I write poems to earth
as if we’re divorced
and still sharing the kids —
being cordial at graduations,
birthday parties, and swapping
Christmas mornings.
Yet I still love her,
though she’s moved on
with a better me,
one who had time,
and didn't spend it all,
in stories and meanderings
of eternity.

I write poems wondering
if she’s reading them
pondering that when
she sees fireflies
does she think of our first kiss? …

They say.
They say.
They say.
Wisdom of the masses
wisdom of foolish minds
clinging to a dandelion
thinking it’s the core
of the earth
and they will be safe
when a tornado comes to unearth,
the foundation of their
mental homes.

They say.
They say.
They say.
What it’s like to be black
what it’s like to be indigenous.
But maybe they
should shut their mouths
for once;
maybe they should listen
and say nothing at all.
For silent empathy,
is what shall truly
heal the earth.

They say
“There are other fish in the sea.”
but maybe they should instead
feel…

White daisies and dragonflies
sends sparkled starlight
across my eyes.
Duopolies in my soul to battle
blank pages of my heart that’ll
inscribe muse’s pining foresight
as midnight tomb stars
explode varying idioms,
from a barfly’s slackened tongue,
inebriated oath and bets
upon a gambler’s podium.

“barkeep, take away my memories.
I ask for hope,
but require no one.”

With majestic cecropian eyes
and rose peddled bourbon lips
the birth and the death amiss
between tomorrow and oblivion
the mirth of wonderments
tombs and cradles
life and fables
a once-dead heart
to beat again
to salvo
and sing
and dance.
To escape,
cold silence,
of a hospital bed
of diagnostic chance
numbing dread.
To fly,
fungi and fauna
wings…

Sometimes I count the edges on the ceiling
and with each pointillistic cosmic effigy
I begin to connect these vertices until
a coherent image emerges delicately.
I give them names and personalities
I give them stories, backgrounds, and tragedies
I give them love, loss, and redemptive maladies
just like I give all the faces at the supermarket
or strangers passing me by
in downtown Lincoln. With the wistful
eyes of a hawk, I feel their obscure weeping
tell-tale hearts. Always wondering
if it’s better this way? Better to be
the writer than the written. Better to be
the observer than the observed. Better to be
forgotten than remembered as a quiet failure.
And so here…

I saw the end of the world
at cypress hill
truth is,
it had a sort of an intrepid shrill.
A bluejay conquering
a tree-limb soul departing.
An old man walking on
railroad lines,
whiskey bottles clatter
filling entropic cracks
swelling an eclipsing street lamp
with laughter,
not meant for me,
toothless grin as he
looked me in the eyes
And said,

“The sages
don’t know,
psilocybin resonances
and superfluid DMT
rivers, circular
flow and flower
and bellow
ancient kings
truth,
to fairy gnomes.
But you,
you know that the last
sunset will be a fire
worth remembering. …

I was born in the Nile,
and baptized in the blood of gods.
I was raised by a pack of wolves,
a heartless killer I’ve become.
I lived in the pyramids of Egypt,
there they praised me like a Pharaoh,
and I lived like Ra.

Well, the gods, they made me immortal,
to stand before death and laugh
Well, the gods, they feared my power;
they trembled at the sight of my lands.
Cause I’ve fled the seven plagues
and even survived the ones, I’ve made.

Lord oh! Lord, can you ever forgive a man like me?
Lord oh! Lord can…

Raindrops splatter circular life
across a dried savanna.
Hunger, beset upon a rugged land,
knows violence and kindness,
and the swaying cacti dance.
Lightning crackles heavenly rage,
and thereupon the edge of day,
mighty chance walks from its den,
searching for the last signs,
of predators — even prey.
I know this place,
this wasteland of man,
where dried sage,
crackles like sea glass,
as the last scorpion,
scuttles across,
a dusty graveyard.

When you look at me
I know who I was
who I am
and where I am going,
along the path
of love and growth,
Death and all.
I was torn and shredded
scattered car…

I sent a prayer,
to an equation,
to solve the weariness
of living.
Incalculable despair
and 1/0 nightmares.
But all my moments
have now diverged or digressed
from you,
from the place I regret.

I don’t have faith
in mortal love stories
or heroic quests
to save my soul.
I don’t have trust
in the code written,
in my neural space
without doubt,
without indignant hands
of entropy and time,
squeezing nihilistic truth
from my Buddhistic light.

There was a house
with a garden and a dog.
There was a couch,
a kitchen aroma,
fingers coiled,
dreams shared,
in your blue estoile eyes
and ring that connected,
eternal…