forehead wet with sweat, and

fretting, horrified by pitch’s bite.

You can’t know the thoughts that paralyze me,

these aren’t your common dreams;

afraid to sleep, awake for days,

recounting horrid themes.

A few too many drug induced novels;

grovel for the conjuring of medication bottles,

become the subject of a speculative hush.

Don’t ask for privileged information interviews,

you’ll hear reports on the ten o’clock news;

you’ll want to vomit at thoughts

that make me blush.

You’re never near me when

I’m creaming at the sight,

frothing at the corners of a

grin, at sinning—staged delight.

You can’t know the thoughts that petrify me,

straight from an asylum cell;

scrapes on the pavement guide me

to my own personal hell.

Fresh Blood

Fresh young spice on a

Friday night, pretty little face

so bashful, peach pit moan

with a beckoning sneer;

let your locks down the castle.

Princess, you’ll not

make it home tonight;

I have things in my mind

which you dare not fathom.

You will never see the day

the same way.

Sliding door through open

window, bedroom sanctuary,

walk in closet with

Venetian blinds,

drawn unripened berries.

Treasure, I’ll invade

your mysteries, pry into

the gateway of your knees, then

slip your bleeding lips around me.

Fresh blood screams,

“Please don’t do this!”

“God,” I think, “if only.”

Then a crack, a snap;

fresh blood gushes free.

Laundromat or the grocery store,

boyfriend at the jeweler,

foot in a nest

in an oak tree branch,

evening getting cooler.

Petite little cutie lets

a howl that shatters nerves,

day fades away with

an unprovoked shiver,

supple curves

slow motion and purr.

Fresh blood pleads,

“Don’t put me through this!”

“Dear, if it were only that pure.”

A sudden surge of rage,

a jolt of pain,

then nothing more.

Oh God! Oh God! May

the glass be sharp enough

to fix what I’ve done,

and may her tears fall from heaven

and cleanse this puddle of blood!

Half empty bottles

on a Chinese rug,

cats on broken rockers,

sleeping past noon

without calling in;

such is life for stalkers.

Puss, it wasn’t

anything you did;

I am living

consequences of my sins.

Now watch the years strangle you

with all you hate in me.

Fresh blood screeches,

“You can’t undo this!”

Now I see it all too clear;

fresh blood is the

focus of my fears.

Fresh blood screams,

“Please don’t do this!”

“Dear, it’s already done.”

A violent twist, sadistic kiss,

and fresh blood runs.

Bug Eye

Mesmerized, hypnotized—

read between the lines

and go crazy;

beat the bride, come inside—

ungodly hour of night

of self abasing.

Mercury melting me,

move on to another crime;

choose a view, lose a few,

looking through a hundred eyes.

Posing for no one and

posing as someone;

JESUS CHRIST had

something I can’t find.

Sanctified, justified

—everything at one time,

but now I’m going crazy;

terrified, bleary eyed

—morally declined,

arriving in a base heat.

Lead laden muses haven,

avalanche and landslide;

fortunate, distortion fit,

abortion, rape, and suicide.

Closing to everyone,

opposing the only son;

JESUS CHRIST, my

friend, I’m going blind!

Clip my wings,

do violent things;

he always brings

me back somehow.

Slam headfirst

—my God, it hurts!

Savior, can you

save me now?

Serial Killers Have Mothers Too

Mother dear, dearest Mother,

I don’t expect you to understand

how your boy could hurt another.

I have tried for so many years

to not turn out this way,

but Mother dear, it appears

your fears, Mother dear,

dear Mother, are known today.

Father, Father, sir,

I have bad news for you;

my name, the name you gave,

your name will soon be reviled.

I have done some awful,

some horrible, horrible things.

And some people you never met,

some family has been greatly defiled.

I’d protect you from the disgrace

this case will bring out in the courtrooms,

but the fact is, serial killers have mothers too.

Sister, dear Sister,

dear sister I never knew,

would anything have changed

if you’d explained that

your kind needs respect?

Would my path have been brighter

or am I truly an animal?

Sis, is there pity or compassion

outside this regret?

Brother, elder brother,

you will soon be outraged by my mistakes

and how I could be so heartless.

I have tried, with God as my witness,

not to become the shambles before you;

step over my open grave and just shove me in.

I’d take back all these things

I have hidden in places where darkness looms,

but the truth is, serial killers have mothers too.

I don’t deserve to live

—well, on that you and I agree;

but are you sure that it’s justice,

not jealousy causing you to persecute me?

There’s a family out there who

hates me for what I have done;

but that’s nothing to the self-loathing,

knowing that I was the one.

Everything they’ve been saying about me

is true; serial killers have mothers too.

I can see her face change as the waves of pain

shot through her once virgin frame,

and I still see the corpse,

all contorted and morbid and strange;

and it plagues me, a hideous apparition

—I’m going insane! …oh, by the way,

what was her name?

I’m the vermin germ,

I’m the worm squirming dirt, I’m unglued;

and I’m sorry, but serial killers have mothers too.

Excuses For The Jest

What sort of mess am I in?

I confess, I’m distressed

by excess cardinal sins;

I guess I could best be

regressed while I’m pinned,

unless you’ve been dressed

up in bourbon and gin.

I don’t want excuses of genes

or abuses I’ve suffered before;

they won’t justify what I find

myself doing exceedingly more.

This subtle deterioration is

patiently waiting to kill;

divination and sheer speculation

bring nearer the day that it will.

You control your actions,

not the other way around;

you lose yourself,

not wanting to be found.

Into what sort of joke was I born?

I suppose it was chosen before I was formed;

choke on the hope of confusion and scorn,

and tighten the rope—without hope I’m adorned.

I don’t want excuses that razors

or nooses may promise to solve;

the redder the bleeding, the

darker the afterlife involved.

This growing depravity claims

there’s no way to be painlessly spared;

inane bouts of praying in vain say

the same as a world without care.

But you control reaction,

not the other way around;

you fuse yourself, not

wanting to be bound.

You bruise yourself, and

crumble to the ground.

Leaves Me Feelin’

Twelve fluid ounces of imported lager,

thin streams from what used to be a tea light.

Some rock star guitarist’s

warehouse clearance disc on spin,

awake tomorrow before tomorrow begins,

with the fan on, over a cool Christmas weekend,

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a junkie.

Girl, no matter how feminine framed,

doesn’t laugh at the TV or

the roommate playing video games.

One beer, stale pizza from boxes on the floor,

or resting under coffee pots

with a fourth cup left unpoured,

a few holiday greeting cards

with nothing personal except a name,

a quick succession of Special Light

cherries on my favorite vest,

and four corners, and one gaping window,

and a list of six bad memories,

and a backpack of ATM and gas receipts

—doesn’t add up. . .

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’ too much…

leaves me feelin’ nothing.

And tomorrow at two,

a photo shoot for promo fodder;

tonight my stomach is sick,

tomorrow morning I’ll want to die again;

I’ll take vitamins and Aspirin,

and force down torn off pesto bread,

and watch the sun dim these realities,

and teach myself to laugh again;

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like life.

The Whys

Now it appears I’m doomed

to despise my way of living,

to spend my days with you,

and yet confused by the misgiving;

your heart is so young, and my

emotions have grown so cold.

So now it seems that all my

dreams have been a sham,

and quite elusive,

I’ve stuck you in my joyless rut,

unfair—downright intrusive;

there’s no escape, it’s too late,

I throw my hands up

from your stranglehold.

And it will never change,

so just hold me ‘til I die;

there’s no answer to the whos,

whats, whens, wheres, and whys.

The little girl you were

lies in a gutter full of rain,

the bum who rules the slum you’re in

has caused you so much pain,

and there’s little indication

my inclinations will ever change.