Predicting the Future at Three in the Morning

.

.

Palm up, 

Flesh and future exposed,

I trace the lifeline.

Ouija with a razor.

.

Pressure gentle, almost kind.

Tempting fate, taunting time.

I await the reprieve, that last minute call.

Some Capra-esque hero to stop my free-fall.

But who am I, Judge or condemned?

Whom do I pardon; who hears my amends?

.

The mirror will not bargain,

The mirror won't conceal.

Naked truth, just the facts,

This magic eight ball shall reveal.

.

There is no gentle grace in this, no sweet angels.

No arias  or auras or guides.

This will just be the end.

.

.

The bird in the mist.

Metal Fatigue

METAL FATIGUE

. 

Of the five senses, touch was the first to go

When the rot set in.

Necrotic from disinterest; disused and numb,

A disconnected leper, this  colony of one.

Then sound;  your  message left unheard.

Just the tap tap tap of my  manic mind.

No pause....just repeat; the eternal rewind.

Sleep starved, all words stuck  frozen in time.

For leading me into temptation;

(forgive my glutinous sins),

Taste then  smell withered and  died.

Staunch as a deacon, control finally  mine.

The harvest ignored, decayed  on  the vine.

Only sight eludes my metal fatigue.

The mirror much stronger it haunts--oh!--it  taunts.

Its warped fun-house image now  all that I see.

The bully I made....this  cruel double of me.

TWO YEARS

...........................................................................................................................................
Nobody warned us about "The Lord of the Flies"
Winter just gone, with green in the air.
Ball bats came out, but children's toys lie.
This game is death; and you're 'it' my dear.
.
I fear for you, but I must do my job.
Switch off, switch on...my paperwork's done.
My friend somewhere, lost in this mob.
But what's to be found, when the cavalry's come?
.
And now my anger sleeps like a cat.
Half lidded, dreamless, silent I wait.
For the trigger to pull,
And hammer slide back.
Releasing my own version of simmering hate.
.
(Photo found on net. From a series by the wonderful Damien Loeb, a favourite artist of mine.)
.
My computer wasn't working when I wrote this, so I am posting it later. For a friend, who lived to tell and the person who made it so. You are both so brave).

SAD ELEGY FOR OAKLAND

(Art found on net. Work by Matt Mahurin)
I wrote this at work in memory of the four cops who were killed by a parole. He had just raped a little girl when he was stopped by a motorcycle officer. He opened fire instantly. During the course of the arrest, three others died. As angry as I have gotten at times over speeding tickets, I worked with the police during one summer and did research for them, and in so doing, I met some very decent human beings. At the time, I posted it on the website that was taking comments about the incident from my work computer. I'm sticking this on here at a later date, but reflective of the time it happened.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Their shift began like any other; an ordinary day
No warnings were given of danger on its way.
The clock that rang, the coffee mug, the "see you" at the door.
The routine of life in uniform, which ended for these four.
The first two fell in a road-side stop.
A constant risk for the traffic cop.
No chance had they against this demon unleashed.
An overwhelmed system means mistakes in release.
Hate reared, prison punk, hollow point heavy.
To avoid his just sentence; to kill he was ready.
What thoughts did they have then?
When darkness befell them.
Yet the horror continued, as two more would die.
And leave in their passing a search for just why.
The bravest amongst us must give up their lives.
And leave in despair a child or their wives.
So as we begin this day all anew,
Let's give pause a moment for lost brothers in blue.

FILLING THE HOLLOW

I feed the hollow,
Hard, heavy pit within.
Yet all that I swallow,
Doesn't fill, doesn't kill
Doesn't keep the feelings in.

But still I eat.
Frenzied, fast; a furitive game,
Mad dash, a clock to beat.
To shove it down---dark and deep.
All the guilt and all of the shame.

'Til at last, how it aches
Bloated, bleary. A greasy feast.
A carnage of boxes of candy and cakes.
But the void has been silenced.
Numb now, this sleeping beast.

WHAT SWEET OBLIVION?

Come one come all to shop these sad streets

What sweet oblivion is it you seek?

A twenty minute dance with the lady in white?

Her dresses disguise with their sheerness so light

That sour decay of rancid grey skin

Her black shark's eyes now reflect your own sins.

Or is your desire to sink like some stone?

A calm that touches even the bone.

But watch for the bottom the landing is hard.

And the bends at the surface will tear you apart.

So sorry, but I've forgotten your name.

Without Talwin or Oxy I'm hardly the same.

So know when you barter with money or gold.

You can't buy it back once your soul has been sold.