Vehemence: In Silence We Weep
Poetry Volume I: 1998 – 2015
"A Collection of the Poets favorite Compositional One-Liners"
 Innocence – I say, is a six year old child devastated through the rupture of the hymen of his soul.
 A privileged liberty owed to none. Desecrated still. A disobedience to obedience. His heart bleeds upon a dampened floor of scented pine needles scattered throughout this Bavarian soil.
 This ground of wood which leave no tracks, nor an obliging voice of one who cares. The ears of the caring lie quiet as stone. The eyes of the knowing lie still as bone.
 Within himself creep congested thoughts, despite his knack or lack, thereof. His sanctuary of hope now embraced through purging from a half century’s night, forces him forward to yet, another of dark nights.
 1972, this era of time, lost to days of M-60 shell casings spent as a barrage of wind swept cruelty and gunpowder residue reeks in nostril and sky, the cervical pain bruised upon his name as well as upon his shoulders and spine.
 To rid this dusty land of legacy and rotted out bones, bleed ashen words upon this page of virgin tones.
 A spectral lament and freedom of contempt so let not your anger burn, for in their time every man stokes the fire of selfish love and will vehemently take his angry turn!
 A wounded past and loves’ naked eyes share a barren indignity and faultless shame lay amiss throughout this crimson tide.
 From whence may come these wounds inside, and calloused flesh of tears and blood now stare throughout this landing zone of lies, deceit, and urban mud.
 O man, yes! From a battle weary pen of power and might, a resonance of ego atrociously absurd when the crossfire of tracers through rapid fire may be heard.
 Your enemies fool not your bitterness of hand, for in the end wins the contemplative man.
 The taste of godless men fear not my hope and pensive stand. A poetic voice from a transformed heart, a metaphor’s gender give birth to his creative art.
 Intoxicated now by my childhood stare with piney scents from summer air.
 Risqué nights of bitter cold. A man’s deception, illusions bold.
 Throughout the origin and dawn of man stands naked before him of earth and sand.
 Amongst the cathedrals of earth and wood where hearts of stone blind as oft they could.
 A cyst of pretentiousness entombed within the heart of belligerent man delays my retort so much later than.
 This man reminiscent with burning dreams and one bridge left to cross stands now his soul of bravery with courage not at loss.
 His slow death and dread now destroys silently paralyzed with fear.
 O his crimson death thrown now into the sacred fires of bloodthirsty demons with scars of trauma as an M-14 fragmented shell pierces his epicenter of esteem.
 And light from God while knocked from his mount with auditory locutions which speak, “I AM” by name, through the awe of a journey which strikes as a flame, eradicated hope by his invisible pain.
 His eyes become blind by the eternal smoke of midnight’s madness.
 When will death release him from his antiquated suffrage and visions of hell?
 A voice through these ashes of smoke from his cigarettes of despair, inhaling sixty per day through his ill-fated lair…as the curative drugs flow soothingly through the hallowed path of sacred veins.
 Raindrops bleed stony words upon an open terrace during the years of silver age, where sleep deprivation through a silence of dread continues his dancing in darkness and trauma’s incubus’ suffrage.
 Three A.M. and my comrades in arms adjourn as souls search out their altered states while cirrus clouds of standing air sifts their desert rooms as vultures gather nearby soon.
 The shadowed vapors snares the spoken art, the gods speak as if from distant parts.
 And ancient sands bequeathed of time as solitary poets labor for a written rhyme.
 Darkness falls where misery slept and mountains moved of Sinai’s bliss with cloistered nights of rhythmic vain consumed as thus a bitter rain.
 Dusk surrounds this crescent moon bequeathed by God from dust come two.
 Depths of nature and nocturnal sweat, a night-tides thirst and naked fires for salted flesh.
 O praising sand of vestments shed as a pulsing burn wraps around these sacred curves.
 Rising in the sunlit morn a beaded sweat from a literary form.
 The warmth of sunshine fills the room for not a soul escapes an embryonic moon.
 Now, fatigued by sleep deprivation once again, another bitter incubus, an incessant attack of insomnia as my visitor arrives once more dressed in silver smoke.
 A silver smoke swirling as the internal fires from my youth at seventeen lay hidden, concealed, imperceptible, and mean.
 My sense of body now being numb, fatigued of all flesh and bone, paralysis slept close, so close to home!
 These days I walk in stride fathered by grace as memories continue to weather my face.
 And yes, rhymes become a certainty not by chance as a well-crafted memory deserves words fashioned to dance.
 With mystic man and rhythmic sighs love now performs through sanctioned nights.
 Through the legend of the pen as misery crept in, trauma now deceasing upon hallowed earth now treading.
 The earth now sacred, the voices within her dusty borders reach out to sky and bird, river and stone, as this incarcerated cell from the walls within capture the essence of every word.
 This oppression of nights as darkness falls when dreams affluent not able to walk.
 It’s not the man I dislike but the arrogance within, a slurred ego, a higher sense of self, esteem worth dying for while embracing a contentious smile at smugness, conceit, haughtiness, complacency, an earnest lack of self-respect, for what? Gratification?!
 To defeat whom? A kneeling man? A man of reconciliation? A squaring off with resolution? A man desiring only appeasement? A man of authenticity? For gentleness or kindness? A selfless surrender?
 Valor and courage, where do you stand? Behind brilliance or humility, genius or peace, uproar or silence?
 At which crossroads do you stand? Are you the king of scheme? Or, perhaps of philosophy?
 Are you the frightened intimidator? Do you browbeat truth? Do you harass the oppressed? Are you the tyrant who persecutes? Or, are you the crowned ruffian, you know, the one who makes the law?
 I could say as you go, therefore, go in peace.
 Would it do any good? Would it make a difference? Would truth prevail? Are you willing to barter?
 Only the dead man walking can tell you!