Construction paper world.

My inspiration arrives suddenly and from a memory that could have easily been abandoned because I was so consumed. So many exceptional moments could have been lost while I spent time in orbit.

Who would I be without that lost reality…and your face, your words, and your touch?

You sing karaoke
without knowing
the words.
Can’t read,
but can kill it
in a verse.
That sweet dance,
a remembrance.

With that in mind, I continue...

I am fascinated with the everyday condition. I watch and listen and I am prompted to return the favor with ink and fiber. I am captivated by the remote.

I am drawn to those who misguidedly assume they have little to offer. I admire those with the biggest hearts, and the quietest egos. And the vibrant, passionate, strong willed and self assured also encourage my craft.

The dark and pensive, the quiet and plotting, the spirited and confined, the naïve and unafraid…any combination a profit, all notions sublime.

The gravity of a book, a wise old woman, a tale told in three verses and a chorus repeated twice, the advice of those who know infinitely so much more, and the unexpected bit of hope that arrives when you say I love you.

p.s. paint your walls a deviceful shade of change and then you will know why.

Sir Veiled.

Arms curl their way around
and into the lions gut,
pulling it down or pushing it up.
A not so subtle departure. From surrender
the lion is hurled into the abyss
or trapped in morbid curiosities, caged.
Some will gawk and ask,
How does the lion live and lair?
Where does it go when it leaves the den?
One says, “It eats the weak.”
Another, “Don’t assume to know its prey.”
Instead, just follow the beast
an insightful track trailed by medium.
The bits of captured consequence
presumed and postulated by
creatures craving more and more.
The lion’s roar is heard for miles.
Some will broadcast in a lesser voice
without notice, to others
a dip in its mouth, success.
Speak to the lion, it is denned.
It is eating. It will sleep.
It will shit, piss, fuck, and roar
for you.









p.s. that shit is corrosive even in small doses.

Recurrency

It has been the same as far back as I can remember. Even though I spend many conscious moments attempting to force my mind to travel in this beautiful way, I am never able to recreate the flight...not in words, not in ink, not in thought. But, I have learned a day’s dream can fuel a nighttime’s tryst.

And so, it is always late at night and always when I am most hopeful that it begins. At the bottom of the stairs I stand and wait. The moment is always the same. I take a deep breath, and then with my arms outstretched, I lean forward. The lift is immediate. I glide easily up the staircase, out into to the open expanse of the room, and then out the front door.

Once outside, I rise even further and the world below me becomes smaller and I become bigger. I am always alone while I fly. I am light. Flight is effortless and I am unencumbered. I am fearless. And, as I acknowledge that wonderful feeling I become aware that I will soon wake up and it will be over. I will return to my feet with gravity’s hold on me and the notion that I can accomplish anything as long as I stand.






p.s. my pockets are lined with holes big enough to hold coins and small enough to sift dirt.

strength of character

willowed cables entwined
confident in the bind

strait and narrow, strong
slight curve at the hilt
meeting emotion
with a halt
holding decision
above impulse
strong, wise and steady
grounded by design

Pendulum.

I am filthy and filled with an untenable relapse in reason. I reek of the ruinous stench of revolt. I am vile. There is a guard posted at my bedside who never allows me to rest. He keeps a silent watch with his fist in my gut. My screams he silences with his lips pressed full against my mouth. He eats my words before they have a chance to live. And, he knows that once I am free I will disappear.

I throw my shadow against the wall. I hope that the guard will find the illusion a distraction and he does. Now, with the guard so easily bemused, I quickly slip out from under the sheets. Feet hit the floor first, then knees and hands, then once I am steady I crawl my way out the door. I only have a little time before the guard notices my shadow’s foolery. He could beat me to a pulp. Fucking prick.

And of course, I always return to the same place. They will eventually find me and post a new sentry. Perhaps the next will be somewhat entertaining.




p.s. present tense and terse with (only) myself.

So...does this mean we’re going steady?

(It was by chance or perhaps happenstance.)

An Awkward Moment’s Legend.

It was one year ago today that I held your hand.
You asked if he did a good job.
It was a good job, wasn’t it?
It was, thank you.
You were quiet, I rambled
And you held my hand.
Can I get that for you? Oh yeah, sure.
I didn’t want to leave you,
You seemed to need
More time, one less drink, and one more smoke.
And I was intent on permanence.

Then, as is now, time passes like a plunge.
I am far, but not for long.
Do you miss me? Yes, I do.
I can’t hold your hand.
You will, soon enough.
In the meantime, I am waiting, asking
Are you sleeping to the sound of my voice?
I know you hear me, you do.
And this is ours,
A moment in time, continued.
And I am intent on permanence.

(How life can change, so quickly. In a moment, in a hand, it can shift. And everything that was will never be the same, in a good way, in the best way.)





p.s. shall we get matching rings? (Go on, laugh. I am.)

In this bleary eyed moment I will attempt an answer (I hope I do not ruin it for you).

A secret? Sometimes I can be so full of myself that I am able to pretend that nothing else matters, when I know that it does. “I need to hear it back.” Can you consider what type of person would challenge irrational fear, to face inevitable embarrassment, because of that need? What drives someone to stand as a target, exposed and almost transparent? Fuel.

The question is this…what do I really have to say? I shout off, in part, to bolster my ego. We can safely assume that you are aware of my requiring a little extra fluffing. But most importantly, I self examine past and present. And yes, sometimes I am so ridiculous that I laugh at myself.

(I mean really, am I that much of a _______________ (insert derogatory explicative)? Perhaps, I am. But lately, I have been ending the day with a “yes, I was”. So again, contradiction is my burden. What you do with that knowledge is your own business.)

A truth? We all will die. For some, there is a need to find every little piece of evidence to the contrary. I admit that I have been guilty of this myself. I have been so turned inside out with the need for truth that I challenged every bit of logic I encountered. I do not know exactly what truth is, but I know my perception of it might differ from yours. My truth may be painted in a different hue. Slightly off color, but still my truth just the same. And I will stand by it, fiercely.

The question is this…what do we believe? We gather what information we can and draw our own conclusions. We each have our own experience from which we base our assumptions. As long as I have been alive I have registered every moment and from that registry I claim truth. This is obvious and I am ridiculous, really.

I would like to return to the original idea of secrets. I keep most of mine safe from prying eyes. Embarrassing little fuckers, aren’t they? But, by allowing one, two, three, and now four of the darkest their freedom, I have learned something about truth…how important it is to face our own.

What matters to me is this…I hope you read truth here. And by here, I do not mean exclusively my capricious chatter. From my corner, I attempt exercises in poetic candor. Some of it is written for me, some for you, some for them, some for him, and some for her (in no particular order of importance), but never with expectation. I use the freedom I have here to sort out some of my more dangerous secrets and truths.

I have this last little bit for you to use in order to paint me in your own hue of truth (and it is no secret)…
I am porcelain and black as night. I can be as subtle as a 747 and as fragile as double reinforced steel. But nevertheless, I can be poked all the way through and then the light will shine through me. With that light, I am able to produce a force greater than I deserve.

p.s. that place, it is cold and crowded, rough and smooth, and filled with impossible demands directed by my own hands. It is closer to the bottom than I would ever chance to be. It calls, but doesn’t give warning. It immediately holds secret and truth. It is where the unraveling begins and ends.







For those of you that have recently (or even not so recently) lost a family member or a friend, I am deeply sorry.