I smile

This is all about the beat and simplicity of form

1 – 2, 1- 2, (pause) 1

sun – shower – light – rain – (beat – long breath) I smile

so in utter simplicity I tried to achieve depth like haiku impact, that is what came to me in my head, all this when writing this… all this was swirling in my noggin, well, maybe not swirling but actually coalescing… and yes, I meant “light rain” as the sun (light) in showers (rain).. 2 lines of the same but not, it was pouring, I thought/wrote this in the midst that is the nature of a sun shower… the strangeness of the phenomena always makes me smile… comprende ?

your thoughts ? (I mean you did get this far, right?)

Photo by cottonbro on

how I miss you,
the taste of your lips –
my, my only love, for you are, this

sometimes I wake
trembled in the corner
I made myself
where none
had yet to exist

I have painted my own portrait
determined, my own fate
my inner demons
the mask, now is my face

and I am still here

looking out at the world
sometimes I dance along
most times I walk alone
and so-

I can not escape, this box
not by will or by smarts
just the end, determined by none
if only
I could really know, someone-
inside through and inside out
like I do, this house

gathering storm clouds come
the wood floor planks speak with age

my hands shake, with anticipation
or perhaps, just age again
so here I am

locked in this made hollowed cage,
sometimes my mind escapes
a hand turns the knob of the door
up into the sky, from the earth
into the stars, then I go
eternal, as light from fusion flows forth;
may I burn, like our sun
and provide that warm feeling, once more
on a child’s cheek
or provide the power to raise
the truly weak-
or fall,
to split a glimmer, of a tear
and may I find glory in the unfold
transform into all the colors as rhymes are told-
for a moment

but so returns the astral dreamer
back locked into,

into my cold dark corner;
hope is stoked by both sides in this
dreams may be the epitome- of murder

notes… I wrote this from the cuff, all tonight, raw, maybe could be more polished… I went over it maybe three times… but it makes sense to me, if it does for you, please comment, I am curious if my thoughts make sense to anyone, I post to make my art public, and my inner life public, because we are all alive right now, we owe it to each other as artists… maybe that sounds like bullshit or lofty, sure, but we are alive right now, together, for we truly are… and one day, one day too soon, we will all go away, my friends, we will all go away… why do we not live every minute of every day as such… we are caught up in the game… because, we are human… and I wonder how to express that and share that… with you…

maelstrom, male storm, hurricane and gone…

maelstrom, male storm, hurricane and gone…

oh your ennui, henri
the plain rain of henri, you would think a french sounding fellow would have a bit more flourish, no, just a wet blanket really, no howling or even soft blowing winds for that matter, just straight up and down rain, what a pity for a hurricane, once downgraded to a tropical storm, no more, just a collection of clouds with a core, a big messy spigot floating over central park, poor barry manilow, at least he got to start, I can only imagine the mass of rats running relays in subway tunnels, backstroke? I suppose there is a rat stroke, although I hope not see it in person, leave those olympics to the feline persuasion (hopefully hunting the things out to extinction – although I know better), maybe pizza rat will make a pizza raft, quite the tik-tok that would make, fivel would have nothing on that take, or even nimh for that matter, I can only imagine what might lurk in the flood waters of the city, perhaps like that scene in star wars, as I imagine the contents of a garbage compactor are much the same as a city street swept by water into pools of filth, so I suppose henri, after all, had some teeth, gummy-drooling wet ones gnawing and swirling at ankles and feet, I shudder to think… thank goodness for the suburbs…

the peak and flow: glory

the peak and flow: glory

Photo by Ricardo Esquivel on


for I recall
the gilded halls
the glory, of my own memory
like a museum, for all
I know marble is slow to fade
locked-staring into a slower realization;
on those days I was the prize
a stunning stallion gliding by
like flashes, stills, brief catches
all this resident inside, but spent
days behind-number greater now went
for alas there still remains a spark
for I recall the time I was a king
and now my throne is bare
and so has been
to stride these halls and live again
in the past, what seems now hidden
within a shell, broken mantle given
the glory shines less dim
suns-set in eyes, a horizon looms
might I capture one more ray of light
and ride out this diminished glory ‘fore the tomb.

reading the leaves (not tea, stream of conch…)

reading the leaves (not tea, stream of conch…)

Photo by Andrew Beatson on

the heavy summer air is full-ripe-pregnant-hanging-low with humidity, I can see the reading of the leaves nodding that a heavy rain is coming, my hand strum-slide-strokes up over on one of my newer shoots of bamboo and the protruding nodes, not unlike a lover, perhaps as intimate – as hairs on a limb, I whisper things in my mind to my plants, and when they do well I think they comprehend, like children do, I have conversations with my garden residents, for there are far crazier and more dangerous things to do with your time, when they start answering me though, that might be the time to question this or me, for now though I will still whisper and listen to the feel, the interloper wind is sneaky and subtle, a slight coolness slips in the door, cracks, gifting a micro oasis to the opposite palm of my hands as I walk, I want to stand here forever in the right now, however, I imagine even more of a release when the weight of the rain breaks the dam, so I wait…
(a few hours later)
I drifted off to sleep, expecting to be woken by a rollicking torrent-tempest worthy of noah, well, forty minutes at least, not forty nights at best, heck, I would even take a nice ten minutes and forty seconds less to break this humidity, I would like to tell you that I peeked outside and saw evidence of such a flood impress, but no, maybe just the equivalent of spit, or a light misting, as the idea of spit conjures a visceral reaction, ‘misting’ sounds calming, like a day spa commercial and flute music, so I suppose I need to work on my communication skills with my local nature guides, and perhaps… a better weather app.

(but wait, just now… I do hear some distant thunder… like hope off rubber bounce…)

notes… as I have said before this blog is me, not just works, works I do on the spot, this is not some contrived thing, this is more a diary than anything, a diary in works as I go, and maybe you learn a thing or four, I often wonder if anyone reads any of this babble outside of ‘likes’ thrown, I wonder, but honestly it does not matter, I am going to plow forward like a… and um, plow ? (but aren’t plows towed… damn semantics)… so anyone who reads this, thanks, your time and thoughts are appreciated, I can only imagine somewhere there are those I resonate with, one, two, a thousand? not important, just anyone alive in the right now, and if you read me you understand how I value the right now…. the universe conspired to have me posting at this moment in a billion years of time… because I am, and so are you, existing right now that is…

Among the Living… (stream of conch.)

Among the Living… (stream of conch.)

Photo by Nina Uhlu00edkovu00e1 on

Among the living
There are times I feel outside the world. Maybe by my own choosing or belief that I am the only one who understands, for surely I am, the only one that is, the only exact conglomeration of atoms at this time, this place, this stanchion in all history of the universe, but the common threads of all are what made me, just a different burst of color here and there, I think we all wish for more even beyond our miraculous existence, and who knows, maybe I have a twin out there, maybe not now, maybe not then, perhaps a thousand years in either direction, for numbers are finite, at some point that is, all things are, including myself, but how do I bind myself to this fate, to feel this rush and desire down into my hemoglobin, to my core, my soul, should I have one, the force running through me is just random circumstance? no magic to operate this primate puppet of late? perhaps… but what does the ending of that tale contemplate to fate, rather I would believe in a greater voyage, but yet, I feel anchored in the mundane, separate, distracted, locked in my own domain, a comforted prisoner in the plane of my choosing, soothing, like a bean bag chair I can melt into, a dream I can project into, but this is the living dream, regardless of circumstance, for I am better off than most, lesser than some, same at the end of the day regardless of outcome or income, so what tethers me, what can bind me to lash out into that sea, the unknown pending reality, not just the expected casualty, what more springs from behind doors, beyond perception, beyond regular-ation, a summation of stars, mulling about in a frenzy, with all the importance of the ending of time but all the importance of a meandering summer fire fly, luminescent, perhaps not so much outside, luminescent, from the inside, but how do I shine? For among the living I must go, but like a traveled river comes and goes, rocks, falls, whirlpools, traps, all there to shatter rafts, or at least test them, I am afraid to drown, but yet how else can I make it down this… this river path, bobbing to the whims or furious with paddle smacks, sometimes just to let the lazy river ride, spinning in circles in a mesmerized tide, no real progress made as the sun sets and rises into days, feet dangle, reflections mangle, hands trace, water soothes over, where are my fellow travelers, for as much as I feel different we are all floating just the same, for whom to I make a flotilla run, or a house boat appointment, or party on the banks of the shore for awhile, with like minded folks of like minded times, what shall keep me afloat, my connection, an umbilical reaction, a collateral reaction, to stay, not stray, among the living, if I have not learned now, when, if I can not turn back then, I must come to join and find a common hand…

notes… written in one stretch today @ work directly into that scion of technology, ahem, notepad, if you meet me you would say I am an affable fellow but there I times I feel isolated, and comfort in that isolation, which becomes habit in a dwelling, even mulling about the world you can be tip-toeing through the shadows of others, they just not might know, I think there is something to the summer, the sun, a reminder to bloom when you have the chance, there will be plenty of time to not be alive, worry about that later…



went outside just now, damn, the musty heavy smell of passing summer rain, the pre-swamp freshness a mix of grass and pavement tar, the dank, utter dank heaviness of humidity waiting to pounce on the dawn, it is almost intoxicating, maybe that was more the glass of bourbon on the porch earlier, but no, this is a seasonal smell, and a tell, a telling of a story, a trigger of memory as this time comes around once more, as the years pass they convey more and tell less as my own experience fills in the rest, perception, my walking through a moment that will never be… again.. amazement, miracles in the simple, and I am allowed to be a conductor, my own being fleeting, but yet allowed this meeting, I take in a deep breath, yes, this is august, the wet, the heat, the near rot but sweet, soon too soon the sun will set on this burst of life, but for now, life is rife and wild, and all about… take it all in my friends, take it all in, from a car window down, a beach bound toe in sand, a hike into forestland, even the baked cookie flavors wafting up from the driveway cracks… such is the now, so take it in.

fire, for we are, then we are embers, and then ash…

fire, for we are, then we are embers, and then ash…

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on

for I am fire-
seems the obvious enough,
and fuel for this-
shall run scant, I know this
but still persist- to burn on
I know not the source but yet can speculate
for the writers, the authors, the morai
“to the fates !”, dare I
for more puppeteers than scribes
pull on strings rather than script the divine
to fellow flames, such as they were
shelley, shakes and thoreau may contemplate
crown thy mantle with a metaphor
might they be ashes now in the evermore
but the burn-marks still inspire scores
even when spoken toward the dwindling dawn
such might believe the theogony
to spark the daughters of ananke
to dwell in this most glorious dull
a tool of the realm upon the shoal
such as the fuel does inspire
such as the wake does drain the soul
for this I know
for I, am fire