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He tutored this life before learning it.

He refused to concede to a candle even

before lighting either end.

Fear neither held nor compelled,

but it sure did immobilize.

A crushing blow delivered softly,

this ransom note was written for him, by him, with him.

And all the while stone, cold,

soberly dreaming of some kind of lifelong drunk.

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Here his boat stands

missed by all those that could have been his guests. 

It stands aground, unsoiled,

in a dream wish flashing back and forward

a glimpse and gone.

Biography

Promised years

failing to live up to current trends

washing him away from resounding hymns

he used to sing in the rain

when he was young.

Dead Winter Thought

Sitting here beside myself

looking for a friend inside myself,

someone to guide me when I’m by myself,

someone who’ll hide me from myself

while I refuse to go outside myself.

Housebodies

We mostly live in fear

of life that could have been.

And then we die of fright

from life we’ve never seen.

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Death is an echo

clanging into muffled ears,

bringing tears

for a life that should have been.

Peter’s Rock

The older,

  not bolder,

    you smolder,

the colder

  you shoulder

    the boulder.

Almost Nothing

Nothing begets nothing,

  becomes as much,

and remains the same

until one attempter muscle moves.

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Thoughts that I¹ve measured

but never poured out,

preclude an even half-baked life.

Financial Loss

The market for this brain’s become depressingly recessed

A laughing stock to some, my notes are overdue.

The assets, lauded once upon a dream that’s been forgotten

are frozen quick inside this body, humping in its slump.

One more life story

Pouring over pages littered with empty lines, this life flows on and inward,

wetting the time that passes with tears for the should have dones.

Approaching a Point Between Ages

Impotence has overtaken languishing frustration,

but the id, superimposed atop the ego, still sits here

hoping the American Dream will walk up

with hand extended

and declare in favor of being slave to me forever.

Not the One Under the Bushel Basket

Candy-apple, cinnamon-flavored candle

glowing warm beneath the seat of my pants,

fails to stir within them the entrenched-in-their-sand-castle ants

just because it’s Monday.

Rambling

Whorey chambers, bedridden magic, lumped together in ass-o’-nine poses.

  Jump on my head until reddish-brown brains wash away.

Halloween parties masking two faces or more to the point of a death in absurdity.

  Stick in the one that relieves all the pain.

One Fear

Bury very deep beneath the top,

  the bottom of my being.

I say this not because of what the world,

  but that which I’ll be seeing.

It’s not that I’m afraid of what I know

  that’s at the bottom, at my soul;

it’s just the under-conscious side that’s hiding

  from the upper me. Abiding

not in faith with what I want the me to be.

  It’s that that I may see,

and therefore, am afraid that its release

  would surely bring no peace.

Too Late Smart

“Life is ours but once,” was heard above the din.

“Go jump in the lake,” reported off a wall.

“I’m exotic.” and “I’m neurotic.”

  and who the hell are you?”

“Please pass the butter,” someone murmured to a friend.

“Let me get some sleep, will you!”

Above the din again,

  “Life is ours but once.”

“Can’t you smell the lilacs?”

“Life is ours but once.”

  can be heard above the din,

    just listen.

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     Passionate heart attempts to translate vital thought to meaningful action.

     A wimp factor muddies the translation.

     The middle-aged nerd wields again cold iron.