The Ghost

The ghost
that lives in a happiness and yet
tosses and turns
rediscovering a time
a tick of a tock
a child and a second
born
does not make the cogs right
the intricate mechanisms
die
on the bed of the real life.
I loved you in a bald realisation
a cheerleader
English major dehumanisation
yet I seek alternatives
because of my own unhappiness
change me
i beg
change me
my children are perfect
unlike this sticky relationship
where my own dawn is false
the evenings are because
a tie us, to a pole
like a horse to a foal, will be with you
because you are the father
Tis true.

dressed to kill

Tuxedo
served as a silver service
waiter
the ideal assassin
more salad sir
stabbed through the back of the neck
more salad sir
bled out
he can not shout
nor scream
bad service
a harvest of the mind
dressed to kill
to pepper mill
to fulfill a dream i longed for
why
the bow tie even of a yesteryear
when he announced a reduction
of jobs to my father
we lost the house and scraped
by
bye bye
twenty years of festering
this is my law
tuxedo.

Johnson says his is...

Johnson called it an expedition
a pathway to perfection
a cleansing claustrophobic
life absorbing self cathartic
introduction to a container containing
anger and self destruction.
I call it a trip into the mind of ridicule
and sarcasm, an entity of a city
skyline with smoke billowing
and innuendo twisting and spilling
contrite only for itself on days
it chooses and chews and regurgitates.
You may call it whatever you desire
on the weekends or an evening
with the ones that you love
or the dreams of the ones that you hate
its an internal cerebral debate
Johnson and I and you
are not even sure of what It is
but its there, isn't it
inside of us
the middle, the hole,
the something that's missing
Its indescribable
isn't it?

Mass confusion

Dragged
through the mire with the desire
to end
classical music of the eighteenth
century plays along
accompanying along side my mind
nagging
voices that never tire
constant, several different ones
its five
its seven
its four
its blue
its black
its green its eight
its up
its east
its blue its eight its west its black
dragging
through the mire
the wind is chilling
the trees, dance, finger wrapped
breaking the suns rays
speckled fragments of which
touch my face
I think I will sleep in the woods
tonight.