ingrained in skin or deeper…

ingrained in skin or deeper…

Do I dwell in the house of my own sins… seems I can not extricate myself from this neighborhood, or perhaps I can not even escape my very own skin, I feel I wear my shame as if they are tattoos, I feel they are seen even if the ink is invisible, because this is still perceptible to me, this is what haunting is, how can I throw up a mask, and never see through eyes looking at the construct – from the other side, outside, how would I know if my game, my rouse, my trick, my defense – is an adequate fence, but on the inside, the strength ebbs and flows, I wonder if the cracks there do expose, these are not just skin deep, they are buried in the dirt of my soul, just under the surface, markers mark, like gravestones, a sinking feeling when to atone seems fruitless upon those stoic stones with slight passages, like a leafless peach tree alone in a field, ever dark, even in the sun’s glory, seemingly not suitable for even an inhabitant, or a rodent at that, and the roots still staked, snaked, into that fallow foul ground, so perhaps these are not tattoos I see, they are stains, once ingrained can not be pulled from the grasp of frame, much like my flesh can be separated from bone, until that end, until that end I wear these, or am tagged by these, yes, I can not change the past, but it is forever changing me, perhaps even holding me back, and no my sins were no mortal wounds, but transgression is in the eye of the beholder, and the mind of time that loops in such a place. (stream of consciousness post…)

the onus of shame

the onus of shame

Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on

the trees, their looks bear down upon me
a whole row of judges bent the same forward
their stoic state confirms
they feast rightfully on my shame -;
peddlers of the rain-
the rumblings resonate in the scrum of my ancestors,
a small-broken bird lies, in a puddle, flat mirrored frame
surrounded by lily pads of cherry blossoms fallen
a bloodless crime-
not drowned but that of a twisted neck
captured now placed unto that final nest,
I contemplate the darkening-looming
and attempt to tabulate the celestial math
but I have no means to the master
for I am locked in the strands of man-
for- I am.

notes… this is one of those more cryptic ones that just came to me as is… so, this is how it is… the inspiration was a bunch of trees planted in a semi circle, they looked down at me, or so I felt/thought, and so it was….

Photo by Daria Sannikova on

I think of you every day
like the sun rising
that simple-
that feel
a gentle warmth
on my cheek, on my eyelids,
as I see you with them closed,
I think of you every day –
the guilt is the passion of the poison
as I am a circled serpent bite embraced,
I think of you every day,
as I drive past, I drive
from the freedom tower to the empire state
as a made-up façade running along my side like a slide
as the sun glides rises up
like a passenger riding in a train
watching scenery pass by
yet, I’m in my car
almost a dream like state
I am so far – from, yes, so far from-
I think of you every day
and yet
sometimes there is grace
for even in this pit of despair
from which I still breath and draw all air-
for there
there was always the truth
there was and always will be love embraced
and for that
is all that saves me
most days… most days.

notes… I wanted this to feel like my thoughts, stop and go, and yet flow – at times, is that not more real than perfection sometimes ? I realize poetry can just be this amazing stream but sometimes I am trying to create life, real life, real thoughts, and that is never perfect, do I want to create some perfect things sometimes? yes… but not this time, this is being life on purpose…

some-time; a captain’s log [—]

some-time; a captain’s log [—]

a friend, a co-worker (whom I always meant to hang out with more), is sailing off to another port, quite literally, a foreign shore, her departure has deposited me in a destination of regret, I must admit, for time always disappears when you operate under the easy assumption of unending days, days that run into days and into months… which breeds and feeds the beast inside known as complacency, ‘tommorow, the sun will…’ ah you know, no, time can not be tidied up and put back in the tube, we all know this intrinsically but do not put this in practice most days, we get lost in the germane no-name insane idiosyncrasies of the every-day, a moment gone is spent, and then there is nothing left, nothing left that is – but a side dish of regret, I could blame covid, I could blame a thousand things more, or I could just look in the mirror, I used to believe in fate, maybe I will never be the type to go full-tempt with such a fire, but a little push now and again might help… moments not had, are just utterly gone, out of grasp, we hear the advice “live like there is no tomorrow”… but how many of us really do, and how do I move my consciousness into that space, permanently, that is, not a rental, on the outside I seem like the most confident person you may have seen, a peacock head about, and I am to some extent on the common grid, but only on that little patch of known I call my own, my island, my temperate comfort time zone, a boat tied to the dock that dare strides outward into the water, right there, right there in reach, seaworthy, for I am always over prepared, enough rations for ten men, water supply for twenty, let alone enough for a simple tour on the bay for a day, to check out the other sights and lands so familiar on the periphery, perhaps, or I can step-back-nap further, into my hammock, in this space, my cut out paradise, alone but not lonely, this becomes a self-fulfilling mantra after-all, and the more you whisper in your own ear or to your own heart, like breathing air that contagion spreads and takes over the essential blood in your veins, reinforcing domains, self set fences, like an attraction at the zoo, exotic at a distance, but at the base level, nothing more this world has not seen before, I wear the coat of confidence, so well these days, so well none can tell at times that the material might be cut from hole cloth, sometimes I feel like a 3 sided house, hoping no one will peek in the backyard – and what they might find there, I feel like Truman in the storm, without the fortitude, or the script deciding my destination in the right direction, but worse yet, I am the man in the moon pulling the strings, I have the keys, hell, I made the locks, the doors, the walls, all of it, but still some part of me remains institutionalized to myself, I can not fly, I don’t have wings, but I can break free, not just try, to go forth and walk out on that dock, untie my own creation, have faith in my preparation, I can always return here, or retreat here, but I am tired of just dwelling here. Surely, I will miss her, no doubt, she will never know, or maybe she does. The internet allows interaction, to be sure, crosses oceans, but nothing is like the experience of face to face with the instant reaction, there is energy there, an exchange from one life form of now to another, so now there will be one less patron @ my local bar, just a soon dusty photo on the wall, of the gone by that have passed through, pleasant memories, but not of now, the most important of time, lost, the now. so, with that, bon voyage…

notes: sometimes I get personal, this is my blog right ? I am not some mysterious artist, I am not trying to fake you or trick you, this is me, bleeding me, blind me, dumb me, flawed me… just me, but still this was all stream of c, duly noted in c.

towel on the baed
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on

I only need to see
but routinely ignore
the empty sheets of morning

in that moment, perhaps a moment, something I usually do not think about on the way out the door, or maybe try not to anymore, but did this morning, how usually, how used to, I might find you there, and stare, watch you sleep, laid out, jumbled, or curled up in bundles, my love, your night black hair, with a few grays, even back then,  in our twenties, how long has this been an empty bed, nothing between the sheets when I leave, the empty sheets of morning are all that greet me, how I have grown accustomed to the notion, a place once inhabited by two, entwined devotion, now just an island, I do not recall even arriving here, just surviving here, but here I am and here I’ve been, so long now… so damn long now… is this to be my end? these empty sheets that greet me every morning since.



brown concrete cathedral
Photo by Abdallah Maqboul on


you warned me
but I came anyway
still unprepared
and by the furies
down the phoenix rain
molten bullets perforate
penetrate my mental armor
leaving searing, smoking, holes
and I thought myself ready
to bear out my soul
false bravado is a fire of cold
fear would have been a sharper advisor
but the time has passed for that
as an empire is in ruins
littered, broken doric plumes, in uneven piles
with no fiddle to play
or gambit to last
I’ve lost, in pyres reflect
here in the hopeless corners
of the darkest men

regrets (about love lost)…

regrets (about love lost)…

broken car vehicle vintage
Photo by Skitterphoto on

I wish I could tell you
how well I have come along
without you,
of a life fulfilled

I wish I could tell you
my decision was wrong,
all those years ago,
half my humanity gone
I pray you have fared better
and forgotten my name

I wish I could tell you
my love still endures
but, the hour is late
and time has passed over this house
I have never forgiven

if only
a decision made with two,
I close my eyes
to conceal all this from my sight
if only I could tell you –
you were ever the only one

one day
I will pass from this earth
I wish only
to be by your side
transformed into light
with you, my eternal love
with you, once and final more


Minus the Bear – Last Kiss

that says it all my friends… (this poem written 3/6, thinking about her… while listening to this song)

sometimes looking back sucks.

sometimes looking back sucks.

ash beach bonfire campfire
Photo by Roman Pohorecki on


I finally, look upon the ashes of my labor

the totality, the all is but none

the time spent building, gone

the moment to realize with flame in vein, instead

I can not walk the path back

I can not remember all choirs of turns that lead to all, this


I will rebuild, but something less

as this, has levied a toll

more than these words may address

notes… I am an optimist and realist both… so sometimes I need to reflect.  I have made plenty of mistakes in my life, I hope to find happiness and also realize that the opportunities of youth are not there anymore, but yet there is hope, there is always hope, at least that is what I tell myself, I just hope that those I have wronged can forgive me, as I can not forgive myself.  I try to believe that regret or the past does not matter. But the past is what is written, it is there, it is done, it can never not be… and that is what bothers me most.  I know I can not change it… I can only change going forward, but it does not alleviate the past…  and should it ?

about love lost and the warmth of hopes

about love lost and the warmth of hopes

eye iris anatomy biology
Photo by Tookapic on


I long to avert my eyes

from the memory

but I can not escape

the resident


there is no place I can go

no island so remote

no postcard from far away sky

or even camelot’s hope

nor mountain top breath,

a flower in perfect step

to the grass that surrounds,

for you – to you

my love-

I am bound.

green mountain under blue sky
Photo by Gavin Rodrigues on

shores” 8.13.2018

as I exhale, you inhale

my very breath

that is how close we are

no, looking back, that is how close we were,

these days,

we are like two continents

on opposite sides of the widest ocean

I try to remember the contours of your shore

I do still recall the feel of your hair

in my hands, in between, flowing silken strands

caressing the gaps of my fingers like waterfalls,

and staring into your eyes

transported to –

an island

surrounded on all sides by your love.

but, now a distant land

for pangea is broken

the faults, the scars

I understand the tectonics

but still –

I stand on my shore

and peer out into the horizon

wondering where you are.

sparks of firecracker
Photo by Suvan Chowdhury on

lasting” 8/17/2018

you –

the last name

the last thought

a last synapse spark

as I slide, into the everdark,

in my mind

as I expire

from this life

I hope, I pray

on the other side

to see you once again

and renew our vows

on that immortal plane

music…  going with some more of one of my fave bands…

Minus the Bear – Last Kiss

This song really gets me, great art can often be simple, the premise of this song is just that, but it is not something we might always think about, or maybe you do, I can only speak for this pile of genetic material typing this post at the moment, perhaps it is the memory burned into my cinema screen of memory that I can not erase, that day, I am blessed or cursed with an exceptional memory, so every detail, even the feel… I remember, it all, whether it be guilt or regret, or the lens of time distilling away the non essential elements and leaving just one, love.

and lest I forget, I do appreciate all comments, thoughts, follows or re-posts (as long as ya’ credit me, c’mon!), or turkey sandwiches, man I love turkey…