Gulag Goulash: 2nd Bid (Revisited)

did a bid with Billy the Kid…
we ravelled in mischief and violence
so the warden had to divide us,
solitary confinement
while fellow inmates riot,
our rage remained quiet
in silence, alone in the dark
without a warm match to spark

until I harked back to the days
when I used to curse the sun
for being in my eyes
wish that ignorance was shun
until I spy why I must become wise…
And it’s wise
To become one with yourself
Possibly, better off for the health

But in that time my mind
Refused to share in its wealth
All stealth knowledge
Had been placed on a shelf
Never to be seen again
Dreaming of Toni Braxton
Ensure if I’ll ever breathe again
Metaphysical weakling

Demons turn their heads
And call me a heathen
Attempting to force a hand
Before the dagger’s out its sheath again
Cell’s unlocked, then I breathe again
No despair, no wickedness
in Hell left to rot, but now I see again,
With fresh air and vividness…


The Tetris Effect

when enveloped in the cross-eyed
visions of a blind man
the mind can
see a lot of things, defining
what makes up the pieces
of humanity’s psyche;
what makes us stand tall,
and fight, or flee?

and rightfully so,
we question our morality
while others would gladly
contribute to the mortality rate
raising like the gate
of a jaw bridge,
demented men who hate
want cut us up like sausage

innocents are falling…
like leaves in autumn,
careless whispers in the wind
distant calls of ravens cawing
eyes shift slightly,
with an erratic twitch
a new glitch,
ingest sounds at a mute pitch

senses get blurred,
consuming this newness
fused together, no separation,
can’t refute this…
we are visual creatures
and most of what is seen
can easily be deemed
as illusions of reality

we cerebrally control
all the objects we’re seeing
leaving out parts
too disturbing to believe in…
cerebrally controlling
like meditative breathing
until reality is blurred
and articles are repeated

What Resides Inside the Trojan Horse

diagnosed with a severe case
of rot writer’s block,
visual prose seem erased…
thoughts siphoned off,

confounding to think straight,
they say it might be shock
counting sheep, awake
dismay, inside the flock

defaced by idle talk,
can’t spin letters together
stuck holding cans
line’s are cut and severed

typeface tender, now
originate lost sources
frustrates to render how
maps illustrate crossed courses

some sections aren’t on it
aims reach an abrupt end
dull to pinpoint logic
maimed, with a blunt pen

strong men seek refuge
between the leafs of inspired
hoping then for rescue
redeemed inside brief desire

within reach, is ire
becomes an unproven mirage
pinned beneath barbed wire
spun in a soothing massage

but I’m proving it wrong, damn it
refusing to be defeated
cut through throngs of panic
choosing weakness for deletion

Just Another Random Sunday

tucked away in a café
on a grey Sunday
far from being mundane
stray thoughts gone one way

listening to Coltrane
strumming jazz, eloquently
this melodic remedy
soothes like tonic, mentally

a steady hum of voices
nomads come in to seek
a retreat from the noises
of the manic city beats

consuming sweet pastries,
sharing in old stories
typing away, hastily
concocting allegories

a symbolic place to hide
despite the high windows
because within it you’ll find
your hypnotic pillow

dim glows, from overhead
illuminated fixtures,
simple words come to blend
in this situated picture

Gulag Goulash: Last Call (Revisited)

awoken near gallows,
mangled by reality’s strangles
mirror reflections allow you
to see from all angles
dangling bed sheets,
beneath, men creep…
manage not to walk chest first
into a sheath, exposed

cellular decay…
as the remains erode
wild oats once sewn,
now decompose
never chose to wind up
in a state, as such
lived only for the future,
but never thought of it much

and thus, you’re restrained
chained to carnal crows
soon to be tamed
in a carnival show
as a caged animal,
hit with cannibal prose
long, sharp claws
to tear at the soul

truly boxed in,
as the calendar shows
locked in a fate
that you never would suppose
but lo and behold,
this is where you’re sleeping
until your last hours
when Grim comes reaping

Fortune Cookie Crumbles

There are times, when things go down
And you have no clue about what’s abound
Surrounded by more questions than answers
Some sift through facts, others approach a pastor

No matter which way or path you choose
Some kin may win, but other brothers gon’ lose
See, that’s just the way that the game is played
Lambs acting like Pac-Man, in an arcade

Biting off more than you can chew
Consuming humans, fuming that “you’se a fool”
With nerve, they observe the sad and pitiful
As they wonder, “is he really an individual?”

They gave him the ball and look, he fumbled
Running to the finish but… oops, he stumbled
Never thought for a minute you could be so humbled?
But, guess that’s just the way the cookie crumbles