Don’t do poetry

If you want to keep your life
Don’t do poetry

Try cross-stitching or toll painting
But you would do well to leave poetry alone

Real Poetry is food from the Heart
Strong medicine
It is not for the weak

Real poetry springs from the place
where the cold comes from
the barren house of spent desires and sorrows
The frightful down under place
where cathartic moments thunder against the rocks of your soul

Real Poetry slips into the world
through the crack in the sky
The place where the Sun and Moon
enter and exit
Pass on poetry
if you’re not ready to embrace the light

Veteran of the PSI Wars of 2011

I am a humble veteran of the PSI wars of 2011
and doesn’t matter one whit if I say it
cause you will be wiped long before my words sink in

You say that I look normal enough
but I’ve been on the edge so long
So far out the box
I have no memory of normal
and there’s really nothing left of me

The geologic layers of scarred integument
twined throughout my brain
make me a little less than sane
leaves me a little too unkind

What I’ve seen, the pain
has blinded me to the dancing sky
arching across the Chaos Bridge
The Rip in the Multiverse. . .

And you say the war is over
Just shows how little you can know
The Multiverse is in collision
and there’s no place left to go

My weapons are lost or broken
My armor pierced and split
and everything I have fought
I have become. . .
(I know
it doesn’t rhyme)


I can not write these . . .
The saddest lines
Because I no longer feel . . .
Anything really

My memories . . .
The mirror of my mind is still clear
Though cracked across the middle

I mean my heart serves me still
Though hopelessly broken

My hands still serviceable
Open and close
Though so cold
Blue cold and

Not even the memory of your warm hand

bathed her in silence

Turning him away
Destroyed the perfect symmetry of her silence

It was such a simple thing
A simple act that divided her
against herself

Dividing by two’s
Over and over
until the
Universe went fractal

Until the pain of her diminish heart
Flowed into the waters around her feet

Until his scream bathed her in silence

It started out as a reincarnation joke

It started out as a reincarnation joke
A self-made spoof on the idea of separation
as though one soul could ever be separated from itself

They wanted the game of the muse seeks her poet,
the poet seeks his muse

They had tried a game very much like this once before
him to heaven and she to hell
but somehow none of it really touched them
The whole affair slid off them like water off a duck’s back
or some of those hydrophobic plastics

The view from afar made everything look so simple
so they figured, “Earth huh?
How complicated can that be?”

Little did they know

He said, “The creatures there dance between logic and magic.”
She said, “Let’s start off in opposite directions. . . see where that goes”y much