What You Left Behind

Something is missing

That numb feeling in my center

this vibrating out that it does

glazing over my eyes

I know somewhere I must have some feelings

anger and sadness

best guess

but I can’t connect


are you as tired of that word as I am

fuck I’m so tired of it

I keep going

because I’ve learned by now that that’s what I do

I guess that’s pretty cool

but if I’d given up

I wouldn’t judge myself

or you

I don’t want to live here

but wherever you are

you are

and what a fucking riddle it all is

isn’t it

sometimes I just get sick of playing

so I give up for a little while

I let it take over

the gray cloud

the white noise

sometimes I don’t let it, it just comes


I put ear plugs in today


because I didn’t want to hear that fucking blower blow one more time

jesus Christ

I don’t feel like I can ever ACT or DECIDE

and when I do

just momentary blips on the radar of life

I want things

and I know things don’t really give you anything

is it all just a head spinning trap

how do we live without answers

how do we fulfill our purpose

the one in the soul that keeps pushing us forward

and yet

that other thing that stops us

every god damn fucking time

your skin will wrinkle if you don’t die

and your eye color will fade and all that will be left

will be what you left behind




I’m not angry anymore

You run like mad from your own feelings

Wild, crazed, lost

And then say that I am Those Things


You are a good man — somewhere –

But you are afraid

I cry for you who lives under the burden of this society

That says men don’t

The mask you wear is hardening

Be careful, boy

Sometimes masks get cemented into place


I am no longer offended

Or disappointed

Or think there must be something wrong with me

The haze has lifted

I’ve done the work

I see clearly

How fast, how furiously

You run

And I have no desire to run away with you


Give me the meat of life

I will sink in my claws and suck the juice of it all out

It will dribble down my chin and I will grin, widely

Supremely satisfied


Trick, trick, trick

Tick tick tick

He won’t stop

‘Til He gets what He wants

Stealing all my thoughts

To twist and turn and weave

As He sees fit

Taking all clarity

Hoarding all wit

He’s like a Hawking, or Jobs or Einstein

But multiplied infinite times

Oh honey, you ain’t gonna win His game

Genius like this is Genius Insane

Trick trick trick

Tick tick tick

That great mind you think is up to it

Is proof you’ve already been Tricked

There is no up to it with a Devil like this

All that education, that intelligence

He’s just got you building a higher fence

Humming, foolishly, as you close yourself in

He’s running circles around you

Your best psychological thinking is His

He tells you “it’s projection”

He won’t let you have a thing

Don’t you know by now

He will tell you anything

Just to keep Himself going

To stop you from feeling your True Feelings

The only chance you might actually have

To not be

Tricked tricked tricked

Tick tick tick…


A Worthy Endeavor

I feel Hope rise up, filling me

Pouring out my eyes

Gratitude bursting out of my heart

I think it just grew about three sizes

At the very same time

I feel scared shitless

Not a great word for a poem, maybe

But True

It is scary to Hope

Because it’s Dark Partner – Disappointment —

Has Crushed me more time than I can count

“Don’t hope at all, don’t feel this much…”

Some small voice begs from deep inside my soul

But the Hope is too powerful

And it flushes my entire system with this kind of warm glow

Another part of me smiling and shouting with joy


It is so hard to not get attached to emotions like this —

To know they will change

Why is it that when we’re in the depths of despair

It feels like the pain will Never Shift

It feels like the suffering is endless

We so easily forget the small beautiful moments

Heart-aches somehow solidify more

Hook into us


When we Hope, when we Love, when we Feel Amazing

There is a voice that cautions,

“Now now – not too much…

Don’t be too happy…

The other shoe’s is about to drop…”

It’s true and false at the same time

Feelings move

That is what they do

So I come to the One Great Altar:


Knowing I must let myself fully accept This Moment

This Joy

And, with courage, do the same for the inevitable

Other Side.

What an enormous task.

But what a worthy endeavor.

Gift of The Madwoman

She is buzzing, buzzing, out-of-control

The dream-car screeches as she blasts rock n’ roll

Taking sharp turns at kill-me-please speeds

Some small, unheard voice inside of her pleads —

But the driver is sober.


She’s just fucked in her mind —

A pissed-off Beehive –

Roiling inside.

A clueless kid prods it with a long wooden stick

As if length gave him safety.

Oh, what a cruel trick.

Angering, angering…

On the verge of attack.

This horned mass of stingers —

No protection from that.

(The mere thought of it makes the Madwoman laugh.)

Revenge bubbles imminent,

The Beehive? It cracks.

Out comes the raging, buzz-buzzing mass.

She can’t see the road now –

Blacked out and Blind.

The child drops the stick —

He’s been stung from behind.

Swarmed like a piece of ripe, bloody meat,

The child who Tricked

Now becomes Treat.

The driver, she crashes —

Is thrown to the street,

Head cracks like the beehive

Death her final defeat?

As her life filters out of her…

The child —

He breathes.

For once she is dead

The bees turn and they leave.

But the gift of the Madwoman

Burns bright and alive:

For the Ignorant Child

Has now become











The Shovel Man

He is The Shovel Man.

The one who goes out on icy evenings

Lifting up the heavy, brown dirt with his metal instrument,

Loading it onto Whatever Might Be Growing There.

Killing it swiftly.

Wiping it out.

“You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve to live. You do not…”

He heaves His Instrument up and down again

Masturbating mechanically.


No humanity left; which is sad –

Because he had some once.

Motivated now by Survival Instinct gone horribly awry.

“I must go on. Only I. Only I. Only I.”

And this is how The Shovel Man spends his days:

He wakes.

He looks.

No. He watches.

Any seedling that pops up;

Any bud that dares rear it’s tiny head;

Any expression of anything at all –

He snuffs out.

He is part God, part Man and all Fear.

And he no longer notices that with each pile of dirt

Upon each baby feeling

He murders, also,