dreams

Who is right and

who is wrong?

I am like a beached whale;

struggling,

turning,

pulsing,

heaving,

fighting,

rolling,

rising,

falling;

and who is right

and who is wrong?

The silence remains,

undisguised,

unspoken,

forgotten,

hiding behind

darkened windows,

shadows within the

night,

silky smooth,

hot and bothered,

passionately pure,

blends of this,

shades of that,

pieces of the

unfinished puzzle,

none of it real,

none of it genuine,

none of it true;

who is right and

who is wrong?

Within these walls

are many tales,

much laughter,

rivers of sorrow,

oceans of tears,

pools of sadness,

victims drowning

within their own blood;

we are all right,

we are all wrong;

winners and losers,

fighters and failures,

lovers and haters,

innocent and guilty,

doomed and redeemed;

together;

this is all there is,

this is all we have.

I cannot dream

what I do not know,

I cannot know

what I do not dream.

now it begins

When he opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.

                                                                                                            Revelations 8:1

 night does approach,

dreams do fade,

silence awaits,

time no more;

now it begins.

love fades,

hypocrisy rises,

iniquity abounds,

self-proclaimed children of light,

fingers of judgment,

objects of wrath,

calm,

cool,

arrogant;

no mourning,

no shame,

no remorse,

sitting as a queen;

in one day her plagues

will overtake her.

.

.

Stolen Ground

I have tasted heights so high,

I have swam depths so deep,

touching things along the way

which were never mine to keep,

traveling beyond all there

was to know,

yet still there is more,

so much more to go;

confusion and sorrow color

these early morning skies,

answers lie hidden

among alternatives and

cascading lies,

places once called home

crumble into the far-off fading light,

faces once called friends

disappear into the approaching black

of this forever growing night;

take my hand,

lead me from this land,

hear my voice,

help me make a stand;

darkness grows above,

storms rise from below,

over-fed pretenders

prepare for the final show,

in this never ending battle

which can never be won,

raging just beyond

all that can be overcome;

into the nighttime void a

whisper does sound,

shadows of tomorrow looming large

across this stolen ground,

mistakes of yesterday forever lost,

innocent blood shed,

freedom at such a staggering cost;

take my hand,

lead me from this land,

hear my voice,

help me make a stand.

.

.

War

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.                                                                                     Ephesians 6:10-12

All around the battle rages,

the enemy silently waits,

unseen, unknown,

beyond sight,

beyond touch;

beyond understanding;

slaves to all that we see,

all that we hear,

all that we feel;

yet we see nothing,

we hear nothing,

we feel nothing;

mirrors and smoking guns,

illusions and disappearing truths,

cheap parlor tricks played out

on morning talk shows,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

the war never ends;

the enemy never sleeps.

.

.

The Only Way Out

“The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” John 12:25

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6

I am tired,

really tired;

tired of fighting to

prove my worth,

tired of trying to be

something I will never be,

tired of caring what

the world thinks of me,

tired of being afraid,

tired of wondering what

tomorrow might bring,

tired of being a slave,

tired of the fantasies

and illusions most live under,

tired of listening to the

self-righteous, stick your head

in the sand, I’m ok,

you’re ok, look at me,

aren’t I special, individuals

who think that this world,

and the people in it

are basically good;

because they’re not;

human history

has proven that

over and over again;

this world was broke

a long time ago, and

there is only One Way

it will ever be fixed,

it will take a power

far beyond anything

this world will ever

possess.

Truth?

real truth does not

change,

it never has,

it never will,

it is absolute,

it is irrevocable

it is final,

it is beyond human

comprehension or thought,

it is a rock upon which

all who fall will be broken,

and all upon whom it falls

will be crushed,

only man-made truth

changes with the wind,

bouncing from one

theory to another,

one self-created god

to the next;

what sad, pathetic fools

we truly are,

created with so much

potential,

yet settling for so much

less,

selling out for a few brief

moments of pleasure,

caving in to fears and desires,

trading truth for myth,

light for darkness;

life for death.

Amidst the fear and decay

there remains One hope,

a light set upon a hill,

an escape,

a reprieve,

a small, still voice in the

cold, dark night,

do not harden your heart;

do not turn away from the only

way out of this life.

Patriotism

I am the LORD, and there is none else, there is no God beside me: I girded thee, though thou hast not known me: That they may know from the rising of the sun, and from the west, that there is none beside me. I am the LORD, and there is none else. I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things. Isaiah 45:5-7 (KJV)

This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away. II Timothy 3:1-5 (KJV)

Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. Proverbs 3:5 (KJV)

Once again the storm begins to build,

the raging winds start to blow,

through the chaos and darkness

You stand like a shining

light upon a hill,

a mighty rock which can never

be moved,

a haven in which to take shelter;

a small, still voice within

the howling madness.

Trapped within their fear,

running from their mortality,

they see

but they are blind,

they hear

but they are deaf,

You are so much more than

psychology or philosophical babble,

so far beyond political agendas or

simple human persuasion;

denying the sovereignty,

demeaning the righteousness,

twisting the truth;

failing to grasp the power.

.

.

Ready

I don’t write a lot anymore,

it’s not that I can’t,

it’s just that there isn’t

much left to say,

I have been to the dark edge,

I have seen the other side,

I have known the lies,

I have known the truth,

I have felt the light,

I am ready for the end

I am ready for the night;

I am ready to begin.

I have been blessed in ways

which words can never describe,

there is nothing that I desire,

there is nothing that I want,

everyday is a gift,

every minute a miracle,

every breath a reprieve,

this body continues to struggle,

but it is only temporary,

a slight inconvenience,

a momentary delay,

it will fade like

the evening sun,

all that will be left is love;

all that will be left is You.

You have made this possible,

You have brought me to this place

I could never find by myself,

You continue to stand by my side

when death is all I deserve,

You continue loving me when I

can’t even love myself;

You are my King,

You are my Lord,

You are my Everything.

.

.

Saturday Morning Biscuits

The day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

it has become Saturday

morning ritual,

part of the routine.

Looking up,

the mountains call,

standing like ancient sentinels,

whispering like lovers

in the fading, forgotten mist,

beckoning you to travel

along their hidden trails,

a secret society,

a forbidden mystery,

but the growing pain

within your gut

says not today;

perhaps never again.

Below the James

gurgles and flows,

steady and rhythmic,

the frogs creak,

the daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits.

You think about

the people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity and underachievement,

lessen a moment of greatness?

does not light shine

through the darkness no matter

where or when it shines?

do careless words speak forever?

.

.

What Cost?

Your humanity,

your life,

your soul;

what cost this freedom?

Broken bodies,

broken promises,

broken lives,

broken dreams;

what price to be

a man?

Life is but moments,

moments of laughter,

moments of joy,

moments of sorrow,

moments of suffering,

every minute a struggle,

every second another

missed opportunity;

in the end they fade.

I wish I could

have been better;

a better father,

a better husband,

a better brother,

a better son,

a better friend;

that somehow

I could have been

more than what

I was.

For now we say goodbye,

yet still it does

not end,

this too is just

another moment;

fading like the evening sun.

.

.

The Hunger

The hunger gnaws;

this sickness,

this disease;

quickly trying

to catch the night,

before it flees

back from whence

it came.

Far off,

the lightning flashes,

the thunder rumbles,

shadows quietly slip away,

memories return like

messengers from the deep,

sending lesser men

packing;

then it is done,

as if it never

happened at all.

There are places

in this life

where no man goes,

hidden valleys

and lonesome ridges,

far beyond the imagination

and dreams,

it is here

that refuge is found,

a haven among the lost,

a resting place

within the storm;

out here

there are no promises,

no guarantees;

only silent desperation

and stolen expectations.

.

Better Left Unsaid

There are many things I could

say to you,

there was a moment,

in the fading sunlight

of a quiet summer day,

an inner softness revealed,

beauty not seen from the outside,

unguarded, unexpected,

private,

just a passing touch;

but it was enough.

In a different time,

a different place,

another life,

things might have been

very different,

but the time is now,

the place is here,

the life is already lived,

but still,

there will always

be that moment;

some things are better

left unsaid

When you walk into my mind

the sparks begin anew,

there is a hunger

for everything that is you,

I want to feel you

from the inside out,

I want to pour out

everything that I am,

I want to explode within you,

I want to be possessed by you,

I want to tell you all that I feel,

but;

some things are better

left unsaid.

.

.

not enough

what else can I say?

what else can I do?

what else is there?

you are inside;

like blood,

like bones,

like snot,

like cum;

you move with

the wind,

swaying on

the breeze,

rising and falling

like the tide;

not enough;

living,

dying,

eating,

dreaming,

crying,

speaking,

writing,

spiting,

fucking;

not enough;

not enough;

I breathe you like

oxygen,

I want you like

tomorrow,

I hide you like

a secret,

I whisper your name

like an ancient society,

I consume you like

a pear;

not enough,

not enough;

I love you.

.

.

Thanks Hank

The squirrels become playful in September,

running to and fro,

chasing each other up and down trees

and telephone poles;

it makes me wonder what they know

that I don’t.

They drive Petey,
my Jack Russell terrier bonkers,

he whines and pulls at his leash,

dying to sink his sharp little teeth

into fresh killed squirrel hide;

life is easy in September.

I have been recovering from spinal surgery

for almost two months now,

I’ve learned if I sit very still

the pain running down my leg isn’t so bad,

I thought the pain would be gone by now

but I guess it is not to be,

sometimes I think it is for the best,

we need a little pain in life

to keep it all in perspective,

a gentle reminder,

a little thorn in the flesh

as the apostle Paul would say.

I picked up another Bukowski book the other day,

it was the first time in years,

I read one called ’35 seconds’ in the store

and it made me laugh out loud,

so I bought it;

“and that’s how

I hurt my

arm” – 35 Seconds, Charles Bukowski;

I guess you had to be there

to really get it,

he truly was a literary genius,

despite what the main stream

poetry world might think,

you have to read him very closely

to understand the depth of his pain,

and you have to read him even closer

to grasp the inner humor

that carried him through it,
most never get that close,
for most it is more

than they can bear,

they want their poetry

just like they want their life,

clean and sterile,

full of fantasy and fluff,

fresh from the minds

of those who never venture

outside their keyboards,

with freshly printed MFA degrees

hanging on the ‘studio’ wall,

minimizing and dismissing

anything that is uncomfortable

or real, calling it sloppy,

searching for technical and grammatical

correctness within words that are

empty and dead,

of course they don’t see it this way,

they would tell you just the opposite,

but their words give them away;

thank goodness he lived it for us

so we wouldn’t have to.

As I read him,

I wondered if he ever got the chance

to know the Lord,

not the one pushed by religion

or other man-made institutions,

but the real One,

the One who heals,

the One who saves,

the One who forgives,

the One who softly whispers

in the middle of the night:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”

the friend who sticks closer

than a brother,

my King,

my Everything.

I feel I know him well enough

(Bukowski that is),

that if he ever had the opportunity

like I did,

he would have seen the truth,

he would have understood the message,

his eyes would have been blind no more,
but I guess I’ll never know.

I think about how nice it would be

when I finally do enter the world

prepared for those who belong to the Lord

if I saw him there,

his dead pan, unassuming face,

quietly watching,

silently observing,

finally at peace;

completely healed;

how great it would be

if I could thank him

for exploring the parts

of the darkness I never could,

the parts that I probably never would

have survived,

the parts that would have destroyed me

forever,

then for writing it all down

so I  didn"t have to,
for helping me along this journey

when no one else could;

“Thanks Hank.”

.

.

The Great American Dream

The great American dream;

open roads,

rest stops,

all night diners,

cb radios,

tractor trailers,

Harley Davidson motorcycles;

freedom;

when the reality is 15 year old RVs,

cruising the open road

two weeks out of every year,

maxed out credit cards,

dressing up like outlaw bikers

in Daytona and Myrtle Beach,

playing the slots in Las Vegas;

pretending the hypocrisy

and compromise

doesn’t exist.

The great American dream is a myth,

an urban legend,

a fantasy existing within the minds

of Madison Avenue ad executives,

a pipe dream bought and paid for by Nike,

a nightmare

designed to trap its victims

into a new kind of slavery,

the modern poor,

the new third world,

the great American dream belongs

to hedge fund managers

and the Bank of America,

the great American dream

died before it ever had a chance

to live;

the great American dream

is a lie.

.

.

An Uneasy Interruption

In the end

I will fade away

like the early morning dawn,

quietly changing from darkness

into light,

without a sound,

without a fight,

a passing whisper

in the middle of the

dark, crisp night;

we all do,

we all will,

we simply have

little choice;

words will mean very little,

relationships even less,

memories but a brief moment,

an uneasy interruption,

a passing vapor

in a world of swirling mist.

I have been to the mountaintop,

I have peered into the oblivion below,

I have heard the small still voice,

I have known the touch

of His calm, cool hand;

words will never be enough.

.

.

My Home

We hide inside our houses,

dreaming of the tomorrows,

imagining the possibilities,

running from the darkness,

mystified by the mystery,

trapped within the illusion,

waiting for the destination;

forever seeing,

but never knowing;

forever hearing,

but never understanding;

if it were up to me

I would stay in this place,

seeking shelter from the storm,

swallowed up by the myth,

drowning in the depths,

growing cold from the emptiness,

guarding Your truth

like a rare and precious jewel,

but Your grace knows better;

Your will demands more;

I am searching for my home,

but I don’t know how to get there,

so I quietly wait in the wilderness,

running from the ghosts,

hiding from the demons,

praying for a tomorrow;

my home is neither here nor there,

not ahead or behind,

not without or within,

my home is in a land far away,

a whisper on the howling wind,

a flicker in the candlelight glow;

close your eyes and it is forever gone;

my home is nothing,

my home is everything,

my home is all there is.

.

.

Out in the Wasteland

Is it possible to write

and still maintain integrity,

or am I only fooling myself?

do people really want to hear

mysterious confessions

hidden deep within

crazed, carnivorous caverns?

lost fantasies

beyond moral redemption;

who cares?

you want drama?

you want unspoken promises?

you want flesh-filled, flailing

among pieces of uncontrollable stench?

you want madness in the shape of art?

I hear they’re having a sale at Wal-Mart;

questions, questions, questions,

searching, searching, searching,

one surprise after another,

most never get past the door,

some barely hear the answers,

others quietly bury their head

in the burning, sinking sand,

then there are the rest;

sleeping,

eating,

shitting,

locked-up alone

in silent solitude,

never making a sound,

never giving a clue;

dying without a chance;

that’s how it is

out here in the wasteland,

the price

of doing business;

the cost no one

can afford.

.

.

Confessions of a Mad Poet

He writes so eloquently,

with all the proper provenance,

all the MFA’s and PhD’s,

yet reading his work

is like running on a treadmill,

no matter how much effort you put into it;

you always end up

right where you began.

I suppose at one time it was different,

prior to the formal training and academic nonsense,

with all the self-proclaimed knowledge

and appearance of superiority,

I’m sure the words flowed natural and free then,

taking the reader on a journey

into never before seen, far-away lands;

but then the education got in the way.

I have tried all the natural highs,

all the mind expanding techniques

and self-promoting exercises,

all the little tricks of the trade;

alcohol works the best.

Sometimes I almost forget,

but then a song comes

on the radio,

an old video clip is played,

something is said,

and like tiny bubbles

in a bubble machine,

memories rise,

it all comes back;

the loneliness,

the isolation,

the sadness,

the darkness,

all night diners,

coffee and eggs

at 3 in the morning,

oncoming headlights,

the empty road,

the feeling of being unlike

everything and everyone,

the searching,

the attraction to

dark and mysterious things,

endless shots of whiskey,

never satisfied,

never enough,

always wanting more,

more, more,

standing at the edge of nothing,

peering into it’s oblivious perfection,

breathing deep

the intoxicating scent,

understanding the futility,

seeing through the myth,

fighting back the inevitable.

Sometimes the strangeness

became overwhelming,

all the differences,

the inner silence,

the unspoken words,

it’s a miracle

I never became a serial killer,

a deranged lunatic,

hiding out in public places,

waiting for a single nod,

a lone wink,

singular acknowledgement;

silent peace.

Yes, sometimes I almost forget,

but not quite,

it has been such a long time,

but it was never about fortune

or fame,

not about store bought

hypocrisy or witty,

tongue twisting words,

riding on the coattails

of expensive, inconsequential degrees,

complete with lifetime supplies

of picture-perfect, post-card images,

Vermont farms,

summers on the Cape;

it was so much more.

All I ever wanted

was to know that

somebody was listening,

someone saw through

the technical difficulties,

past the political correctness,

beyond incorrect commas

or questionable capitalization,

seeing something more than

paper and ink,

seeing the life

beating within the pages

of endless, mind-numbing sentences,

someone who could grasp the treasure

buried beneath the trash,

all I ever wanted is the same thing

every mad, raving, delusional, twisted

scum sucking, self-pitying poet wants;

to be heard.

I gave them passion,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I gave them agony and defeat,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I tried love,

I tried hate,

I tried darkness,

I tried light;

but they only wanted bullshit;

bullshit,

bullshit,

bullshit,

words to soothe

their bullshit minds,

pictures to fill

their bullshit lives,

paper with which to wipe

their bullshit asses;

self-made bullshit titles,

hiding behind unknown

bullshit presses

ending in ‘ville’

or ‘stanley’,

new paradigms,

publishing for the masses;

bullshit,

bullshit,

bullshit.

We are hanging on,

everyone of us,

waiting for just the

right moment,

ready to leap

whenever the chance

presents itself;

we are all hanging on.

They say death is cruel,

but usually it brings

hidden blessings,

when life no longer nourishes,

when words are not enough,

even non-educated fools

can understand the basics,

it does not require

above average intelligence,

it is not a learned affair;

it is something so much

more.

.

.