Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

Sleepless Nights

It soothes me,

music of the dead night sky,

it is silent,

punctuated by the soft, silver

wailing,

so soft as to mimic the silence

that it ripples,

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.

We stood staring,

eyes begging for

forgiveness,

but nothing came,

just a strain

for the moon

that failed,

burned out and broken,

like the promises.

We whispered,

wondered where the stars had gone,

Where did they go,

when they died?

you’d said.

Is there a heaven for stars?

you’d said.

But all I could do was

shake my head,

and my tears fell

into darkness,

like little stars

themselves.

I remember how

my eyes could see,

colors bolder then

we could ever be,

I think there is vision,

if only there is light.

But no one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.

Confessions of a Super-Hero

I am a super-hero,

fighting off the monsters

that plague you,

knee-deep, as you are,

in the rhetoric spewed forth

by their silken, greasy lips.

I tear at their market-shares

and patented product placement

with my blood-spattered pen,

so quickly they fall

when denied the attention

they scream for.

I duck and weave, avoiding the

terrific armaments of their

merchandising squadrons,

immune, I am, being super, and all,

to their mesmerizing, syncopated

droning.

Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,

careening ever downward

to the swamp of their own filth,

a filth fed by the swooning of the undying

masses.

Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,

cast away to this place,

long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure

by my long-dead peers.

Never in a million years did I see that coming,

that I would out live the immortal.

So super, I am,

That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,

missing it, as I do,

the onslaught of seeping fortitude,

delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical

marauders,

created by those who never knew you,

and will never care to,

still.

Life’s Blood

My blood,

it lies pooled

at the bottom of

a well.

In darkness,

it remembers my life,

it speaks of the fire

that once burned within me

as I lay awake at night,

contemplating my destiny.

What is the future

once it is the past?

What were those choices

that we either make,

or don’t make,

and is the difference

between the two

remembered?

Ship Wreck

I am a ship

wrecked upon the shores

that are not of my own making,

though for years I was fooled,

thinking that I was at sea,

rocked as I was by waves

that proved to be malicious,

if only for their indifference,

Lulled to sleep by their rhythm,

a catatonic lullaby,

perilous in its sweetness,

a confection made from the

blood of the unwitting,

It is a golden ocean,

this sea of dreams,

that laps on the sands

of the grand illusion,

and all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air,

They can keep their fortune,

all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air.