From One Extreme To the Other

When you lose the person you love most, there is no going back. I think it must be harder to lose what's ahead of you than to let go of what's behind. How does anyone get over knowing that "God" has robbed them of their future? When these kind of promises are broken by random tragedy, the loss is so personally crushing it can feel like divine punishment.


Follow if you can,
What parts of you the world must see:
The bravest of what fades and dies,
If too dim in company we keep.

As all living things need light,
We must love away what hate provides:
For we are all but lost,
If through fear we punish others like ourselves.

Hopeless Convention

Secretly she'd been removing one knick-knack at a time from her desk for three months. It was more than just coincidence that no one noticed her work space slowly become just a space. The only words anyone in the office ever spoke were piecemeal motivational prose learned at seminars and company meetings. Her colleagues were like pet parrots. Even with their cage doors wide open they wouldn't fly away.

Having to sneak away with her personal items from her own cubicle made her hate going to work even more. If they discovered she was planning to quit, termination was certain. She needed those last few paychecks. At least this way, she was able to control her fate. All her daily fences lacked living color. The drab metal cubicle frames outlined what amounted to nothing more than a 5'x 8' piece of Berber carpet. She cursed every square inch of it for boxing her in. In part, she cursed herself for letting it. There was even an "unofficial" company rule printed at the bottom of the last page in the employee handbook,..."No Peeking". It sounded like a slogan used to prevent school children from cheating on a test. This meant employees were prohibited from looking into another person's cubicle door or over the divider. Because of this, human interactions were limited mostly to walks toward the elevator or short jaunts on the ground floor from elevator to exit. Breaking this rule had always been her private rebellion.

With every stolen glance into the world of her peers she glimpsed the missing pieces of their lives. When time is money, love becomes a luxury. Family photos, seasonal calendars, clever stapler covers (made by children and grand children), and souvenir paperweights--these were the dusty proof of lives lived less than people intended. Ten years of "peeking" told an awful tale. She could see that times had changed. When she was a child, family photos looked like Mary Tyler Moore and sibling bunny ears. Now, they looked more like rolling eyes and I-phones. It was like watching the whole world slowly forget how to breath. A year at a time the faces in their spaces slowly dimmed. She imagined they'd someday all become soundless but living colorless smudges locked in their tiny cross hatched cubbyholes. Her own face was changing color. Now that she could hear her own gasping, it was time to go.

She had always imagined herself as the bulletproof exception to the pressures that so quietly cause a person to trade wishes for washboards. She never meant to become so aloof as a mother and friend. Indeed she paid the bills and kept food on the table. By most peoples' standards she was extraordinarily successful as a single mother. Yet, around her, eroding her, the spin of countless angry early mornings washed out her love of just about everything. Her drive to work made her feel like she was holding her breath at the bottom of a pool. Lying motionless under the pressure, there was always that same seductive temptation to stay down too long,...to close her eyes and perish in the quiet hum of her morning commute. As her dreams became unaffordable pleasures, death had become a romantic notion.

She started her corporate job with a sense of empowerment. After the divorce, she needed that kind of a boost. It let her know that she could keep going forward with school, work, parenting, or whatever she might plan for the future. When she and David split, she feared all her future plans would fall through. As time went by, Sara had come to realize that she'd betrayed herself over and over for the sake of the marriage. She had tied her own hands and David was more than happy to let her play the traditional domestic role. Now, she was grateful that her American nightmare was over. In 1981 however, the nightmare was over for many people. She and thousands of other women flooded the workforce. The day she was interviewed, she saw more variations on the pants suit than there were factories in Taiwan. She beat the odds and got hired in a skirt. In 1981 when Jimmy Carter was leaving office, he said "Our American values are not luxuries, but necessities--not the salt in our bread, but the bread itself." What he didn't know was that the time for "bread" and circuses was over. With a 50% divorce rate, Sara and many others were no longer content to put their happiness on the back burner for some antiquated idea of matrimony. As she gained a voice, she lost a husband.

"Nostalgique"

If you leave, there is this fear, a mounting worry that you'll be seen as a traitor if ever you return. When you've spent your life in one place, you claim it like only a native can. No one is "of it" more than you and that, for me, was a point of pride. For god sakes!...Half the friends I grew up with have their zip code tattooed somewhere on their body. We were the ones that walked the street at night throwing bottles just to hear the after hours echos of breaking glass.

As dark and angry native children, we shunned the laughing pastel masses. They weren't trapped like us. We knew they had more than us because they had come from somewhere else. They didn't look like us. Wealth had afforded them the opportunity to travel, move away (to our city) for college, to bar hop in polo shirts with cash in hand. Beneath the flickering sulfur street lights, we huddled in anonymity near the downtown payphones. Those bobbling fools never even saw us. Like dirty shrubs in a sidewalk landscape, we were constantly overlooked. When they passed us we would mutter things like--"Look at this cool breeze motherfucker. He thinks he's running something with his collar up. Little nut hugging bitch". They were the Jones' children. Their appearance and the fact that we were invisible told us they were born inside a foreign, yet, American dream. Trapped is--hurt, angry, jealous, intoxicated, exhausted, desperate, violent, and yes, in that order.

I am away now. I live far from home. I miss my people. They understand me because of time. You cannot replace the years it takes to know a person. You can keep up appearances with an acquaintance because they only see you once in a while. I have friends that stood next to me those midnight hours insulting the Jones' children. I will always love these people by name as if we are standing in the same room. Because we have fallen apart together over and over, our friendship is an automatic negotiation. There are no dues to pay that we have not paid by living parallel lives. It is truly a unique thing to flash a crooked smile across a crowded room, where, on the other side sits that one person that knows exactly what it means. This type of friend will fight or flee just to save you. In this city far away, there is little understanding. In crowded places I stare at the floor. What's crooked here is me.

Sometimes, I wish I'd look up and see someone I know from home. I think,... maybe they've come to visit Paris and didn't tell me, AND, that we'll happen upon each other in a cinematic reunion where everyone on the Metro applauds Friendship's triumph in a cold world. It's dramatically silly I know. However, my brain is a like a metaphor that produces emotions. It mulls, and rolls, and leaps, and tumbles, and scrapes, and compares, then spits out a general conclusion that I, me, myself, and I, must then consider with my own two eyes. Often, this conclusion concerning my life is but another riddle. External circumstances aside, I often have very little concrete evidence to support what "fortunes" my brain frequently computes. Therefore, I go back to my little world with more questions. Thus, onward spins the drama of living and, in this case, the simple fact that I'm homesick.

The Soldier

I barely slept when she was little. Even when I did, I was restless. How could I protect her in my dreams? A nodding watchman sounds no warning. Like a tin soldier in a quiet house, a new father's love keeps him up at night. He would rather save the day and lose himself than live knowing he betrayed that love. Truth be told,...back then I was terrified that my unresolved past would somehow ruin my family. Each night, in the dark and lonely hours before my daughter woke, I learned to face my fears. Pacing til my feet were sore, the creaking floors would talk beneath me. My mind would race with all it's fearful warnings and still no villain came. Every day the sun still came up and that beautiful child would open her blue eyes. There was a quality of joy in that moment she woke that silenced my mind. A selfish man learns to survive alone. His frigidity keeps the regrets of the past from catching him in the present. For me, fatherhood has never been a burden but rather an unburdening that gave me back the warmth of being worthy.

This Door That Cannot Close

If I could stop this race, this world with no mercy...
the running of the clock, this hustler's pace that makes us trade blood for money.
Would we breath, speak, exhale and feel the presence of what wasted love we disinherit?
What is this legacy of hopeless toil, this slipping of our days that darkens our eyes?
Myself? I slip into the rushing crowd, platforms, doors, with window panes that box me in.
The mark of my fears is what anger cannot protect.
For death is certain as is time.
To find again the starry sky, that endless childhood romance of guiltless wondering.
Outward might sail the inward heart, a newer fable like the first so young!
Believing you are as magical as the Milky Way, the child again is free!
Why Progress?... as Progress takes the path of destruction.
A seamless and convincing ruin of all that sustains us, that's what love of money buys!
Despise greed, pray for love, love as a song that bears your name when all seems lost.
Cry and let go, sing with all your might, together we are the chorus.

A Stranger's Face

I wish I could describe the anxiety of being an immigrant. You are always the stranger in a crowded room. Secret whispers seem to crowd the tongue of every observer. You try to imagine that you are invisible, that you are as anonymous as you feel. Yet, behind every small action is the fear that you could never be camouflaged enough to avoid detection. Waiting in line can make you feel as small as an insecure child. Behind you wait ten busy and sometimes impatient people. Their mouths wait to speak, simply, quickly, and I have not the simplest notion how to pay for a stick of gum with the correct change. I never want to be a bother to anyone. In this new place, I am now the slowest man in line.

We were turned away at the doctor's office today because I cannot speak French. The receptionist asked questions. I could only respond in English that "I don't understand. I'm sorry". I was indeed truly sorry. I wanted to fix things, whatever the problem might have been. My daughter stood by watching as I struggled helplessly. I am smart, witty, educated... still, here I was without the most basic words to function. We needed that appointment to get her physical for school. Yet, we were shut out. Now she'll miss the first day or even week of school. I wanted to do the right thing, all the leg work, all that's expected of me as a parent in this society we now live in.

Back home there are many people that feel immigration is some sort of societal plague. I contest that notion. People generally want the same thing, to be part of something more. I also suspect that anyone seeking to judge a person for where they're from or what language they speak, has never had to leave the comfort of home. How brave the soul that wagers all for a better life. Besides, home is not a place. It lives inside the adventurous heart and cannot be taken by anyone. To overcome all the pressures of living, often without approval or permission, is one the bravest journeys a human can take. No matter where you are, find those that struggle and get involved. Never belittle or assume, judge nor criticize. If by chance you take the risk to live abroad, inside what you fear, what you love, there is the heart of all humankind. After all, to some degree we are all immigrants.

"Humans"

Who am I but a small and tumbling speck...smaller than a grain of sand in such an enormous universe? Sometimes I wonder if anything I've ever thought or experienced will matter. Yet, inside me is a universe all its own, bright so bright, a voluminous dream that consumes me with both hope and despair. Perhaps we all wish, as I do, that our inner world, our struggle to exist will not be washed away by time. Does our essence leave a mark? To love, to fear, to fight win or lose, I pray that passion leads me to act with an extraordinary strength to dream an always bigger dream. In this way, my insignificance becomes a state of wonder and the overwhelming urge to never settle for regret.

I once thought the way to joy was intoxication. To escape reality was my goal. Daily living seemed like an endless depression back then, and indeed it was. There's not much to live for when you can't even do basic things like feed or clothe yourself. Maslow knew what he was talking about. In my youth I saw no connection between drunkenness and hopelessness. I thought getting high was what saved me from my misery. In actuality, the cycle of my addiction was the cause. To fly, to crash, to withdraw, to fly again... this is a death sentence that shatters a person one click at at time. Like the deafening tick of an old clock in a silent room, I could hear the coming of my own demise. With each binge came an increasing urgency to recover. But, I could not, at least not on my own.

Addicts and alcoholics are notoriously arrogant underachievers. They revel in being "the worst of the worst". I took pride in any activity that set me apart from being "normal" (whatever normal means). Truth is, I couldn't stand the thought of having knowingly broken every solemn promise I'd ever made to myself. As a child I was loving and insightful. I saw meaning in everything. When I was in kindergarten we lived down the street from a slave cemetery. I read every name on every grave marker to show my respect for the tragedy of the era in which they lived. I even apologized out loud for what my ancestors had done and vowed to never treat anyone with such hatred. To be so passionate hurts and some things should not be ignored. At five years old I felt as if the world was blind. Why, I thought, should the summation of people's lives be lost among the dreary vines of a carelessly ragged burial, their names fading to obscurity as the rain erodes the crude cut limestone impressions that held them? People, anyone, deserved more. With such injustice in the world, why would anyone subscribe to anything "normal"? How does anyone live knowing the truth? In Sonny's Blues James Baldwin wrote "“All that hatred down there,” he said. “All that hatred and misery and love. It’s a wonder it doesn’t blow the avenue apart.” Truly it is a wonder.

Through a train of circumstances, I found the help I needed, the kind of help that brings a person back to life. Sometimes, seeing change in others is the best window into seeing the possibility in yourself. Many people over the years had been my advocate. By the time I sobered up, most people that knew me were becoming satisfied with mere diplomacy. A diplomat often winds up pleading with the dictator of a warring nation, begging them to stop fighting, or at least stop fighting long enough to let everyone have peace for a time. As the dictator of a warring mind, I couldn't stop fighting with the world at large. To surrender meant the admission of a tragic reality...that I had indeed reached the end of my threshold to maintain control over the nature of my situation. My relationship with this deep denial had become almost a state of psychosis. In my mind, I was some sort of profit, a man that had chosen to live a life free of material possessions in order to subvert becoming another Ward Cleaver. As it turns out, even the Ward Cleavers of the world fall prey to addiction.

"Is There Enough Time?"

God bless the wild child. Sometimes it's desperation that lures the moth to the flame. The sun's mimic is a portal to freedom, an all consuming need to escape. Some people claim that god has delivered them from all their human diseases. Yet, they are like the moth, fluttering hopeless and numb onto the walls in a dark room. They see no possibility for finding the light. At last... when something warm and bright begins to cast their shadow, a clamorous urge begins to rise. To be suddenly warm, to burn for the right choose one's fate...this is the soul of all living things. To misunderstand this call to live is to deny what perhaps we bury in ourselves. God bless us all.

There was a man that sang his pain in silent prayers. He hurled himself with all his might down upon the feet of all his idols. He begged for peace, for concrete words, for a materialization of a grace giving god. In time, his fading breath fell silent. He died without an answer...not one. From all his wondering came the darkness of everlasting regret, an intense knowledge of a life lived in vain. His forever will sting with all he left unsaid. Fear kept him as sick as an ancient prisoner, an always kneeling fool, a crying madman hovering by the cobblestone drain beneath the king's castle.

"Never"

"Sell it all to move and wander. Save your dreams by choice. Cut all the wires and jump the fence. Take everyone you love to where the sky is dark and open then sit to together and count the stars. Make time for the kind of quiet talks that make you remember why you loved them in the first place. Whether there are many lives or just this one, no duty should dictate a debt of misery. So sad, so many wait to breathe, praying for rescue from the disease of an unending sameness. Beneath the fear of leaving what we know, something unimaginable waits to be. With one last labor, one more breath, one last prayer, one touch of faith, there is life beyond the tears."

"Everything the Hard Way"

Asleep and alone, my face had lost it's color. Rest had come as much through the tears as it had from the alcohol. In the south east corner of my cell sized room, I had placed an empty wire spool to use as a table. There, I often left my candles burning in a wooden cigar box given to me by a "lost love". She had inscribed "Jason's God Box" on the inside of the lid with a wood burning tool so that when you opened it, the words read right side up. Like her memory, this is where I kept items I couldn't let go of. Piled around the base of each candle were polished pieces of Tiger's Eye, old jewelry, including an old flat back labret stud with stripped threads, and a few folded poems of desperation that reminded me of certain people.

If you've ever lived the life of an addict, you understand. Ambiance is important for relieving the guilt of intoxication. I had carefully collected each memento in that "God Box" to shelter me from the suicide inducing regrets that might find their way into my soul while I was getting high. This is why bright lights and open spaces seldom were part of that world for me. Back then, I felt safer sleeping under a bridge than walking through a shopping mall. Like an old tv with the contrast turned too far one way or the other, the difference between me and the outside world was too painful for me to bear. The only way to survive was to stay amongst the deeper shadows where the shades of grey could blur my sharper edges.

This sublet room was my shadow. It had four walls and two windows through which the morning sun did not shine. Even if the giant sycamore outside my east window had let the rising day through the glass, I would have pulled the eight foot polyester curtains shut so tight their first two folds would have locked out armageddon. Tall curtains, wooden floors, and plaster walls have been the death of many a beautiful son or daughter. Peace can so easily be washed away by the pains of isolation. Yet, loneliness drives us all into hiding.

It was summer and the sun had gone down around nine. I bought a liter of Southern Comfort around seven pm with my last few dollars. It was to be my psychiatrist for the evening. I walked home talking to the bottle like it knew exactly who I was and what I was going to do with it. It told me what I wanted to hear without any argument whatsoever, save a few protestant crackling noises from the brown paper dress it wore. I used to love the way the ridges on top of a Comfort bottle felt in the palm of my hand. They also made it less likely to drop a full bottle while tipping it heavy side up to one's mouth. I must have looked like an escaped mental patient clamoring down the street with an invisible friend. I however, imagined myself like some eccentric Toymaker with and evil plan to take over the world. In those aphotic minutes just before I put chemicals in my body, I always felt so disturbingly powerful. I gave that point of no return a name; "putting on the mask" I called it.

Back to the shadows, I set the mood to music, lit the "God Box" candles, and locked the door. I was so intensely glad to be home alone. I drank and drank and cried and cried. Onward, pale and whining, I passed out. I dreamed I was in my grandmother's trailer out in Pflugerville Texas. It used to sit in a park called "Three Points" just outside of town. It was a small (single wide), aluminum sided trailer with a kitchen window unit. Her best friend "Flossy" lived next door. They were two of a kind. I could see all this as I slept. She was cooking me bacon on her sixties green electric stove. She would always keep bacon for us to eat. All you had to do was ask and she'd pull out the whole pound and cook it in the recycled grease she kept in a Folger's coffee can on the back of the stove. With blue grey hair and a Virginia Slim trading time with her left hand and mouth, she'd spit thin drifts of smoke above the stove into the vent while she flipped the bacon with a fork. I remember chuckling to myself in the dream because I've always flipped bacon with a fork like she did. She placed one of those thin white corningware plates with the butterfly and flower designs around the edge in front of me. On it were two sunny side up eggs, a crisscross of bacon, and one oven toasted piece of Mrs.Bairds white bread placed precariously on the side just far enough away from any grease to keep it from getting soggy. Just as I was about to eat my breakfast, she leaned over me and pointed her finger with her thumb up like she was pretending her hand was a pistol. She exclaimed "You don't have time to eat, it's time to wake up!" As she spoke, her kitchen got very hot. I could feel the heat on my face, so much so it started to burn. She took a step back, turned to the stove and became as inanimate as a wax figure. I asked her to explain but she neither moved nor spoke in response. She seemed to be gone but her body was frozen in place. This woke me up.

I rolled over on the sheetless mattress, straight onto my hip, and spun my feet to the floor. I could still feel the heat on my face from my granny's kitchen. On the spool, I see flames creeping across the lid of my "God Box", the entirety of the spool's surface, up the wall, and onto the polyester curtains. Near horizontal like a ship in a bottle, I see my Southern Comfort tipped over on top of my box of burning candles. The corner of my room was on fire! A part of me felt resigned to just lay down and smirk while I watched the polyester melt like tar against the window frame. The was fire beautiful, beautiful like sadness to a broken heart. It shivered so delicately in the trail of alcohol, the flames merging to pull their fuel from the bottle. I once saw an entire house burn to the ground in five minutes. I thought to myself, if I can stand the pain of burning for a short five minutes, I'll at least leave knowing I finally finished something. Or, maybe I would pass away and wake up back in my grandmother's kitchen to the smell of bacon on the stove. This time I'd ask her for a glass of milk just so I could watch her close her airstream like refrigerator with her hip. I missed seeing her do that. It had a vertical latch that never quite clicked. She'd hit the door with her hip to make sure the ice box wouldn't thaw out from the door being ajar. Over the years she'd worn a bare spot in the green paint right down to the metal from leaning into it with the rivets on her blue jeans. It was the thought of her faded jeans that moved me to save myself. She worked her whole life just to get by. She outlived the tragic death of her husband and all her siblings. Beyond the cluttered kitsch of her simple home was the bones of a survivor. All this reminded me who she was, who I was. She had survived alcoholism as well and so could I.

I stumbled to the corner and reached for the unburned portion of the curtain closest to the spool. I jerked it from the rod straight to the floor and stomped it out. I clenched the long edge of the polyester seam and flung a reams worth over the spool. At first, the flames would not go out due to the presence of the alcohol so I used a corner of the drape to grab the neck of the bottle. I plucked it out of the fire and ran it to the opposite corner of the room. Back to the fire I flew grabbing the fabric knuckles up along its edge and spun it like a cast net over the spool. I pushed the air out from underneath and the fire went out. You would think a man that just saved his own life might be full of sunshine and roses. An alcoholic thinks only in black and white, especially when drunk... and still drunk I was. So the demons came.

In dead silence my poor disheveled soul sat tussling with the approaching dawn. It spun around my thoughts like the stars in a planetarium. That night, upon my axis the universe turned, beating me black and blue with all I had suppressed. Surviving seals the seams that crack the wanderers, stitch, stitch, stitching at one end, unraveling at the other. That which pulls the thread is the weight of resiliency. People carry this weight unnecessarily alone. Yet, in the hardest moment, just before giving up, there exists a small and graceful silence. In its subtlety we miss it, like the hushing sound snow makes. In this instant comes the promise of new hope and a life less lived in vain. In the early hours after the fire, as the Grackles warned of dawn, I heard that silence for the first time. All the sudden I knew what my grandmother meant. In my dream when she said "It's time to wake up". It was time to live again, no more time or words wasted, no more denial and unnecessary suffering. I tumbled to my knees so I could feel the cool pine floor on my cheek and begged the deafening peace of my new found silence to save me. I haven't had a drink since.

I have often wondered, if there is a god, what stories would he, she, or it tell about out us? I imagine god like an omniscient voice in a novel, looking down on us with quizzical mercy, not intervening but narrating what he sees. As we live and and die without the benefit of this bird's eye view, we could perhaps be unknowingly changing our fate moment to moment. Seen in this light, every second in life holds the possibility of fame, poverty, death, triumph, love, or loneliness. If this is true, this is not fate at all but the constant presence of second chances.

"Back from That Place"

So cynical the way I have become; so pitiless with myself. I shelter my own child from the world and the way people's words can steal the dignity from a day. Yet, I have learned to shrink from their biting sarcasms. Am I satisfied with empowering myself in morning soliloquies, like some foolish boy whistling in the dark? When did my dreams become second rate shadows of the beliefs of my youth? But do not pity me, my story might just be unending. Inside me holds fast the widening gaze of a sturdy adventurer. I feel his hat beginning to tip against the wind of a foreign coast. When this fast a goodbye comes, only sweet freedom sets the sails.

"Finally a Break"

I wish someone could see how long the road has been. Tumbling a and dirty I trudged the narrow path. I feel as though I've had to prove myself every step of the way. In the end I think I was only trying to prove something to myself.

"Redo"

It is true that I am often two people at the same time. One part of me bides its time, frozen in fear of losing face in the presence of all I admire and fear I cannot attain. The other part of me speaks boldly with a scalding tone so fearless I do not require nor invite the approval of others. The starving light of a fearful soul can easily be extinguished. Yet, I suspect within us all resides the magnificent opportunity to envision what we could be. It burns behind the dim lit door that shelters the true and momentarily hidden heart of every hero. As a parent nurtures the best qualities in a child, fate and circumstance release us from the guilt of failure by proving our capacity for change through the process of living. .

"Slowly We Decline"

Those that have the power to take somehow blame poverty on those from which they steal. The dominant horde claims that if you are poor it's because you chose to be, or that you are unfit to survive. I contend that if a man is too weak to fight for his food it's because he is forced to eat too little, not because he doesn't deserve to eat.

"Fuck It"

‎"Some days I feel nothing. Without memories there are no scars. Regrettably, this absence of passion also feeds the delusions of the calculating monster I can become. This is why I crave the darker side of living. It breaks the numbness of my desperation with at least an arbitrary intention. Though sick and shaded, my world becomes a sensual nightmare, spiraling like shots of cocaine through the blood of a madman."

help

"Soft voices rise, playful as a baby's smile, holding time in check. The child like tellings of our daily toils, carried by the agency of the wind, free us if only for an instant. Above us, in some strange embrace, the humility of our condition colors the night sky while the timid mystery of our existence unfolds. Star crossed lovers and children pray the hardest, begging whatever god may be for that which may or may not save them."

"Short Timing"

I used to stand in the cold, watching the rain drip from the brim of my hat. I wanted someone to notice how stoic I was. In these moments I imagined my life had a soundtrack. As the music played, I stared toward the horizon like a man wandering around in an echo. I heard only the rain and the narrator's voice describing me to the audience. I lived in this intoxication, hiding from the squareness of reality.

In hindsight, the truth about me was that I was just scared. Creating a place inside oneself that feels safe is not the worst a person could do. I never wanted to hurt anyone; I was just trying to survive the internal battles that came in waves. Sometimes I felt like the world operated on a different frequency than myself, pulsing with a slanted rage that was too powerful to survive. If fighting is futile and surrender means you become what you hate, you learn to cultivate a private impropriety of sorts. At this point, It doesn't matter whether or not anyone ever notices that you seem lost. At least what's inside is yours. No one has the power to clip the wings of a bird that only flies in the imagination of a desperate man.

"When Will it Stop?"

"If you see me standing alone with my back against a wall; I am trying hard to look the part. I lean on one foot, one leg folded, one Chuck Taylor planted on the bricks behind me. Like a soldier, I square my shoulders, arms folded chin fixed and forward. Each bare knuckle hosts a scar, an episodic record of entanglements. My past has posed me this way, outside the margins, ready to die for respect. When we meet,if you lie like you know, I'll know, believe it. Detecting that which I consider "fake" keeps me alive. Real knows real and the world at large hates a hater."

"Change Is Not an Event"

Be it by the process of growing up or just forgetting, in some way our magic spins away, shallowing the places inside where the extraordinary color of laughter hides. Sometimes, I think I hear my name whispered as a warning; only it is often behind me, or uttered like someone passing me by is urging me to change direction. On the coldest days, when the grey wind drapes the brittle world inside my head. I can hear the whispering tones of an unsettled audience, hushing one another in anticipation of my demise.

"Every Day"

Somewhat nowhere,
slack in a chain.
The machine that pulls,
shortens poverty.
Supposedly I walk,
I breath,
I retire,
from a greater cause.
Who's cause is it?
Mine?
Yours?
This death is slow,
convincing,
seductive.
Escaping poverty means?
I leave the earth behind.