Personality Crisis

Soft screams
subtly subdued.
Short sighs,
trembling thighs.
Silence breaker,
sincerity faker,
violent mood changer,
fearless danger engager.

Lucky muckraker,
salacious soul sucker
stalking vacant city streets
still saturated in neon and
echoes of sultry sweet-talkers
whose acidic sentiments stain
sidewalks leading to the mouth
of a solipsistic serpent.

"The point is...
there is no point..."
hisses the snake.

Such are the laments
of those swallowing themselves.

Great walls,
heart engraved stalls.
Sleepless nights,
neurotic fights.
Anxious cries,
swarms of fruit flies.
Dead friends,
logical bends.
Loving trends,
it all depends on what
our lonely serpent intends.

The Wounded Chapel

Winter storm advisory:
Soft blizzard evokes stifling
feelings of cellar doors,
rotten cores, godless bores.

I and I sigh at sights of
shattered snowflakes melting
away already peeling paint
appearing like scabs on
an old chapel wall.

Christ's wounds have not
healed, holy blood pours
onto a pulpit made of
flesh and bone, bound by a
pastor bound by God.

We were to marry here,
The Wounded Chapel
that sits so delicately
atop the highest hill
overlooking a frozen valley.

I step outside to peer
at the empty gray sky,
as if the artist abandoned
this canvas, tossing away
oils, paints, and pastels.

Or maybe this emptiness
is deliberate. Deprivation,
withholding deep blue hues
that compliment the most
extravagant scenes at dusk.

These numbing nights are
longer without the pale glow
of starlight illuminating what
was once a dense forest.
Oh, how moonlight would leak
from the treetops and
spill to the floor below!

Memories and prayers clung to
like a scared child buried
in his mother's loving lap.
He turns to face father's
scorn, only to find in ashes
the burden he once adorned.

It was all too familiar,
waking up to blank realities.
Staring up at a dusty cross
from an even dustier pew
clutching my tattered bible.

To think it was all a dream,
to think we could be happy
hanging onto the gospels
of false prophets for we know 
salvation is Christ's concession. 

Spot the Lie

Today was
top to bottom
the worst day
of my life!

Too bad I'm
so inclined to
tuning out static,
I forget to turn
the radio back
one or two clicks.

I'm in my burning
car still turning
the station back and
forth, back and forth,
back and voices
telling me in broken
frequencies -
GET OUT OF THE CAR!

Talk radio,
so tedious these days...

May you find peace with every demon living in the cellar 
of your dream house. You should have killed me when you
had the chance. You know when I come back it won't be
for you. I would tell you that I hate you but the last thing
I want to do is give you any sense of satisfaction. After all,
you're a con-artist; I'm a liar. It became too real for you
when you started believing your own story. Though I'm not
sure where the facade began and you ended. All I know is
we ended and you're probably dead somewhere warm, 
or so you hope. I hope for a lot of things. I'm ever the idealist.

• I hope you forget where I do my work
• I hope my poems are lost on you
• I hope you never read a line of poetry again 
• I hope you find peace across the sea

I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

A trash bin that reads THANK YOU
stands more dignified than I.
Dutiful, proud, polite...
A belch erupts from my jutted
hairy jaw. My mouth opens
collecting dust, flies, and
coins from generous -- if not brave --
Samaritans. I pause to sniff my armpits.

My eyes are like dumbbells
weighing down my dumb head

Brain sloshing about like ice
in an empty cup of cola

Thoughts of naked ladies and smelling salts
rattle in my noggin like a lump of an infant

banging it's rattle on a white hi-chair tray
I write these similes while drooling on myself

My libido rages like Lucifer's unholy war,
and I will inevitably fall from grace.

Like Milton I shall blithely declare:
It's better to reign in hell than serve in heaven 

Like hell, this waking life
Like dreams, I keep my visions to myself.

Like a star everyone will see my dying light,
gazing at profound beauty until I will

inevitably burn out and come crashing
down in dust at their feet. Little star gazers.