a superhero’s work is left unsettled

all ways

used to feeling invincible:
superheroes with principles

the moral weight is infinite;
strength of wit undefeatable

some existential crises
existentially repeatable

a superhero’s work is left unsettled

amazing feats
of crushing madness

bitter from
defeat and sadness

up, too driven.
left to grimace
through the gladness

MUSING|JULY 3, 2016|12:20PM|long live the outlandish

fields of blue and skies of green
with clouds of black to float in between.

these are a few of my favorite things;
these abnormal things,
these abnormal dreams.

abnormal to be so abnormally me:
what you normally see isn’t normal to me.

I’m yearning to see . . .

deeply . . . into the minds
of the ultra superior “normal” beings
who are always so kind,
just to let me exist on the very same planet
,in the very same time,
as their immortal, royal selves . . .

what a surprise it’ll be
when it all unwinds.

that skin of theirs, this skin of mine,
rotting underground, side by side . . .

nothing left
except for pride;
just the pride that they held on to
with their own dear lives . . .

the same pride that . . . ultimately caused . . .
our people’s demise . . .

what a surprise it’ll be
when it all unwinds.

MUSING|JUNE 26, 2016|2:29PM

forms of poetry

“if there’s any place you’d like to know, 
just let me know and we can go off
to a place that’s far away . . .
another place, another day, 
another way for our escape,
another path for us to take,
before we step and break away.
we’ll have our day, we’ll have our day”

CHALLENGER|JUNE 17, 2019|11:34PM

“a guilty conscience makes
a-musing storytelling
lying down against the grain.

exploring “stops” for continence
to split the brain and fix the states
of consciousness to heal the pain.

revert to lying down and telling stories,
amusing stories make the conscience
ease of guilt.”

shimmering undertones of a moth forever trapped beneath the streetlights.

picturing attachment to a pair of wings,
unnoticed in liberty and
feeling unsought in the air;
until the descent.

what is there to see
when there’s only two hues:
a negative brilliance
with positive dimness.

what is there to feel
in the rest of the day,
when night is made
sorrowful for the remainder.

what is it to hear
what’s supposed to be right
but, is only what’s left
to be said from the past.

what is it . . . to rise . . .
while being oblivious,
and, only to find
that it all was a ruse . . .