Shadow Footsteps (a poem)

Underneath the cold, hard ground
I found the key to my soul
And I praised the gods of winter
Who enjoy the dead trees
And fallen leaves that rustle
Like shadow footsteps

In dark nights of lore
The high priests were astounded
By the teenage Jesus
No one believed us
When we saw him heal the blind men
In the sticky subway station

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The Devil Hiding in Plain Sight (a poem)

The searchlight found the devil
Hiding in plain sight
He has always been a vessel
For the children of the night

He sees me in my dreams
I can never quite escape him
Whenever I go to scream
He peels off my skin

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Garden of Night (a prose poem)

I. A Dark Field

There is a field shrouded in darkness. You’ve been there before, though you only vaguely remember it. Maybe you saw it in a dream, but maybe, you were there in waking hours, but it’s buried deep inside your mind.

The field is like this: Cold, completely dark; the only sound is a groaning wind. There’s no moon in the sky, nor can you see where the sky and horizon meet because it’s as if you were blind. Yet, a fire burns far off in the distance, and you smell sulfur. The wind kicks ashes in your frost-bitten face.

You’ve been here before, you know it.

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My Scream was Muffled (a poem)

Who do you answer to?
We all serve someone, whether at the
Behest of a gun pointed at our chest
Or the collapsing sky and shifting
Sands beneath our tired feet

My scream was muffled by the millions
Of hands placed over my disgusting mouth

My words have no meaning anymore
I’ve taken a detour on
Information destruction highways
Where so much data is stored in
My false brain that I no longer
Know if I’m sane or part of the
Mega-corporation whole

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Over the Lust-Horizon (a poem)

Look out to the horizon
From the shore, there’s so
Much to explore

The endless expanse of sea
And the orange-red canvas of sky
You, my love, with me
In the nuclear dawn
Times of love and comfort
Amid the troubles we ignore
On our blanket on the sandy shore
Remembering those gone
And those yet to come
Humanity’s resilient thrust
Reptilian creature-rhythm
And love-making in ritual beds
The bright stars above our heads
Soaked sheets, ecstatic minds
Hide and seek, what did we find?
Consummation of our vows
Spiritual marriage of soul-thieves
Dusty books on our shelves
Hot coffee and hot sex
Breakfast on the beach
Neon lust and capitalism-sin
Feeding the monsters within
The philosophers’ smirk and grin
Sages and ancient whims
Look out to the horizon
From the shore, there’s so
Much to explore

(Photo by Luke Moss on Unsplash)

Tyrant in Disguise (a poem)

Are you a friend or foe?
Truly, I don’t know
You creep around so slow
Then you bestow upon me
A guarantee of immortality

I don’t trust prophets like you
And the grand plans you pursue
You appeared, then withdrew
You claim you want to renew
The Kingdom of God

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I’m Not a Malcontent (a poem)

During winters of discontent
It’s imperative to remember
That I’m not a malcontent
And all I must do is surrender

Surrender to the sky and the sea
And throw my body in the ocean
The water washes over me
The salty air is like a potion

There was a time in my life
When I was in a straight-jacket
And I left the hospital foaming at the mouth
And was met with intolerable colors

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Preachers of Parasites (a poem)

Tangled up, perpetual twisting
Gazing at the gray horizon,
The silent sky falls and
Blankets me, as we always knew
It would, as it was predicted
By preachers of parasites.

When the sky falls, all is one –
stars ignite the Earth, and I am
The last man alive – but this
Is only a recurrent nightmare,
My analyst says,

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Burn the Carnival Down (a poem)

At the carnival, I worry the high-fliers
Will fall, exposing us all to the ugly truth
That we’re centimeters away from
Death and decay – we’ll bury the performer
Below, but we’ll have nothing to show
For the bravery he put on display –
The sad clowns will cry and terrify
The children, and the madmen will laugh
And be locked in cages like Hunger Artists,
But, hey, tell me, who will save us?

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Ash-Heaps of Anguish (a poem)

Self-doubt devours us,
uncertainties and distrust
of primeval dogmas that
failed us wretchedly

charlatan gurus claim
to cure me of fragility,
but steal my virtue,
leave me trembling in
hollow ghettos

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