This Is A Test

This is a test of your emergency long lasting net worth.
For the next thirty days or so, your loyalty will be questioned.
Your honesty and integrity will be examined,
and all the kindness, generosity, compassion and romance
you have offered will be reviewed for
sincerity and trustworthiness.

An inspection will be done,and recommendations made related to
your security provision potential,and ability to provide.
Morals and values will be screened as well as an evaluation of
fatherhood worthiness and parental qualification as
dictated by an invisible standard, and the Deadbeat Dad scale.

This is a test-only a test. In the event of a real emergency,
possession of a penis gives you the right to remain silent.
You would be given instructions on how to proceed, as you are
abandoned and left for dead.


I have done you no favors by ignoring the signs.

My knotted gut screams over your torment,

I am paralyzed by my fear and reliance on the unanswered prayers

that my example, that my answers will soon lead

to light at the end of your dark tunnel.

The tunnel of my escape.

The sewer pipe out of prison.

The way to the sunlight;

infinite love – life finite.

I am too weak to tell you I know,

Too frightened I’ll drive you away.

Ive seen nibbled blue evidence of self preservation.

Delusion disguised as disciplined control.

I know what it means to be sick from too much or too little.

Felt itchy inability to rest, to only dream.

Restlessness fueled by want and need.

Legs twitch long into the night while the knots grow in the gut.

Cramps crawl tendon ladders in the legs. Sick.

It is all so carefully wrapped up in fallout from a job that is too hard,

A compromise that is AT LEAST SOMETHING…

But doesn’t require risk and serves as a great public explanation.

I’ve lived through and created, the crisis du-jour

My eyes see the lost weight or weak immunity due to trauma.

Change is so much harder than living with a gun leveled at your head,

………..Or the sound of a time-bomb ticking.

You do not admit you are not alone, because you are used to being alone,

and for now, the secrets need you to stay that way.

You mean it when you tell me you love me,

But I do not truly exist.

You can’t let me, afraid that I might actually do as I say,

Or ashamed that you want and need me to.

Neither option fits the projected image to believe the lie…

That all is well.

But in my denial I am failing you.

And I cry it must be that way…until…

A heaven on earth may not be what you want,

Because you never had it when you cried for it.

I am there waiting and renewed for paradise.

I am closer now to fully understanding what it means

To watch true love slip away.

Apathy, hopelessness, and paralysis.

I am doing it right now…Perhaps,

I haven’t learned as much as I thought.

I just switched drugs and delusions.


The Crack Of Dawn

The real work begins at dawn.

When the fun is over
we encounter our own reflection
in the eyes of those like us
left standing.

The horror of smells
around us come alive
from the dark to a waking dream
that needs dark to survive.

Colors brighter make cracks
in the walls appear
cracks in Revlon princesses

Morning wrenches our eyes open
we encounter ourselves
thrown into the street
where, all are alone and tired

The crack of dawn is real work.


Twirling Blade. Twinkling Snowflakes. The Patina of Bloodline Oak


Sitting at the table,
the worlds problems being solved,
he rolls the silvery blade
between his fingers.

An accomplished knife thrower.
One false move, or true move
starts, or ends it all.
Twinkling pink snowflakes dance.

The table.
The bloodline legacy.
Ten years of
grandfather’s pennies.

Time spent wondering,
past the mirror to his soul.
The worlds problems are
solved in silence and paranoia.

through the oak patina,
what that sheen looks like
from the inside out

The smell was
of dirt and mold,
not of nothing
and blood.

It started out so fresh.
The first so clean and free.
He loathed conceding
he was, wondering.

Which would be cleaner ?
Which would be more free ?
Shimmering pink snowflakes,
or hypnotic sparkling edge ?

Twirling silvery blade between fingers.
The accomplished gambler
in his own Monte Carlo.
Waiting, for the one true move.

The ball drop into a numbered pit
on the spinning patinaed oak wheel.
The one false move that ends it all.
Twinkling pink snowflakes dancing.


v2 redux 



re-imagining heaven

it is not a place 
in this state of mind.
no gold streets
only dental gold yanked 
from the mouth of 
a toothless monster
with a bad taste
of bad medicine
guilt, heroin, hate
lingering on and 
on a forked tongue
no wings attached 
to anyone at all
much less a beauty 
in her panties 
walking angry because
she cannot eat today 
Milan is coming soon and
the required brownie points
have too many calories
no halo, just a rusted 
crown of thorns worn 
so high and mighty that
when we fall it hangs us
cuts our jugular vein
so we bleed in
the place where there
is no more pain and
where we understand
we understand nothing
because we all keep score 
like we are Gods
We look elsewhere for heaven
like in the balance sheet 
of our good deeds and works
versus our sins 
or we author chaos 
and condemnation of others
instead of seeing we stand
in heaven already.
Amen. _©emotionalorphan_