River’s Choice

The river used to flow for me.

Tired and worn down, lips cracked with the merciless blood leaks of ambition… the dry riverbed would flow for me. Would grace me with the refreshing honor of parching my thirst and revitalizing my skin.

My invitation was open ended like the fat man’s appetite, never rescinded like glory in the afterlife, I would often make my way there after night. Hidden in shadow but spied by the discretion governed pale eye of the moon. Under cover of light and darkness I would whisper the gray of my heart out and the river would flow for me. Into my mouth, over my brain, through my eyes, across my back…

I was never ashamed to be broken because I knew the river’s affection for me began in eternity and continued on into forever.

Very often it was the weight of identity in my mind which drove me to my knees in defeat… needing the coolness of the river, but forcing myself to endure the heat. Desert sand began to define me like a dictionary written in braille with seashells in hand. I couldn’t see well enough to stand. Burden bigger than the sea whale Hancock threw off the land.

I collapsed at the river for healing again…

But that day my awareness of my neediness and spoiled gain played against me…

The river doesn’t flow for me anymore.


Always Windy

The wind exists inside of me.

I can topple towers, I can uproot gardens, I can magically whisk imaginative girls to far away places.

The wind is neither predator nor prey.

It is a response. Every gust of rushing invisible power influenced by the shifting cosmos tilting the earth and reshuffling the cards across the board. Some days it feels remarkably tame, and other days it feels like unstained insanity, mentally under feet like wildebeests stampeding…

I killed Mufasa, but saved Simba.

Abandoned Vader, but empowered Luke.

The wind exists inside me, never to be conquered, vanquished, or stilled.

I am the wind.

I am intelligence.

I am creativity.

I am free.

Only Typing

Sometimes, you’ve got to slow down and let the poetry catch you.

Even though the sunrise glides while I sleep, I still think it happens too fast because I miss it daily. By the time I awake, the miracle has already had its happy ending. Eyes blink open, muscles flex, legs stretch and technology prepares my breakfast- like a preprogrammed fairy tale born of roman, mythical imagination my life can be considered the ultimate in poetic statements…

And daily I miss virtually all of it… Like that small family photo tucked inside my wallet- I see what I love so much that I forget to stop and love it…

Sometimes, you’ve got to slow down and let the poetry catch you.


This is what I’m thinking to myself as I lay on my bed watching my beautiful girlfriend puttin work in on her laptop as she sits in front of my couch. At first I had my eyes closed in peaceful pseudo-slumber, but then they popped open and I rolled over and looked at her… I mean reeeallly looked at her. Sittin there all lovely and focused with frown lines of productive concentration creasing her mouth… And it dawned on me- I don’t look at her that much. This may sound weird, but if you’re tryna live holy then you know what I’m talkin about…

And it was in that precious, admiration filled moment… That poetry caught me.

A sense of awe overtook me, and words that I already knew took on brand new meaning… The live right fight can pay off in powerfully small ways it seems… Poetry overtook me. ME. The poet. The Wordsmith. Overtaken masterfully by the mastery of my own element…

And she was only typing.

Duck Eyes

I’ve been ducking tears so long I failed to realize I’d slowly begun falling in love with heartache.

These tear ducts have become quacks like real ones… Because before, their actions meant I had learned something, but now the tear drop action just means I’m actin. Theatrical social performance to verify that I too have vilified passion, and that love in any form causes me to squeeze my eyes shut and move on past it.

The idea of falling in love is propped up by the idea of not falling- so when the opportunity for potential authenticity comes calling I doubtfully stand my ground until the sound of my pounding heart crashing into the street like a star knocked off a Christmas tree sounds through my being with resounding confidence.

Once again the tear has won.


Though I hear the voices of many here, when I open my eyes it’s only me here.

The drops splash down out of hopelessness from whence they come, and some instinct compels me to duck…

But because I never actually moved, my tearful addiction overtakes me in a rush and I slide down with the emotional flush…

A waddling prisoner of these tear ducts.


The last tear drop on the counter belongs to me…

There is a breath- a heaving really- that takes place when the place taken by taken places plays favorites.  When the track record of spun emotional hits fails to record the streaming tracks sliding down your face and plunging off lips- when the only thing you’re left with is the counter that caught your scattered fragments.

OCD lovers, and made friends who became maid friends, frantically clean up my environment.  Glass is swept, but 20/20 tears remain invisible and quiet.  My clothes are straightened out- stains removed by re-staining with stain proof “new.”  The glue they used to fuse the crude accoutrements on this broken warrior into something suitable for a fashion lawyer is an oily substance.  Not designed for repair, but to reap the air and draw a harvest of hotly blown explanation to cover my unveiled illumination of how I really feel.

Thousands of paper towel rolls expire as they mop up the soaking wet counter- that’s because each and every splattered ocean drop is undeniably real.  They wipe faster and faster trying to dry the counter off with the rapidity of their movements.  Get a gusting wind to come gusting in gushing gusto to give strength back to my guts again… but they missed a spot.  There, dangling like pieces of my fractured insides, out of sight at the edge of the countertop… A swirling, prismatic, micro-cosmic globe of stained emotions, pierced heart pieces, and misunderstood intentions all wrapped up in the bosom of the sea…

That last tear drop on the counter belongs to me.