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Flash Poetry


Dear child, time will crawl, no eyes at all, and masks will go on; help presumes weakness, fixing presumes broken and serving is wholeness. This new age cries out, yet morality stands still. Vague service riding on a golden horse, while dreams cascade into the void. Empty vessels focus on primal needs no time for the reflective pools.


I say this young one, so you do not abandon the gift of wholeness our family has cultivated. Serve, serve, serve!


How do I know when I am serving not helping or fixing?


Child, service comes in Affectual connections. Meet the person where they live not where you want them to live.  Follow the lights, eyes will peer from a tent hole, suspicion always on guard. Melt away and be part of experiences breath, giving life to hope.



As the world falls, all scream out of line. Ash of the extreme defense, aching for innocence through a net of souls. Life burns savage as financial figures went squash, economic echophony everywhere. Mass confusion and faithless blues reck the fortune of the peerless and their subjugants. The Paper Men have sewn their lies and bathed in the life’s blood of work and toil.


The now endless cries due to empty shelves haunt and ravage the body. The unrationed strikes out in bone and fury exulting freedom without barriers of civilization. Shanty living wrought with claims steeped in possession. Soup lines abound and sleep a tightening atrocity the norm.

No one saw it coming, 


But warnings overflowed.

Old wants trivial, spring needs eternal.

2nd Great Depression

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Put a peephole in my brain, and then you make no sense of you, propaganda raining, blue collar thugs thieving with crimes diminished with non-retort.  You know of the stressing pain, you know about the sucker pills, you damn well know the payoff. Fight!


Republic no more, corporate stamped automatons, have taken over.

Nothing to do? Well the stands on you now!


Yet rebel is the cost of the never mind, glancing for hope wishing for dope. I Will Ghost.

Time is up, dead whistle stop, sorrows last dance, numb to the bone, you won't come, so be it!! I will ghost.




The impertinent toys build mile high walls, “riffraff” must stay in the badlands.  Makeshift sideshow stalls, struggle hard, churning the acid full of souls. This former land of the free owes existence to scraps, sleeping rough, and survival of the fittest.  The tent farers, the wimble huts, and the firm structure dwellers must stay strong and live by the tattered constitutional code.


Health an invisible commodity, children with rickets, palsy conflicted husks, while pellagra’s rash thrashing adults with no nutrients in sight.  The wall locks them from society, wild west anew. 


Hope in the form of laborers auctions held by financial elite is the golden ticket into the cities labor quarters within the wall beyond. 


Living in lies, always in vain, poisonous people manufactured of circumstance all around.  Many, blame the Master first and last, others the world wide intellect, yet most self-blame.  Moralities cost is their meek survival. 



My head, can’t think, crazed in the brain, the stressing pain. Escape this feeling, no way out. He infected my body, but I still dream of a girl.

Granny said a girl in my condition, should only give birth out of my time, born blue and weathered, in kindly hands of government aid, not left in lone stead.


Knowing she meant not at all. Gran mused of abortions past extinction.  Heart was changed then by helping the whole woman and her baby, with care, food and shelter. Those days are long past, a shimmering fantasy. My Gran wept at my news.


Standing on this bridge looking over. What choice do I have? No med-man around. My courage falls to my feet.  This wanton life, barren and choked. How to care for one, when self-care is a personal failure.

Chould a step closer could answer my emotional pain?


Requieted Love

She can’t talk any more, punishes hard. He loved her back to front, warning of repercussions. Pieces are broken, requited love dead on arrival. Her brain now scrambled, while shadows fall down the wall, and tears on his face.

On bended knee, he laughed at sirens, staring at saucered eyes, reminiscent of what could have been. Her now torn maintenance jumper, hanging from her body. With class fall, and no sanity to hold her up.

He remembered her in the office, watching her while she walked by. Any excuse to talk to her he would find. He’s had no one in love, but its nice in her snowstorm.

Eyes cold and determined, brilliant of mind, but dangerously unconscious of class. She is being ripped because of her capability, wanting more, but never achieving her due satisfaction. I can’t believe I finally became friends with her. In doing so I warned her of bumping above her station. Relax it’s the system, we are cogs nothing more. 

She would not listen. Oh, she would not listen. Powers that be came down hard. Her challenge met with hard ax.

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Funeral Youth

He wears a skin box, begging to the faceless, hot boiling craze burns on the brain. His memory a swinging door. He’s constantly told be yourself to death. He thinks he does, but is still afraid of the Rag Dolls, cause they are a com’n, seeking his hold. They come to collect even from his manic small life. A wanderer of nothing, funeral of youth marked by Mom, Pop-Pop, and Sis Julia overcome by Aides death embrace.  He sells his sex and numbs the mind with arms delight. Nourishes the body through taking garden riches or corporate food stuffs.  He dreams of tramlines way out.


Made of nothing but loneliness, during the laughing times, through a poor veil of tears, spot the vulture, engulfed in the rotting, who lost his mask, in the lurking sky of no limitation. The Bang Dead boy who controls all and whose whole trip is the power; customs fall, processes break, reality shatters into unwholly alliances. World torn apart by need of selfish want. This singular; maneuvers fate of many a people, all whom hope finds humanity.

This Vulture born of parental circumstance, could yield a nickel for pity. Yet he is choice made, wearing fairy tale skin. He is ego weighted, speaks in extremes, with a crocked smile, and vendettas his way to murder dreams and accomplishments long past.


Meanwhile, the inevitable grinding continues and the kings of excess pay homage.


Fear is the great motivator that tames all.



I’m just a tripper under the psychedelic stars, mindful of shadows watch, that might crash my walls. I needed to collocate my mind. Survival mode with familiars’ leaches my agency. So, I always keep moving.  Sunday morning is the only respite time to put away fears and treat each as humans. That is when I travel. Movements come and go; rape and murder abound for territory. I forsake the struggle and survive. That is what I’m doing here. 

Tradition is lost among fake gods. Survival reverberates the self. I come here to live simply and rest my bones. The wheel of life, breaking these rocks, come clear to me. This settlement is the only place of hope to live.

Just Live.

The Settlement


The kingdom was divided. And the prophet could not stand. Raised his hands in fury

for the lamb who understands. They ameliorate the difference until bold is merely plain.

And wagered all their power to control our inner being. There is no relation of the human that had been. Try to eviscerate the wonders that obstruct our gluttonous aim. They twist amalgamations of our chromosomal strain, and fuse work force tannins to create behavior blends.


They augment cloning and cloning. They wear us cloning and cloning. Servile cloning and cloning.


Duplication of our skins. Create their work force cleegs. We tremble in our dying to repatriate new breeds. Unregulated profit, scrambles a moral way of life. Third world economics feeds one percent, like a knife. The “they”, is only recall I can trigger in my brain.


Must record these thoughts before they brain erase again.


They augment cloning and cloning. They wear us cloning and cloning. Servile cloning and cloning.





This fake feeling age wanders lonely without a face, my keyboard touches, so much pain. The inorganic social brain breeds internal damage. Screen streaming, vain love to peek again, yet the valley sighs of discontent.  There is no dream telling, just torsion bits in an environment, bumping avatars in miasmic bliss.


One wrong word, out of step, pour me out, in this fall of saturation to death.

Cut’n paste people, designed and trained to hate the diverse unrestrained. I ragged the sea, with synthetic conformities last plea. I am not fit to live in society.


This entry is my last journal jot. I abandon, a hermit’s place, in a Mountainous farce, away from dead remorse. Goodbye.

Journal Entry


The Justifying Libertine

Constituents! Here I stand in my own light, in the age of grand delusion.  My word on a wing.  My strange infatuation with instant correlation, I shape the scheme.  I have no delusion that I’m a libertine in sheep’s clothing. Harsh reality hardens and illusion motivates me in this time of trials.


To survive amongst the madding crowd, one must raise yourself high, often bruised and bewildered for tomorrow rewards bloody skies of today.  So hence I stand a result of realities making. I do this thing not for love of the act but because we must survive. All here will witness the deed and not look away.


Precedent will be set, we cannot step out of time, compromise was always a joke. We all know it’s the game for us to win or lose. Like mind is a fool’s errand, and there is no path to power or glory.  Present your soul to what will win and never listen to alternative delusions.


Selfishness is human. Welcome to the world of reality.


Hope's Struggle

When the days were the days, sky of grey hue slither and slips away, shades of life were ringing. Broken light with my face in tomorrow, peaks out of the door. The bell struck in spice town, stomped hearts wade through this toxic jungle. I have eyes in my backside, and open ears inciting me to move in the crowd. The workforce auction begins, all waiting for the golden ticket. Our bodies on the block, wishing for picking yet hating to be picked. Scared of what’s behind those inner walls. The census over, the testing at an end.  Residual radiation of our temporarily scrambled mind wearing off. Should I run again, hide where there is no place to fall.

My number rings out of the square, heart drops, hope will not pay forward but die on the vine.

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