DIARY OF A DEAD MAN

The Walk: It's 5:34 am, October 31st, 2027. Tonight is Halloween, and there's a ragged chem-snow falling, as white feathers out of a busted pillow. Quiet... it falls in slowly, motion shaken out of its slip by an unseen hand. Grey toxic zigzag clouds, have us locked down, and caged in, and away from the sunlight, going on a month now. It is terrible how much you can miss the sun -- the heart can ache for its light like a lover.

POEM: PRIMO MANE

I was there in the first hour on the first morning. The air clear and about all, and never breathed before, never seen and cool and soothing about my face. And I looked up And the sun and the moon fell in love as I watched. She sat, as a blushing pearl against Cerulean blue. And I turned, and my father's light shone into my eyes. I walked along and watched it all wake, from a long and cold dark sleep. Further on I saw eleven great birds in flight... and wondered about their defiance of the ground and the air. How had they separated themselves from all the rest? That air first breathed deep returned warm from my lungs, and caused a mist to drift about my mouth...

POEM: COLLEEN A Irish Tale

Rushed in wet wool, mad mud underfoot... Left the house at three, it was dark and I was heart-dipped in honey Courage and other belongings stuffed in an old pillowcase, my mother's swollen eyes and her smothered kisses It is the sickness that is the worse for me, moving always moving I drown in this smell, of vomit and the urine. I am so afraid...I have never been this afraid I tremble and am banged about the broken world outside of me It is always the same

POEM: OCCULTED MAN, WAITS.

A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake. Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it, the sun dried up the lake. New green showed it's tender leaves. And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.   Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass. Images from one brief life, onto the next. I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 2

... I have reached a measure of greater understanding of who I am, and am proud of my abilities, the skills and talents I have had to achieve just to remain off the street and not a homeless man. To have taken advantage fully of the many gifts personally, but have not achieved the success in those that I should have had, all those that were given, along with the emotional baggage and emotional immaturity and insecurity and weirdness sometimes that I can be. I am a greater artist even though, condition stopped me from painting. I have made many inroads into music and my guitar and carpentry and working with my hands; my writing of poetry and storytelling which has helped me to develop a way into my own mind and find out where I falter with language. I am an obsessive dictionary reader, always unsure of my use of the language...

Poem: BREAKER BOY

by Michael Burns The newsies and the match girls, and the breakerboys in back. They toiled away their little lives to keep their mamma's happy. Six days a week they left their youth inside the warmth you purchased, and easy reads from newsie feeds that salted your accounts...

POEM: WHAT NEXT!

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea. These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent. Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...

POEM: YELLOW FISH

I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf, it was a good idea! It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm; for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second. This is not the only world…by far...

Poem: IT’S NOT THAT COMPLICATED…

  by Michael Burns The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery into what otherwise was a simple thing. Claimed they had inside information. Claimed all kinds of things. Swore to high heavens they knew someone who, knew someone...told lies, to impress their friends or lovers. And some were, genuinely delusional, or crooked, or just plain old lonely, and looking for attention, swore they knew the real truth of it. It was in fad, and then out of fashion. Some even threatened, to eradicate that curiosity for good. Others, went to war over it -

Poem: Poets Hospital

There's a hospital for poets... End of the road for a broken dreamer, and an artist with tarnish on his soul. There's no line up there, you just walk right in and get into a bed. Dead dreamers are wheeled by on gurneys on their way to reincarnations. The place is filled with unspoken words, and half filled remnants of...those angry hearts Ghosts walk the halls of the unpublished, asking you for a word...ah, "Please will you listen." The great Dylan Thomas died here and the place reeks now of a writing shed. Corso walks by holding an antiquated toaster and speaks to him in tongues about the substance of a symbol "I was born here and I will die here." He exclaims in the accent of an Italian Hamlet, on passing...