Autopilot

In weaving this, a wonderful mirage,
I place a veil of lacquer over empty catacombs
And painting little stars to hide alone where night is blacker
Than the part of me that knows that, in a way, it’s sabotage
Because I promise you a winter
And a sign of “None May Enter”

But here I have become a mere facade
An effigy I’m burning in the nights to keep me warm
And stifle any need I have to mourn for what I’m earning
Where the centipedes are crawling in the veins of dying gods
And I am just so very tired
Of the darkness that I’m mired

In hearing you, a siren in the fog,
My heart a steady rhythm made of dread I’ll have to drink
My hands are on the brink of reuniting with the prison
That I fashioned of impressions of forgotten dialogue
Because I knew what I was saying
When I chose the path betraying

But now there’s only corridors of smoke
A palace of attrition made of people that I lost
Where windows in the summer wear their frost like an admission
For within, it’s always winter
And my eyes see only violet
While I move without a reason
Navigating through the fog on autopilot

The Pegasus Fiasco

So, I finally got around to releasing a book of poetry.

I mean, I got it sorted out back in February but I’m not exactly loud about these kind of things.

It’s called “The Pegasus Fiasco”

You can click on the picture of the book to get to the purchase link or just click HERE

It’s a book of rhyming poetry. There are 314 poems. Anyway…that’s really all I have to say about that.

All the works I have in published form can also be found under the “Books” link on my home page.

Side note: I’m about 60k words into “Outcasts” – book two of The Solar Cycle – and once I get that wrapped up, I’ll probably officially release book one “Sojourners”.

My book progress is also viewable on my home page (I have progress meters for the things I’m working on).

Obsolescent

All that I remember is the fuse before it lit
The vivid coloration
With a sound like an ovation
And a silhouette of circles at the bottom of a pit
…swallowing the shards of its creation

Everything before is just a blur and little more
A slow reverberation
Or a glimpse of a location
And a hollowing sensation slipping slowly through my core
…vertigo from inverse elevation

What I seem to see in all the moments that remain
Are figures, iridescent
Where the sun is now a crescent
Hiding low behind a moon that only ever learned to wane
…living in a cycle acquiescent

All I see before me is a fuse wearing a spark
In painted rooms, fluorescent
With the sound of flies, incessant
And the words are made of echoes that require no remark
…at how they used to carry such a weight, however stark,
Before they slipped away in circles at the bottom of a pit, now obsolescent

Crashes

The problem, I guess,
Is the fear I confess
Or the fear that, I guess,
Isn’t valid unless

I can measure its weight
Or define its dimensions
In lines that are straight
I can bind and then gate
And assign to a valid extension

The problem, I guess,
Isn’t clearly assessed
By the fear I suppress
When I’m clearly a mess

And I’m digging a grave
In a desert of ashes
As if I could save
Anyone from the wave
That I cause when the fear that I feel and I crave,
On the shores of reality, crashes

Refuse

I steal the light from others
And replace with a shadow of a flame
They carry it a while seeing something like the colors
That were taken and devoured
And they scarcely realize they’re not the same

A grain and then another
And before you know it, like an hourglass
They slowly drain away behind the ever-shifting cover
Of illusion that was soured
Only once they realized it couldn’t last

I see them start to spiral
As they bend into the shape of my duress
Shedding their departures at the cost my arrival
Like a seed that never flowered
And their better moments sold for my request

A meaning given viral
So I offer them the needles that I use
To strip away the edges leaving pulses running idle
And a life that may have towered
Do I watch it tumble down because they offered me a lantern and the shadow in me couldn’t just refuse

Directory pt.2

Part 1


“You can keep going with this woo-woo mystical bullshit if you want, but no one’s buying it.”

“Well that’s handy, ‘cuz I ain’t fucking sellin’ it. It’s a fuckin’ fact. Snatch. Guy Ritchie. No?”

“You think this is some kind of game?”

“I do.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t.”

“Sure it is. You’re just pissed because you’re losing. And you’re losing because you don’t know the rules. And you don’t know the rules because you won’t accept that it’s a game.”

“Yeah, well, looks like we fuckin’ gotcha doesn’t it? Or you just biding your time? Planning your great escape?”

“Says the guard with a wooden baton to Magneto in the plastic prison.”

“Keep it up, tough guy.”

“Notice you’re not wearing your badge. Must have forgotten it, huh?”

“How’s this for a fucking badge?”

“Looks more like a gun. And you look like too big a pussy to use it.”


The rain is a meteor shower. Life is a tidal wave of red and white and green and yellow.

The world is streaks of color that yell out like angry geese with megaphones.

He’s screaming, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” in his mind while his lips are silent – hands gripping the steering wheel like a gun-lobbyist on Christian morals. He’s frantic. The world a blur. Letters zip by, half-obscured by rain and dark, by the glare of street lamps where the insects of the night flock like Johns to brothels – like prayers to God…like rain to the pavement.

The rotation of blue and red and white like the star-spangled banner is playing in color – like a floating apparition in his world. It’s screaming at him like a harpy that’s being gutted. It’s a cat with a bullhorn in its mouth. It’s the exclamation at the end of the sentence that once said, “Shit always goes sideways. You can’t plan for it. All you can do is adapt.”

He’s thinking back to that night. The night she brought him the list.

“The fuck is this?” he asked.

“You need…” she looked so sad and he didn’t understand why. Maybe he never really did. Maybe he never really would. “There’s a lot that you need to have right and…” she looked away and sighed. She looked so tired but he was the one that felt like he needed a small coma. “Just memorize it, okay? Just…you need to know the words.”

“I don’t even believe in this shit. You know that, right?” he said.

“It doesn’t…” she started to say.

“I swear,” he interrupted, “if you say some shit that’s akin to ‘Even if you don’t believe in God, he believes in you’ line, I’m gonna vomit. Like…seriously. I’ll fucking vomit.”

She looked so sad. Why did she look like that?

She shoved the paper into his hand and looked up with those doleful eyes. Those eyes that said they’d seen too much and yet never seen half of what they’d wanted. Those eyes that were begging him to do what he needed to do and yet seemed to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so…so…sorry…”

He took it with a shrug and said, “What the fuck ever…”

It rained blood that night.

At least that’s what he saw.


“You’ll do things you never imagined.”

“You’ll do things that you wish you never had to do.”

“You’ll do things that, right now…in this moment…you would say you’d never do. But you’ll find yourself facing them like a broken mirror. You’ll have to choose which shard of glass to use as your truth.”


Letters and numbers flashed by like hieroglyphics in warp speed. He could hear the wail of America’s finest in pursuit while he tried to get his bearings.

He needed time to focus. He needed time to sort things out.

He needed time.

He needed time.

He swerved by a car that was taxi yellow, whether by mistake or by occupation, he couldn’t tell in a world where speed limits were suggestions and repercussions were theories. He saw it with clarity then. He almost grinned as he did.

Metal met with metal. Fiberglass warped and cracked. Glass erupted like a volcano of bad endings in every daydreamer’s worst nightmare.

His head moved forward with the urgency of life running from death and landing squarely in its embrace. His head like a melon as it struck the steering wheel, warping his skull and face like putty wrapped around a stick-figure frame of popsicle sticks.

In his eyes, he saw starlight even as the impact made the passersby suddenly shift backward like a bomb had gone off at their very feet.

He almost laughed at the irony.

Leads

Perhaps we never parted
Never did, because we never really could
Divide the imperfections
From the infinite reflections
That we never really started
To perceive the way we said we always would

So now we hold departure
Like an ornament that waits to meet a tree
In days of burning summer
Where remembrance merely slumbers
And the stars are set as archers
And the pines of last November are across a frozen sea

Where reasons were discarded
Like a litany of elegies forgot
By lips securing phrases
While ignoring all the phases
Of a moon that we regarded
As a bridge between the moments that we sought

And now we say it’s over
Plucking petals, all the while sowing seeds
Ensuring that tomorrow
Shows another gift of sorrow
In a world devoid of clovers
Saying, “Clearly, have we parted,” in a circle where nobody ever leads

Apparitions

What wondrous apparitions
Have we granted such a monolithic state
Wrapping all around them are the tatters of conditions
That we knew were never destiny and so we tried to say that it was fate

And placing them in chapels
With a tithing made of all that could’ve been
Candles burning brightly and an offering of apples
Knowing all they do is rot away inside a mouth of “still, I would again…”

So callous reservations
Are we wearing hoping they can keep us warm
Stepping ever lightly on the make-believe foundations
That are holding up a temple that would fall apart if truth became a storm

But asking, in contrition,
If, for once, the apparitions could appear
Granting recognition of the cost of our submission
Knowing well they never will and yet continuing to hope that if we learn to make them real then it’s okay if we, in pieces, disappear

Dismissed

Diluting my spirit with spirits diluted
I wonder, how much of me’s left?
When words elocuted are barely a memory
Borne of the wreckage that left me bereft

With wandering syllables slowly saluting
A banner I made out of dread
And wearing a uniform made of out of treachery
Leaking affinity, just to pretend that I bled

Dissolving the meaning with meaning dissolving
I wonder, what’s left in the end?
When losses are mounting and all that I’m gaining
Are wounds that I know not a surgeon could mend

With withering elegies slowly suffusing
A martyrdom made out of mist
I buckle a smile to cheeks that are dying
And speak all the words that are trying to swim in the ocean of pain I dismissed

Proceed

Would petulance remove you if I speak
The words as if they were as strong as I am weak?
And set upon my heart, as if a laminate,
An armor that would minimize the burden of critique?

By statement like a hammer yet to strike
Do I concede that we are nothing but alike?
Or bind, to the contrary, all the evidence
Delivered by an arbitrary pulse that chose to spike?

Would sentiment deliver me a path
Devoid of error just to circumvent the wrath?
When looking at the pictures made of circumstance,
Was I a fool to turn the worst emotions into math?

By rigid arbitration and a need
To see a meaning, did I merely never lead?
Or here, in hesitation, did I choose to hate
How much I had to hold on to the past, and on to you, so I could learn how to proceed?