gratitude, Nature, Peace, Poetry, Uncategorized, Whimsical as Heck

Today, I turned I’ve hours in Wal-Mart into a couple of sizeable steps on my journey.

Thinking in the pouring rain and then the fourth aisle (for the third time), it was a happy Mother’s Day.

In two days I’ll be a happy public servant. My friends have elections to win, and I want to stand helpfully political by their side.

Smoke billows from the incense like dog fur growing,

The diamonds and four-sided stars putter and cough,

As a swirling gale from five feet away comes to snatch the fur in a circling whirlwind.

It hangs in the air and sticks to the wind like glue,

Giving it a definition I never thought of.

I look around my room. Shoe-hangers, instrument corners, and some god-blessed open space.

This place has a definition I never thought of.

Perhaps the elements play darts with the two pairs of flip flops that face

The blusters coming from the open window across the room,

A smidge less than twenty feet away.

A wind spitball hits me as I type that.

Everything’s doing fine.

Everything breathes.

This isn’t foreshadowing any other June horror stories.

I’ve got my peace.

So maybe I need to run and give it to others.

What was Tim’s last name again?

Dream No. 1

dreams, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Uncategorized

I can be a nice blue sky,

Waking from a dream in twilight.

The park is quiet, sullen like an old war story

And I’m  part of many- lovers, tacticians, fighters, musicians

They’re all coming to the crown in the green grass, this floating tablet

The shakes the earth upon its flight.

My robes are threadbare, but I am garbed in seven gorgeous notes.

The wind scatters myself from the swaying grasses,

All the way up the earthen spiral to our crown.

How did I grow to love you so?

I suppose it’ll only answered in the logic of a dream.

But those seven notes speak it louder than my subconscious ever could.

It’s an unconscious spell,

A lovely incantation on the eighth hour.

“I can be a nice, blue sky.”


Dingus, Internal Poetry, Problems, Uncategorized

Before we get to that point

Where I become fascinated at first glance,

Before the first (real damn heavy) word leaves my mouth,

A preface:


I’ve got a cousin that met Bill Murray once

And I’ve got a chip on my shoulder.

Trouble’s gonna come with a disappearing act.

I’ve already ran the numbers,

They make my head dizzy and still don’t give me the specifics

Of just what in the hell makes it so damn hard

to acknowledge

I exist.

We’re all busting our asses to the bone

to make something of ourselves

people will smile at.

We all have better things to do than deal with than the

worry poison

melting a hole in us from the inside out.

We’ve all done it before,

save the saints and the savants who’ve

been wise enough not to trifle.

You know the feeling of how stupid you get

when you realize somebody that you didn’t give the time of day to

was worth millions more than what you gave?

It still pumps through my veins with every beat.

Ba-bump, you damned moron.

Ba-bump, you weren’t worth their time.


The patient ones are always the best of us,

They receive disappointment like a skill to practice

And have become used to making a plan b.

Even though so many of them CLEARLY know what’s going on,

They give their space to the blockheads

Who don’t think hard enough to question their

damn flapping gums.

I feel like I’m stuck in cement between gaining patience

And being too oblivious to see fault.

Maybe there is no fault, just the way things are.

If it is, there’s tonight’s dose of disappointment to make me strong tomorrow.

to make me strong tomorrow.



Dancing Arms:

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Stuff to do, Uncategorized

It was when I discovered what having tired forearms meant.

Rhythmic Bopping speaks languages

That English and Energy share a stake in, cocktail parties

Keeping in singularity the flow around you, an orchestrator of attention.

Delusions of grandeur in sunset podiums garnering hundreds of looks

The twilit shadows deepening in sight and in sound in a ring,

Right on the old practice field.

Its familiarity receiving a sentiment always stronger than age.

I have finally conquered the sullen beast that is “petting the cat”.

As soon as someone breaks the horizontal plane in their wrists each downbeat,

It’s “Here Kitty Kitty,

You just ruined the whole rep.

Back to it.”

Bounce, swivel and jive in common, five-four, seven-four, all without a jolt.

My twinging arm feels comfortable in these movements.

Even in the three beat where I spread my wingspan like a bird of prey,

My shoulder feels comfortable.

I look like a goon, but I’m alright with every bit of it.

And in an hour, I’ll do it again.

Fifteen minutes, maybe more.

In order to do what it takes to make it in the first place,

I can stand some tired muscles.

That smell.

The cold air on the heaters pushing the cold from the shower

That wakes you up in the morning

That’s my Jasmine Tea, my blissful addiction.

The time’s coming for euphoria, for come-ups and for rebirth.

The tectonic plates of our faces will change again, the cascading waves at the top of our pores

Will ring opalescent in shifting beauty obscured by bright eyes.

This is where Shia just did it.

This is where Donovan sat and talked about an empty Baltimore.

This is where I became self-assured.

Even though the season’s in peak bitter,

Peppermint schnapps gales hit us with the same burn

And refuse us warm bellies,

The background is stark, white, and cold.

The dormant things lie in wait for the first kiss of spring’s promise

When the air soothes, not stings

When the daffodil harbingers make their brave venture

And colonize their space under the namesake of beauty.

A garden of eden appeared under closed eyes,

And all it took was a whiff of its potent nostalgia.

Amherst, Empowerment, love, Nature, Peace, Poetry, Uncategorized

Avatar of Presence:

Problems, Uncategorized

You’ve blown your cover, noisy child.

Points do not pass without your

Purposeful space-suck.

Testing the echo of your voice through

Perpetuating  your presence for sound and fury’s sake

Will beget you nothing.

You will not take pillage from our energy, intimidator.

I will project this sentiment visibly,

And politely ask for your silence.

Your speech seeks only to subjugate,

And I wish it to cease promptly.


Fear, Internal Poetry, Joylessness, Nature, Poetry, Uncategorized

The chains of my habit I’ve forged with love
Have been frozen in feet of snow and broken.

Change drives us all, but why does it have to drive now?

It’s hard again to tell the excuses in my head from my thinking voice,

But both nod in agreement after an 8am emergence from the corners of

“You did what??”

To calmly sit down, juxtapose a thousand,

And calmly return to bed. (It didn’t send.)

You can’t get hurt in the avatar state- you’re either master of the elements or dead, no in between.

And I’ve been seeing my weaknesses exposed to too many.

I’ve estranged sleep, like the friends I lost and loved.

My weathered body has perforated itself

Into the shapes of the things I want to create.

My flesh will not become catalyst.

The focal point on my pinky remains the same after the weekend’s wear

My hair hides humiliation under its treetop canopy,

I pray for birds of paradise to visit this troubled biome dome

And sing their replenishing song under the covers of my sunstruck mattress,

Hopefully taking their shit far away from my locks,

But nobody’s perfect.

I will decide to stay dormant and hibernate,

Let the problems I fear alone,


I’m asleep so I’m healing.

Logic wins over feeling.