A Lullaby For Our Concerns

A Lullaby For Our Concerns

We defy the malignant fears,
And we see the miracle like a meteor bedazzlement.
Inside those terrors, those morbid feelings,
That paint over skies at night in specter & awe,

The Homeland you once belonged to darkened.
The callous grip on your peoples’ voices to escape,
Those dilapidated houses, and reveal their song

Withheld them all.

We all have a dream,
To scour the land of life anew and lush,
To cleanse the oceans to their origins,
To regain a proper balance of acceptance and gratitude.
We see the outcome as a key to a destiny,

Enlightenment, answers, and more merrily accepted questions.
But still, truth remains absent, somewhere beyond the malignant fears.

Love Me Syndrome

Love Me Syndrome

Another tempestuous night in Town Park, melancholy

Wild Thoughts, seeks harbor from the fell dampness.

Across an old Maple, restroom facilities, in a stall,

His Swiss Knife carves, help!- a grounded cardinal,

Over faded, besought scratches, then his number.


The windows behold an ashen canvas, dashing away

A lustrous moon, sour lampposts, the path back & ahead,

But in buckets of rain, runs a scarlet damsel his way.

Wild Thoughts escapes on some path, Love Me Syndrome

Skips past roley- poley earthworms stuck in puddles.


The gales deepen in fury. By the Maple, a scarlet,

Melancholy soul runs to the restroom, closes the stall.

She sees unspeakable markings, one freshly concerning.

A knife on the basin, she dials the splintered number,

My name is Lonesome Dove, I’ve waited a long time for you.


A calm develops, drenched footsteps echo anticipations.

The beautiful ones, raised to know what comes & goes,

But not what stays- saturated under fluorescent sight,

They sparkle. Lonesome Dove eases five minutes in.

Your real name isn’t Wild Thoughts. Care to know mine?


From outside, a whip of lightning licks the Maple,

Crackling, thickly green branches smoke up, catch fire.

They ponder a tragic moment. Is it you? He knows, It’s

Me. Tragedy. She flies, red tail vanishing in the rain.


That night, a tornado brewed, ravaging Town Park.

Love Me Syndrome claimed one, but not the other.

Quit Moaning/ Mourning The End of the Way Things Used to Be

A faith in friends tumbles on like the urge in cannibals,
Wrapped up inside the bandages that sap the color from the jowls.
Around the bend, we’ll always find them,
You can’t live with them, and you can’t grow a flower without its stem.

Where do we pick up the eggs of each day to juggle, toss, to eat?
Shall we embarrass our mayor, smoke crack, but be discreet?
Or wait at the mall, school steps, the army barracks for excitement to happen?
Are you the one that starts the war, orders, and lights the dynamite, captain?

I wonder, what we’ll make of all this,
When the sun has cycled so many times,
My mind crumbles, letting in less hits the more I miss.
And the friends I once had, fall apart like broken nursery rhymes.

Will I still be hungry like the cannibal,
Or will the bandages grow part of me,
And the inner animal,
Dies inside and hardens into the mummy?




The walls cave in everyday.

They’re thin; newspaper clippings,

And if you haven’t read one today,

There’s an article about how these walls cave in everyday.


I built a world of paper cranes,

With origami homes.

Stained fingers that folded life…blood…bone…

And I smiled at what I had done.


The living everyday are glass-blown,

Everyone of them sparkle.

And they are never alone.

Watching, reading, waiting

Until their walls

Cave in, and the sparkling glass shatters.


They blame this all on their torpid god.

And Waits…

And Waits

Silence speaks to me in the corners of cabinets,
Under the seats of toilets,
in between the walls in the dead of night,
Claiming personalities in my own mind.
Sometimes they are honest and brave.
Other times, obscene,
Like an angel spreading her legs.

I bemoan foreboding to the queen,
But only whispers escape my lips.
Wrong way, I slowly mouth.
So I wait.

Floating is what I’m trying to say,
Given to the rock that’s hard like you.
I chose to give it to you,
And holes are my slip through.
While rocking is my only tool.

Come back,
She Smiles,
And waits.
In the dirty dirt.

Death Documentation

I am the reams in vacuum sealed clear plastic wrapping, waiting to be ripped open.
Inside me are five hundred Oakwood, 8 and 1/2 by 11 sheets of paper, of which you write your death parchments on.
And when the deceased are forgotten, I’m the only documentation representing they ever existed.

When a person crumples me incomprehensible,
Tears me into polygenic shards,
Lets me slip from their fingertips into the snarling fire,
Those hands that let me go,
Let whoever they once knew go.

Maybe they do this to overlook an immediate departure,
Maybe they do this in denial of self realization,
But people do not see,
They have killed the last remnants that whoever existed,
And proof of their departure.

Forty dollars a ream, with the gold paint sprayed lightly on the edges for ceremonial appearances.
And when over 150,000 people die every day,
I sure help pillage from your taxes.
The trees you cut down to make me,
Slowly cripple your oxygen levels.
And when there are no trees left,
Then there will be no people left,
And without proper documentation,
You will have never existed.