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The Steps

Reciting the words
doesn’t always make them true,
and brass wings don’t promise a better view.
Songs become heavy
and dreams become food,
and home remains a place only known in youth.
Bang the drum slowly–
for me and for you.
Count the steps to her heart,
then get a tattoo.
Mark yourself forever
with ink of deepest blue,
then watch it all turn grey one sunny afternoon.
This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends, they say–
not with a bang,
but a bleeding at the soul.



Well I stepped into an avalanche,
It covered up my soul;
When I am not this mess that you see,
I sleep beneath the golden hill.
You who wish to conquer pain,
You must learn, learn to serve it well.

You strike my side by accident
As you go down for your gold.
I do not ask for your company,
Not at the center of the world.

When I am on a pedestal,
You did not raise me there.
Your laws do not compel me
To kneel grotesque and bare.
I myself am the pedestal

You must learn what makes me kind;
The crumbs of love that you offer me,
They’re the crumbs I’ve left behind.
Your pain is no credential here,
It’s just the shadow of my wound.

I have begun to long for you,
I who have no greed;
I have begun to ask for you,
I who have no need.
You say you’ve gone away from me,
But I can feel you when you breathe.

You don’t love me quite so fiercely now
When you know that you are not sure,
It is your turn, beloved,
It is your flesh that I wear.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

The sun is gone and it has taken me with it
The light within my soul has been extinguished, and nothing holds any joy
Thoughts of the outside world chill me to the bone
almost as much as the harsh winter air creeping
through the cracks in the windows
As the shutters are thrown against the brick by the abusive wind
all I can think is, what has happened to me?

My once strong love of life is gone
My desires and passions hold no meaning
My dreams are not worth working toward
And my room is no longer a prison it is my sanctuary

Nothing, not even the promise of Dorothy’s ruby red slippers
could move me from this bed
My thin white sheets and matted feather pillow have
become my only allies in this
seemingly endless battle against winter
In them I can find sweet sleep
my only escape from this icy hell.

I have no plans of leaving this hibernation of an
existence until the days have lengthened
and the sun has returned to her rightful place
shining brilliantly in the sky and radiating the gentle warmth
that can touch my skin and make me live once more
Until then I will stay in a state of unwavering melancholy
wishing for the existence of an everlasting summer

Cigarettes & Co-workers

As she was undressing she asks “Why do you smoke cigarettes?” As I hear this, I let out a small cloud before sighing in thought. And then I respond.

“Are you asking that because it’s a dirty, filthy, disgusting, health deteriorating habit that leads to a slow and painful death? Or are you asking that because you worry about how long I will live so that you will then be able to encourage adherence to a painfully health-conscious culture that continually tries to cheat death with the likes of fat free butter, low carb bread, or any other kinds of those oxymoronic gifts modern science has given us?”

She is shocked by my initial tirade. She probably was expecting an I like it or an I dunno so that she can tell me what non-smokers think smokers do not already know: “Cigarettes will kill you.”

I continue.

“An advantage of smoking ostentatiously is that it encourages onlookers to pass judgment on the content of my character without having to talk to me. They can assume that I am oblivious to the negative effects of smoking and thus lacking prudence; prudence that they obviously have. In a way, I help to simplify their day and bolster their self-esteem. And then I don’t have to talk to them. Everyone wins.

“But as for my own personal reasons, I can name any number of carpe diem ethics that would encourage indulging myself while I am still in relatively sound health compared to decrepit old age. The pleasant tactile sensation and comfort in the routine, and comparatively less agitated state I am in after processing nicotine definitely encourages the addiction. When I do come of old age, however, cigarettes will have embarked on their warpath of a slow and excruciating death, but there is no lack of information that makes it so that I am not constantly reminded of this. The fact that I continue might suggest a sort of reckless masochism or personal perception of a low self-worth, but I think that’s accessory to the point-”

“So what is the point?” she interrupts. I think for a second. The answer is as much a revelation to her as it is to me.

“I don’t fear pain or death.”

Nor do I think one should have to.

And this concludes yet another reason not to sleep with co-workers even if they are this beautiful.


I’m bogged over.

My left brain is working way too hard.

I feel like I’m running a Daytona 500 game and then somehow my body, absorbed into the screen, just can’t stop the brakes, and I am racing faster than ever.

I feel like a scoreboard, hit all over, but I forgot the rules.

I need to step by, step out a bit. Tie my laces before I get on, I can’t trip any more because my knees are bleeding and the blisters are bursting.

I don’t wanna talk about it.
It makes it harder to get away and on.
The reality and the words.
This is a screen, these are just zeros and ones, and I’m just a figment of someone’s imagination.

That’s fine.

I’m praying for the air. The air that the monkeys just didn’t had the voice to scream out for. The turtles that paddled frantically for the fate of their shells, their lives.

I’m praying for an understanding from simple straightforward acceptance.

A very long deep unafraid shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Solid air can’t be breathed.
It rejects the lungs with a harsh gasp
and leaves you wanting more.
Suffocation takes root deep within our souls
choking off life
our destinies.

‘what could have beens’ fall into
‘never was.’
And the wondering is stolen before we know what was gone.
the air is solid.
will wings still fly?

Jealous of the Homeless Family

I was at the Oliver Gospel Mission this afternoon serving the homeless and downtrodden Thanksgiving  dinner. I notice a family made up of a mother, father & boy who I would say was about 10 or so.

There were bright smiles all me today, mostly from those that got a good hot meal in quite sometime. However, the brightest smiles came from that family. There weren’t smiling because of the food, they were smiling because they knew they had each other.

Once I realized this, my pangs of jealousy hit hard. It was then I remembered that I have no one. Sure I have condo, car, 2 cats and other material things, but at the same time I have absolutely nothing. I hate the holidays.

I leave while the family is still there relaxing after their meal. My volunteer shift was up. I came home to a darkened condo, 2 cats sleeping, a frozen TV dinner that will be my Thanksgiving meal & the knowledge that I’m jealous of the homeless family. Maybe I should start drinking or something. Gah

The Line And The Box.

Since birth, we’ve been told rules and theories of polarities.

Good and Evil. Bad and Good. (I don’t mean to run out of vocab here.) Do and Don’ts.

Some of us find amusement in these extremities, others scorn and forget, but there are a group of people, who cling to them words and basically, worship them. That. Included, me.

I hate to judge people like me who hate being judge, and who doesn’t? but I can judge at least me and deal with myself later.

I belong to the bunch who hang on for various reasons.

  1. The contradictions in these polarities once there are gray areas.
  2. I’m intrigued by these grays.
  3. I’m overly intrigued by these grays.
  4. I’ve nothing else to do, because everything else is black or white, and I’m intrigued by greys.
  5. I’ve gone mad.
  6. I seek identity in my madness.
  7. I am who I am.
  8. I walk around with a lot of frustration, because you can’t make grey any more white, and yet you don’t wanna be sucked into a black whole even if it’s a solution.
  9. I like running on roads against vehicles.
  10. I write the words

A photograph depicting the breaking of two opposite polarities.

And so the incredibly entertaining list goes on. It doesn’t always stop at ten.

A friend of mine. Should I say colleague. Ex-colleague.

I read her blog.

She sounded awful and yet consoled. Like I used to me with my plankton, organisms and my poems on amoeba if you will.

I think she is intrigued. But lost. Angry and frustrated. Misunderstood and even more angry.

Reading it was like reading myself all over again.

I’m not like that no more. But I asked myself why, as if afraid to lose that singular, but scattered part of me.

I used to find consolation, and resolution in my beliefs, that had somewhat no conclusions. There couldn’t be. Unless you blackened it, really. I was too honest and stubborn to my theories to darken and resolve them. And so they stuck like a foreign chewing gum in hair. Until it’s chopped it off.

Being in a box is an addiction.

You can have withdrawal symptoms. Obsession. The extremities on the other end. Instead of nothingness, you have plenty. Shopping. Instead of quiet, you have yakyakyak.

I hated it, but it pulls you out of your box so you can play with the other fishes, some in their box, some long out, and some never in, it’s hilarious, I tell you.

I’ve learned, that it comes back to one thing. We are all finding our meaning, a purpose in life and in living. We can stall or contain the excitement, boredom, or frustrations (if you will) in our own singular ways; you can even swap ways along your journey, like myself, just so you had a taste of everything in life. Whatever you do, don’t throw this key of life away, you don’t have it? You won’t even need to know what I’m talking about. You don’t exist. Game over.

July 2018
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