A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith


The Hang Up

This is my least favorite part

My cheek lines narrow, deep, wide, concealing desire, avant garde. Because I’m smiling so hard.

Telling you my ridiculous stories, startled and intrigued that you’re still listening; digging out my pad and pen to prick the tip of bliss and drip inspiration from clouds to lips. 

Gesturing widely with my hands, fingers speaking an unsigned language through a megaphone, hoping these butterfly ripples will reach you on your pillow and that it’ll feel like- I’m laying next to you.

Sharing our day together. Splitting the frustration with our kids. Edging out the sheet wrinkles with the smooth gliding of our hips, and always competing to be the first to suggest ice cream as the sacred remedy. 

I learned a long time ago that sugar can fix anything. So draw your lips to me and I’ll frame it in the space between our heartbeats.

I’ve been cleaning my room a lot lately. I know you’re not the company I’ll soon keep, but it’s a Zeus streak, catching lightning, every blue week, cuz I’m noob training, on the glued dais, monsoon waiting, for food payment, thoroughly unamused at my flowering chartreuse painting, I put so many words together it’s like a puzzle factory sold their pieces for stock in the picture and asked me to teach the curriculum. 

My room is clean. I’m a king preparing for a queen. 

The glow of my laptop is like a saber to the light- it calls to me. Missions left unfinished on my gaming screen. I’ve got a morning routine, several books to read and I try to get them done early because everything comes to a halt when you’re calling me.

I wanna do everything.

And I wanna talk to you.

It’s a strange paradox that lives in my mind- if I got my wish for us to talk all the time, the waves would lose the tide and the ocean would set on fire. Not talking to you is what gives us something to talk about. 

We’ve been talking for hours now. I love it when your voice pliés and I can hear your smile. Feel your smile. Like warm honey pooling across my chest.

And that is why this is my least favorite part… how can the night be good if it’s just me with my thoughts? This is my least favorite part…

Because it means our time has come and gone.

Away to sleep…

To awake in the morn.



The worst part is that there is no obsession. No craving. I am not passionately thinking of you in the sunset’s silky glow, and I, the breathless horizon patiently waiting to be wrapped in the drunken warmth of your prismatic embrace.

There is none of that.

I sit here. Clear headed and winded. When we converse, I walk around and gesticulate, but after the goodnight bid flees our lips I am frozen again. My heart is stop motion cinema and you control the lens. Every click of your affections makes my whole world shudder, and I blink-

And wanna do it all over again.

I am the poet with the pen, but I wanna give you my notebook and a stack of pencils. So that when you leave, I can breathe deep of your eraser shavings and remind myself that love doesn’t have to be perfect to work properly. Sometimes it’s about the fingers writing the letters- canvassing caresses over the curses even if it’s done sloppily. Soft sigh. Slow motion eye flap. Your name is my homily.

I don’t miss you, am not love blinded by you, am weighed down by no obsession… Which is the worst. Because that means you’re not a phantom and whatever we’re developing… is real. When words lapse, I peacefully count the ticks between your breaths. I am in no hurry with you, because I’m not afraid to lose you, which is justified because you’re not mine and I’m not yours too.

… but maybe I wanna be.

In the end though, it’s all just a burnt mission. Feelings betray Jedi, that’s why I fein indifference. Romance is a cameo, brief character sans appearance. 

The only true love stories are fan fiction…

Holy Ground

As I pave the lane through my growing pains, I’ve noticed I walk differently now that my armor’s changed.

I’m a little more selective with who I expose my cracks and chinks to… a little more protective over the parts that still don’t work quite right.

My flaws are sacred.

Tongue is laden, not with seductive toxins drained from rose petals, but with the burden of bearing the shield of Goliath. There is no protection for the priests inside the tabernacle walls, they must guard themselves by what they speak, before they let anyone in at all-

And I’m the same.

So if I show you the holes in my magical perfection… the wounds where blood still leaks and hasn’t quite dried… know that I’m not interested in having to defend myself against you. Rather, I have begun the true hero’s journey of discovering what it means…

To trust you.

And There Was Her

I don’t know what I want… or fully what I am… But I know what she is. I recognize her like the foggy haze of a dream stolen from the hearts of better men.

She is thunder in the storm, a voice cutting through the chaos giving purpose to the light.

She is my best kept secret, hidden away in chambers of love so deep I’ve yet to discover it for myself.

A deluge of sparkling fireworks, scalding the adoration clean off my tongue, rendering me speechless.

She is the cinnamon scent of well scored holiday cinema…

She is the candle I light when I don’t know what else to do and night won’t let me sleep.

A roaring delight, volcanic passion thinly wrapped.

She is a universe of unspoken divinity and I, a priest desperate for the prayer to charm her…

She is the aspiration of the ocean, the magic patiently sought by stardust.

A flower spinning petals through the bar room air, dashing the drowning depths of escapism with her dazzling photosynthesis.

She is the pause in my cadence, that sacred word just on the tip of my tongue that I can’t ever seem to remember…

She is the solitude of the hero and the flag of the warrior- nobility knows no identity without her.

An unblemished flaw, juxtaposing past and prologue, disturbing the stories swirling all around me with her reckless dedication to being so in the moment that all others fall away…

She is the response to our Lord’s very first command.

Let there be light…

And there was her.


Dear Carrie

It’s scary ya know.

The world without you here.

I discovered too late the spirits of you and I were quite near, toast of champagne dear, now I’m trapped in the headlights. Staring into the shine trying to get a glimpse of your eyes. The car keeps approaching, wants to play chicken with me, Life already bulldozed you got a taste for blood, now she’s smitten with me! And I can’t move, it’s like I’m rooted to this spot; you died last year, I froze the moment, and time forgot. So now everyday is yesterday, dictionary on the swing, words at play, make it rain, stranger things like alchemy.

Oh wait.

I’m just cryin.

But I don’t care. Folks are laughing, you didn’t even meet her, if you woulda met her when you were married you probably would’ve cheated with her; plus she was on drugs tucked under the shade of a relapse, everything you like about her was far far away like a Shrek and charming rematch. So relax. Save your tears for real angels. Not another fallen pixie on a first name basis with rehab.

Dear Carrie, I don’t even respond to those folks no more. They make me wanna choke their vocal chords with a rubber hose around their throat til it don’t open no more. My hope is so sore. You were like a bottle of lightning and right when I picked it up to read the message inside it, you disappeared avatar roku style. I’m supposed to be goku how, feel like Liam neeson’s only child, everything I’ve learned since you were taken has cost me everything, ouch.

Is this what heroes are made of? Cords of your soul washed up, in the devil’s tub, but you’re Heaven touched, so Excalibur, in those burning thumbs, cannot overcome, the Lord’s banner hung, over every rut or find a weakness or opening to make a clean cut! Being a villain would be way more easy. Which is why you are Princess Leia both on and off screen to me. All you did was fight for right… even when cuddling with your darker side.

And I admit I cried. When I got home that night. You were the last Jedi. By faulty roll of dice. I’m dreading number nine. Cuz that glory is your right! But who am I really mad at? Me for playing it safe? Or you for living your life? Your legacy lives forever. Like Benjamin Franklin’s kite. And if I’m being Frank, I ain’t feelin too hot, dog, cuz the bark is fearsome, but I’m scared I’ll be all alone if I don’t leash this bite…


Dear Carrie, I’m working on it. Even in my peace of mind a piece of me is going bonkers.

Cuz you’re still not here.

So many loved you, almost none of us deserved you, but I heard lately from a woman of wondrous virtue that it’s not about deserve ooh. It’s about what we believe. And although I close my eyes and just scream cuz you not alive is obscene, when I open them again… there you are right next to beside me, auditioning for this musical, telling me to tell the truth.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Carrie Fisher drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra.

Oh God. It’s been so long. I was supposed to be leaping to safety, but instead I wrote a whole song. Well if I die, don’t tell them that I died. Regardless of how I go, I want it reported that I-