We feel less than

and then we force ourselves to feel superior than

and this goes on for months

and often, years

until our friends are like us

and we can’t stand them

this stage is seeking average than

in salvation, or something else

Salvation, may free you

and the something else, is the gradual realization

that you cannot be free, in this life

Then, there is the desire not to be human

it is a shedding off

cutting off

hate

for all things human

We are trapped by our desires

pulling us

in different directions

there is nothing pure

and our lack of love

is not hate

but the desire

Not to be human.

My elevator rising

from urine-soaked streets

from crowds that don’t listen

from the lost

clinging to their mothers

asking, “why was I born?”

cables rusty,

splintering

threatening to drop

the next oversized ego

and there is only enough space

for one wanting

promotion

willing

to suffocate

to see the skyline

wanting to know

penthouse platitudes

of supermen

My elevator rising

grinding steel against steel

resisting the weight

of my fragile ego

threatening to break

Most who take this suicide ride

get stuck

between 3 and 4

as the melancholy mechanisms tighten

friends, disbelief and empathy

parked in the basement

as the sky lift stops

regrets set in

I could have been walking in the streets, among people, sharing penthouse dreams

but I got into this box

where I can’t breathe

no servicemen

no one listening

just a skeleton in a sauna

praying…

for My Elevator Rising

CLUNKING

squealing,

pealing sounds of cable

as my momentum breaks the trap of mediocrity

like lightening thundering up from the depths of nowhere

charging to heaven

without breaks

leaving my heart behind

feelings that made me human

now I’m screaming and I can’t hear

because of my elevator rising

like a jet engine

burning

as I reach the top

seeing the people and the places down there

friends I had and the many friendless faces

this view is something to see

the risen are dead

and I’m the only one here

while I write this poem from the penthouse

philosophizing.

I’ve looked up at windows

and I’ve looked out of windows

my whole life.

And the world is colored by light.

the day dawns and the night speaks

while I lay in bed

listening…

I want to stop the seasons

prevent the world from turning

but reality won’t let me

and the loneliness of the years

moves forward

like aging laughter

dying slowly

I look through different windows now

and I don’t hear people

in the same way

horns honk

conversations are competitive

and not much is known

even if, a lot is said

the light is not bright

anymore

and I find ways of dealing

looking through different windows

at a world turning

no matter what I do

and even though history

has never changed it

I’m looking through windows still

hoping to find a way out

and when I do

I’ll climb on through

and I’ll stand there

still

where time stands still

and in the stillness

I’ll look through different windows

at a turning world

where I don’t turn.

A man needs a religion

and if not a belief in god

a belief in something

that speaks to him or that he can speak to

You see, there are many things that wish to become his god

and if he does not choose what rules over him

things he doesn’t know

or cannot place his finger on

will begin to twist him

making him feel unnatural

and the unnatural man is dangerous

at best, he learns to numb his confusion

at work

with the little jobs people force him to do

and he gets through his days

on little bits of hope

like birdseed

and

those who give him orders

are worse off

and even more dangerous

they will never wake up

and to disturb their sleep

is to upset someone who lives in a nightmare

they have been taught a morality

that is not moral

pray they don’t wake up

and go about your business

in a sleeping world.

the potential inside of you

is waiting to be discovered

and despite societal messages

no one can help you find it

it waits

like Aztec gold

patiently hidden

under an altar of human sacrifice

like love

before two people meet

like the morning

before the sun gets too high

potential is not wanting to do anything

and then wanting to do it

it’s the big ideas

inside your tiny head

or the abandonment of past lives

for an empty room

Not many find potential

or plunder it

because it’s irresponsible

and does not follow pre-written timelines

it does not use wealth formulas

and is not understood in textbooks

Sometimes, it requires a toothbrush

to gently massage false motivations

or a jackhammer

to break ground

that has never been broken

before

Potential is discovered

after self-doubt

after everyone

you know

does not believe

it is the subtle sound of silence

in a noisy world.

If you pick up the past

it may be too difficult to lift

Marveling at my collected junk

and the ways I have measured time

is a burden

I can’t burn

Attached

and unable to let go

of photographs

that don’t look at me

Stories that don’t speak to me

Movies that represent things

I no longer want

This hot room

is empty

and I’m unwilling to fill it

not able to hold out much longer

against dull desires

that numb

a fading future

Where do we go

when we take ourselves with us?

We erase

but is there enough time or talent

to scribble new life

in a new line?

Lost is better than Found

if we can’t find what we are searching for

and all the right places seem wrong

and all the good people are not good

and all the right answers are not right

We’ve turned our backs on education

to become fools

too curious to care

what others think

and

Death is waiting like a stray cat

Hungry

and searching

for where its next meal

may come from.

Now I Know

why people don’t adopt

strange philosophies.

Ideas don’t exist

innocently

in the head

they take hold

and won’t leave

and Naturally,

we want to share what we think with others

but our thoughts have strayed so far away

people can’t understand

and they don’t want to understand

Empathy

is too dangerous.

If they listen at all

it’s to affirm they are right

or to gain

some unusual amusement

Doing things differently

causes us to stray

and Soon,

we can’t hold a conversation

without being strange

or Maybe,

we don’t want to

Talking points

give us manufactured emotions

And where we are supposed to go

is not where we want to go

Eventually,

We are written off

ignored

and we seek those

who are similar to us

People on the outside

but they don’t understand

our ambition

our drive

our desire

for something greater

and Perhaps, they mumble about drugs

or government abductions

or ask us for money

I feel sorry for the world

because it can’t understand itself

Everyone has become the same

they are so angry

because they are all

so different.

Why is it that the human race always tries to convince me?

Drive this car

like me

like her

buy this house

care what I have to say

politics

“you’re either for us or against us.”

“I am for myself.”

“you are so selfish,” they might say

for the most part, I just want to be left alone

but being alone

is not okay

they don’t understand it

not knowing

the pleasures of solitude

I could spend my whole life

alone

by a big blue lake

it’s not a waste

and

the spiritually sick

talk about empathy

constantly

or their love for their fellow man

and don’t forget women

to say “man”

is offensive

Everything about me

is wrong

and everything about them

is right

Empathy?

their vacations are captured

in pictures

their lives

held prisoner

in photographs

documented

for other people

while I go on living

without traces

unseen

in the rich gold and orange fiery blackness

of my summer sunset.

I’ve always been a late bloomer

and perhaps

that is just the hope

of becoming something beautiful

to save ourselves

from mindless routines,

baseball games,

and get togethers

is not easy

and my idea has always been

if I say “no” to life

long enough

I won’t get a life sentence.

It’s like the question we ask our friends

when we wonder about the ripples

in our disturbed ponds

“If you could do it all over again…

with the knowledge you have now…

what would you do?”

the world is described as dollars and cents

adding up

but not really.

We read balance sheets

and contracts

worried about the fine print

when we could believe

in our own beliefs

rubbing lamps

and hoping

to meet

something magical.

Our self-imposed realities

make us

unhappy

until we need to escape

through stories

that speak to us.

When I watch things walk

uncorrupted

with legs without restraints

it’s like two gods

who sit down to coffee

and confess

what they are planning to do

without halting words

or doubtful gestures

unapologetic

opposing forces

who know no limits

sacrificing themselves

for what they can’t live without

this is how it should be

men

with terrible power

who do

in such a way

that can never be redone

there is unavoidable respect

across the table

even though cafe society

dictates…

“pass the sugar

like a gentleman”

“but no, we take it black”

the gods smile

ignoring

petty interventions

from waiters who wait

while they plot their plans

with bold taste.