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I Need Someone to Cease My Soul Tears (dedicated to Amber Nicole Conner)

Epigraph: “When she thinks,

I understand.

While she is grace,

I command.

Where she sees,

I will also be.”


I need someone to cease

my soul tears.

That specter has cried

for decades.

I’ve let the rivers flow

until they met in the center of the garden.


O Eden: once paradise proclaimed

the heart as the navel of emotion,

I knew love existed

–just not for me.


Then my sullen sulking drew its bright sword

and light flooded my eyes.

I saw the world as pure perfection in disguise.

The words of conversationalists became meaningful.


You, the one I cried for

and sought in desperate dreaming,

make my lamp grow brighter.

From each person I sensed uniqueness

after your gaze reached my eyes.


All the world is veiled in dark peace

until its scars are removed.

Magic love, a deacon of old wisdom—

O, make her come alive!


She knows me and I have

talked to her for years unknowingly—

always honestly.

She is my spirit animal

and earthly desire.

Her totem becomes my living art,

and each door is closed but I sense

the Life opening like a dream

(O, make her come alive!).


My soul tears ceased in the darkness

of the fiery night

as sharp scalpels remove my murderous impulses.

Although, I only fault my heart

for approaching too early a depth it could

not comprehend.


I will no longer cry in my soul.

She is alive, beautifully alive—

and our masks are bravely shorn, piece by piece.

Cutthroat Completely

Wait. I have no control.

The intiated have vented their rage

like flags of attrition.


Common sense is not the image

of our hearts,

and the mood set is reset.


I am darker than the valley

but I see the cutthroat completely.

No man has cause to philander.


It’s a new age we see emerging–

darkness is parallel to the horizon,

fading in tomorrow’s rickety old Ford.


No more can we fly high because grief

has grabbed our newspaper snippets,

and American ships are sinking.


Wait. I have no control. 

Brooding is the way some of us

handle our mistakes.


Contradiction emerges as democracy plummets

in the hole we buried our masks in.

God-given speeches are wasted breath.


NOTHING is the only being absent of duality.

It is truth we seek, not fresh air or power.

I am not greedy for night lies.


Take a side or don’t take a side.

Both are fresh in the wheel

of Fortuna–


slick fates tassle in the broad daylight.

No one feels fresh with guilt

but blood is cutthroat completely.

We Are Free

Each attempt to love

leaves a scar, and

an empty breakfast table.

The heat will not let me go,

my body is the clown of it.

I am a nightmask,

horror’s relevant kiss, this streak of satisfaction that love’s technology

grants the lover.

I am free to give love,

though it rejects me.

A cynic fresh from questions


I do not love you as the courts

love mischief.

I love you as the judge loves justice.

Let us go, set my people free!

The vast abyss, open to decaying voids,

these words are depths of the heart.

Let it go, let it be, either way we are free.

american muse

“I have nothing to lose and nothing to give, therefore I mustn’t.”

 part one: the asylum


Desperation drives the ghost mad

like a lunatic in a dream-world,

sad, comfortless.

The asylum is full of hopeless illusions.


The sun will come out at night

like a mountain goat etching his shadow

on the horizon.

The sorrowful prophet escapes to her

unknowing brilliance,

and begins to chatter in tongues.


“O loose and frayed garments of time,

your rhyme is not the way I imagined,

and could the hapless world be any better,

more perfect, shapely as my concerns?”


The genuine light refracts

from the mirror of the false,

and our world loses vision.

Go, ghost, and grieve.

Your lights are before you,

sunken in this glorious race!

The american muse is solitary,

and hides her shameless face.


“O prophet, face wintered by the

worries of time,

let go of thy battles,

flee into rhyme.”


I see the ghost now

in the spiritual chaos,

within the Redeemer’s soul who spans the cold dark.


I will no longer search for the heaven

of imagination.

No, it is already there within me;

my heart is satisfied.



part two: the industrial prison


I do not have the strength

to speak, o muse, where the terror

strikes me most.

I, strong as I am, do not have the

will to complete the scroll.

Why do you require my hand?…


“When the time comes, you

will see the horizon

is like a forest of light,

bending its beams to the melodies

of our industrial prison.”


Angry, as my brain squats in its hole

while the dream comes livid into view,

I sense the science of my satisfaction

growing denser, and silent.


Tremors, the banished face of fear;

then, the doleful disguise of inspiration.

Desperation climbs into my bruises like a

lizard of darkness, high sorrowful and cloyed.


This pageant will elicit its own


We are marred by our marriage

to a dream, the indulgences of peace.


Pagan idols, crushed into the dust

of years past

by these fanatics who bar the ghost

from the palace,

from speaking the language

of its golden heart:

they create the industrial prison

we face in silence.



part three: the strength of sanity


How can my fingers keep

track of the pen’s motions,

sparked and pure?


I never knew the solace

of a shoulder,

the constant companion of pain—


how am I to face the final dirge?


The elegies for my fallen body

in this sanctuary of slant rhymes

are soft, endearing.

The touch is a promise of renewal;

the angels have spoken

and risen from the earth.


I immigrated from the vast seas

through the electric orb of my heritage

to seek the prayer offering

of sleep.


My muse, o america, speaks

to me from that torch,

held by the princess of Liberty!


“Let the starving masses come,

they shall build the new Arc

of the Covenant.

They, and only them, can rebuild the dream.

Flame consumes the profits,

the motive from which they emerge,

one nation embalmed,

live once and ne’er forget,

never forget my call!”


The strength of sanity can bear multiple


It is the dilemma our continent faces—

that the poor, huddled masses

should be forgotten, exiled, and jettisoned.


Let the prayer for our redemption

be shouted over all!…



To A Palestinian Writer

The truth persists
in veins of yearning
The dream of thunder
comes close to burning

-Lightning, from a stack
of wheat.

-Flash floods, from a
stack of laundry.

-Earthquakes, from a tutor’s
bones, with no image.

Friend, your strength sours
my complaint.
My bitching is vain
because you lived the war
I study in books.


Why then, do we exist?

Why then, does God exist?


We don’t know how we got here.

But why we climb from the slime


back into the Garden of Eden

will remain a mystery.


The veil might not be lifted

from our hearts, or our brains,


but the spirit will deep succumb

to our deadly wishes.


Our own vices will conquer our hopes,

and our dreams will remain these wishes.


When a soul relinquishes

her translucent beauty to savage voyeurs

like a female high in whoredom’s palace

gives herself

to wayfarers,


like thus, the chambers of my heart

are filled with foreign eyes.

I am a homeless, hesitating muse

of the generation gap,

and I blister the skin of my solitude like the hot sun.


I cannot assume that I am the Bard,

but my visions are violent, bright flames,

razor-sharp to the page.

The Names in the Book of Grievances

I could’ve

worn the warrant of my worth like a shoe–

or consigned it to the graveyard of eternity.


I hate this paradox of blindness.

My country is a swamp of hypocrisy now;

and, I must live in times other than my own.


o Take your offers of bliss,

your secret affiliations and shameful alliances:

stuff them where ocean meets the sky

and the bright cauldron of dusk

spills like candy,

where man and woman will birth

a new path together.


The names in the Book of Grievances

are forever denied like those they deny,

and our epoch of silence must now end.

Unveiled Poverty

The names are swollen

with rage, and hypocrisy’s lust.

Discontent roams the streets

like an obscene animal, preying on innocents.

Music will make a dance of the absurdity.


Cold, though conceived

near the flames of paradox,

the animal struggles over enigmas brightly born.


How disconcerting, a glimple through future’s rainbow!

Passion and pride become like the trash

blown into gutters by the wind.

What once was omniscent no longer sees the crime,

so we dance out of time.

Pre-Programmed Images

The plight of pre-programmed
carbon copies of scrawled

a little girl carries
a wooden box filled with
glittering, pixilated hopes.


The world brought to you

on a musical note,

the size of a q-tip.


(no matter how you shout

about the voices,

they will never speak)


(ferry to the river, learn

to get by)