this one, this one poem,
this old birth, renascent,
is not in the file

the file place where the
half started, nearly done,
but never truly satisfactory
fester, marinate, awaiting confrontation,
some kind of contentment of a sort,
final solution of annihation or completion

many a bare-***** title,
that the lords of hosts of
itinerant peddlers seeded,
notions await coating, stroking,
full flesh embodiment,
awaiting perhaps peepholes
for a someday poem

but not this one

this one I possessed,
better said, better reflected,
it possessed me,
rooted so deep, thick limbed,  
it, larger than my life,
though of my life,
cut, diced, sliced amd muddled

no confession of the cheapside here,
this, more a rescission, breaking of a contract,
annulment of a reputation in ten thousand words earned,
now comes, the longest day apology

why now,why ever?
there was a trigger that flipped the lock,
to open and accursed,
keys that filled the keyholes,
opened them peepholes,
that prior asked to kindly be
left let to rust in peace

this one composed itself,
asking no permission,
in the sense that I am more
recorder of the disorder,
than author

don't beg to differ, do not countenance opposition to
what here exposed, as the only witness,
I yam the guilty poet party, the jury, the prosecutor,
the fool client, all one and the same
who must perforce defend himself,
for no counsel needed for one
who guilty pleads
to charges of high crimes and misdemeanors, that
he himself created, so numerous,
no ear could tolerate the hear,
the alphabet of sins committed against
man and God*

of course you want details,
you wish enablement, the *** of the
simple syrup of satisfaction of the
titillation of the knowing

pick a letter any letter
and I will supply the action, or worse,
the inaction

for the greatest pockmarks that Cain marked this man,
were the failure to be brave,
be there when needed,
the shaming of thinking
instead of instinct reacting,
tiny inconsequential fears
that work word whisper
why you? not you?  somebody else?
when so clearly you
were the anointed one,
but stayed behind as
the one who disappointed

each grass blade censures,
each water sun sparkle accuses,
our prior direct line connection,
now ******
the winds voice shocked unto summer stultifying stillness
and you, still here, still reading?

cheated lied even murdered,

told to crank away the cranky somber,
unmistakeable,
but this shaming don't know no quitting time,
having surfaced, it is
my burnishment, the polished gloss
of rubbing off the now vanished varnish

who knew truths so foul could gleam,
my side listing, so angular lengthy,
that I walk unrighted,
signed below as,
this is the poet of the way, the who l am

The fire within, a simmering heat,
A slow burn building, bitter and sweet.
My rage, a paradox, a twisted thing,
Born from hurt, yet comfort it can bring.

A wall it builds, a fortress strong,
Protecting a heart where shadows throng.
But in its grip, a chilling frost,
A lonely vigil, dearly embossed.

It whispers lies, of power and might,
A twisted justice, blinding the light.
It paints a picture, sharp and bold,
Of wrongs unrighted, stories untold.

This fury, a river, wild and deep,
Carries me onward, secrets to keep.
Secrets of sorrow, buried and deep,
That fester and bloom while others sleep.

It's a shield I raise, against the sting
Of words unsaid, and wounds that cling.
A roaring engine, fueled by despair,
A desperate cry, lost on the air.

But in its fury, a hollow sound,
A lonely echo, on barren ground.
For rage consumes, it burns and it bites,
Leaving only ashes, in desolate nights.

I crave release, a gentle hand,
To soothe the tempest, across the land.
To quell the fire, to still the storm,
And find a peace, safe and warm.

Yet fear holds back, a silent plea,
That vulnerability will shatter me.
So the rage remains, a bitter friend,
A paradox of pain, without end.

It builds me up, then tears me down,
A crown of thorns, a thorny crown.
A shadowed dance, a lonely plight,
Lost in the darkness, without a light.

The paradox deepens, a cruel design,
The fire I crave, it's not truly mine.
It's a borrowed power, a borrowed might,
A fading ember, in the fading light.

I yearn for calmness, a tranquil state,
To break the chains, before it's too late.
To understand the source, the bitter root,
And tame the beast, before it's consumed me to boot.

But the anger lingers, a constant guest,
A troubled spirit, never at rest.
A silent battle, fought within,
The paradox of rage, where does it begin?
And where, oh where, will it ever end?
The question haunts, a bitter blend.
Of hurt and anger, fear and pride,
The raging tempest, deep inside.