Natural Jazz

look out

towards latticed crust forestry

heaving

upon the tide of

heavy wind

laced in crystalline distillate

how sorrowful their

posture

barren in midwinter

dull and grey

fenced off by toasted oat

reeds

fibrous weeds flourishing

amidst the desaturated

landscape

at times

i believe i’m searching for color

that if I gaze long enough

these gunmetal grey branches

against the cold cobalt of

the open sky

appear purple

yet i admire the contrast

of these grandiose birds

silhouettes cast against the rain and

snow

how they stand out

floating on

unaware of their

grounded shadows

how the cluttered brush

matted grasses

snapped twigs and

toppled trees

harmonize

chaos

the mess

this natural jazz

everything is dancing

not everything knows though

how to follow the beat

Inner Children

this inner child

refuses to mature

stubborn

ploddingly obtuse

laughably laborious

following the path of most

resistance

single child soul

struggling to subsist

in a world so expansive

duplicitous

and grave

should youthful ambition

fall to the wayside

in order to make room

for tedium and decorum

there are no adults

just large

self-righteous children

and their sense of entitlement

dress up and make-believe

sacred rites

of the initiated

and those

joining their ranks

uninspired

dead poets

often

i find myself reminded of

grade school

arbitrary rules and conditions

held in highest esteem

maybe

these eternally young

inner children

are the wisest

of us

Ruminations

I think I might be

getting worse

seeing things

out the corner of

my eye

focused towards

the all engulfing

darkness

lashing out

thin tendrils

engorged

full with spite

merciless

cthullian mammoth

tentacles

crushing my ribs

forcing the last ounce of air

from my lungs

wheezing out

a pitiful wail

as a death rattle

echoes in

my swollen throat

this creeping dread

encroaches on

the shoreline of

eroding sanity

washing away bright grains

of sun bleached surface

revealing darkness of

pumice stone and

bed rock

less than skin

deep

i am the saboteur

of my own agendas

the lobbyist endorsing

unfavorable policies

selling myself out

with no purpose

i am cold

numb

wretched

and no longer find

the sweet joy of laughter

in the isolation of

self seriousness

i am an island

no more man

lost to time

too innocuous to be plotted

on any map

i too have lost myself

within these cold

choppy waters

i could walk in

who would stop me

stumble into

thick brine

drink deep the salt water

pickling myself

preserved

as sea creatures

harvest my remains

at least then

i’d no longer endure

the horrors my own mind

subjects me to

how vile it is

that he misremembers

so often

constructing facts of

patched fictions

how it takes such

sick satisfaction in

causing me to ruminate

to exaggerate long forgotten ills

while i succumb to fear

anxiety induced

nausea

only here in the dark

with music in the background

drowning out these

cruel

suffocating thoughts

ringing

like tinnitus

do I find the relief i

crave

Pumped Up Ready to Pop

we’re all narcissists

admiring ourselves in the mirror we polished

rutting away at whatever

object helps us stroke one out

fellating our

ego

lips soaked

with envy

I can’t get off

watching you

writhe in your

own ecstasy

be more considerate

next time

you see me

indulging these masturbatory

urges

I’ll try not to

get any on you

but I make no

promises

exhibitionists

baring it all in

fabulous nudity

inflated phalluses and

vulvas

flaring dripping wet

from undivided attention

afforded them

unabashed hedonists

deriving pleasure from the stares

the gawkers

make it

hotter

what’s your catalyst

is it the drama

your sadness

your anger

maybe your extroverted nature

that fancy degree

or special

unique talent

everybody has something

it’s all one

long

edging session

leading up to

another

ruined orgasm

Chromatics

rosacea blush

erupting deep sherbet

upon a ceaseless sea

of cyanosis

jaundiced pendant

paces heavenward

overhanging

vitiligo plains

melasmatic outgrowths

amidst argyriatic

shores

shimmering

with unseen life

what can you tell

from the pigment

of one’s spirit

is it colored in

the heat of life

or withering in

mud thick consuming sands

is the blooming of gin blossoms

more vibrant

than the pallid complexion of

one so close to

the end