Category Archives: Prose


I have not thought good of you

in secret I have cursed your name and called you darkness

laid blame at your feet as an insolent child throws down a broken thing for having disappointed them with being fragile

given your motives meaning without consideration

comforted wounds I allowed to form without want of understanding

denied any possible truth mingled in your own hurt for fear it would be true should I consider the slightest piece of them

I have spoken ill of you in anger

letting the cracks in my own visage give me excuse to cast venom into the universe at your expense though you never heard them all, I know, you heard them

justified rage without seeing the other side clearly

avoided conflict for the distaste of conflict only to realize in conflict lay the opportunity for peace

And I cannot call myself a citizen of light, if I give no room for it. I cannot call to happiness, if I give no fight for the things that deserve it. And perhaps most importantly, I cannot expect you to see me, as I want to see myself, if I give you no other visage to look upon.

For all this,

I apologize.




I write to be free: of an emotion, a thought, a burden, a moment, a dream
I write to be free. So, when the moment takes me and the words spill onto the page or vomit, as the case may be, I am writing to cast off some shuddering menace, some heavy joy, or philosophical nonsensical battle with my soul.

But I write.

And I don’t need approval. I don’t need the clapping and hand back smacking. What I do need is you to hear me, even when my words fail, when my sentences are constructed in a meandering emotionally coded language of my heart, I need you to hear me. If you can’t, if you can’t look and agree to see first the pick you up carry your broken ass to the 7-11 across town to get the cigarettes you need or the tickets to that show sold out on Thursday and realize that yeah, sometimes I didn’t put the words in the order considered perfect
but I showed up…

So, I don’t need you and you don’t need me because I am not the candle giving you warmth. I must be the match burning down your house and I want be that.

I have never wanted to be that.

So go. I give you permission to leave. I give myself the same. Like a ticket to a train south bound to warmer climes take the vibe and the ride and just go.

You know, I told myself long ago, I would say no. Then returned for more of the same. I left thinking how could I change? What could I do? So, determined, I put on new shoes and a new hat, covered my heart in the plastic wrap of preservation to hopefully deliver the left overs of a worn out line better.

and I failed.

However, I showed up

Some how I think that should’ve mattered. But here is the thing – it doesn’t matter to everyone. Sometimes the showing up just means you accept you might get shot and when you put that shit in park, you put the target on your soul to be delivered every blow – whether it was yours earned or not. So why keep showing up?

That is what I am wondering. Why keep showing up, when showing up means I have brought my best albeit flawed self and know it is the monster under your bed. And that when I speak, “I didn’t mean that” you hear “you’re a liar” and believe me.

I write to be free. And now maybe I can be free of you and you me. 

So this is life…

{written to this song:}

The space says to share my story, but what story is there to share. I have begun to see the truth of things. Magic and wonder exist for the young. Delight and passion for the youthful heart. The very old have suffered through. The wealthy purchase joy. And we, middle bound and gagged, suffer the realization there is little to hope for. No magic. No delight. Only one breath after another in an endless pursuit to maintain that breath. 

So what of my story? It is like every other sad affair gone unwritten. A candle tossed. A fragrance forgotten. I was born. I have lived. And one day, I will die. 

And this is life. 

Passing by

On cold concrete warmed by sun

worn hands extend from worn sleeves

seeking solace from strangers

who are we should we not notice?

who are we should we ignore? 

does kindness require reassurance? 

kindness surely does not. 

don’t just pass by

Moment on a marble step

Sitting in a gateway my mind draws images of John, the homeless vet
Who stood quietly waiting for aid with a cardboard sign
explaining in detail his plight.
Chaotic numbness drowned the words
living on the thrown away luggage of unwant,
invisible underneath the heaving of a norm stuttering to not be.
I withdrew from my comfort to be comforted.
And for this I am left abandoned to my own remorse.
For John, I imagine, still a cardboard sign and
no more an inkling of my selfish aid’s soulful thorn.
Alas, I am less comforted now than when silence
finally stretched out to nothingness
my mind drifted, distracted by the presence of the city.

Spring Storms

Storms passed by the other day and the way they came in left quite an impression. Quickly the sky changed from sun to cloud, the wind whipped up as if furiously pushed beyond its measure, and the tenor of the morning was electrified with anticipation. What was coming!?

Then without hesitation the sky opened as the clouds resounded its warning, albeit seemingly late. The windows were awash blurring every already muted color. The building shook with each beat of sky. It was over in a matter of minutes – a half an hour no more. It left us without so much as a kiss goodbye or much evidence it had come save for the homage of leaves and branches scattering the ground.

The sun took its place once more, the day was all the more clear.

Every now and then

Every now and then I wonder
do the stars ever care that anyone sees them shine
does the wind hold a grudge against the mountain that does not move
does the sparrow consider the blade of grass as it merrily flits about the chill strewn morning
I sip upon my cup of tea
and consider the lessons presented
the star shines because it does
the wind moves because it does
the sparrow and chill fulfill their calling
so should I
the last of my warmth fading
thankful for the delicate embrace
of wisdom from the universe.



Confidence comes because we believe in ourselves and in our abilities. Belief comes with practice. It comes with trusting in your abilities, not because someone else does but because you do.

So stop worrying about what others think and start practicing considering what you think. It is not always easy, but each time you move forward and feel the creep of doubt and the voice ofdissent starting to speak, shut them up and seek your heart. Do you like what you have done? Is this thing, action, art, work, writing… a good reflection of you?

And in that moment – of either yes or no – you gain confidence to be you.

So, #BeConfident – appreciate you despite all of the noise – and walk with purpose and pride in the direction of your dreams!