Poetry

Am I insane? 

Blessed with trials 
of unclean angels 
perfected with imperfection, 
mirrors of experience 
reflected in a cracked iris. 

The holy face that follows 
comforts and watches over 
with a holy smile radiating 
in stark starry sleepless 
pre-dawn mornings intertwined 
in long walks to nowhere 
from Yuma to the Middle East 
with notebooks of noble philosophy 
holding hard against supernova 
storm clouds that sway blindly 
into unknown fiery revelations. 

Murdered with angry shotguns 
on the brink of failed hope 
as thousands and thousands of 
trumpeted bugles scream down hills 
in complete darkness one can only 
discover in slippery black sand. 

Slipping away on credit 
in imagined Spanish avenues 
that continue on until irrelevance 
is no longer a petty comfort 
to watch pretty girls 
dance on giddy toes 
refraining "This is how I am" 
thinking about strategy, conquest 
the science of sex, and 
the next fix. 

This is for you Priya Shah 
This is for you John Caltagirone 
This is for you John Bouse 
because this life is not for 
petty meaningless us, we 
pointless chroniclers of 
what we strive to be with 
words destined to fade slowly 
in the utter blankness 
of pre-dawn mornings cursed 
with the comfort of self-important 
tarnished abstraction obssesed 
with structure, form, and 
stark raving expression. 
Without you we are nothing.