No One!

spectators Imitators and Ruffians

“Liberty” is a flashlight pointing at a flag of preposterous proportions, so big only an imagination might create it…sibling twins who just crossed their hearts and hoped to die – light fire to it, and then the soldiers begin whetting the appetites of their anticipations…

“Fortune” is a coin falling from heaven into a snowbank of express-less emotions, reflecting shimmers into the eyes of unwavering penguins dressed like waiters serving dinner for all gods famished children, and then a set designer arrives to build the scene over again…

“Busy” is in the pyramid mind-crafting excuses to give to the chatter-hounds who will report it dressed as pornstars scrawled with mascara and day old dry lipstick – everybody wants to be spectators, or imitators, or ruffians shouting at podiums, but who wants to be a shape shifter remaking the paradigms?

Not you? Then no one…

A length of road, somewhere to go, maybe home


The light of a cell; the intention of a horizon to define either end of a day, a sign painter cleaning brushes before visiting a side street cafe.

When you picture Magdalene she is without clothing or just back from her naughty errand of washing the feet of Jesus. Her inner world, how she thinks of herself, goes unexplored by your agenda of righting the tyranny of the world.

Your cohort is well stocked with stones and throwers, on which side of the rock will you be, in which ditch will you be found, later when the saints arrive?

Should, they ever come.


Memory, the stock and trade of a story repeats until sequels exhaust themselves like runners at a marathon, or by the time you remember your mothers voice singing you child songs, late one night before sleep.

Which monster are you on your way to trade tricks with, can you stop yourself from falling, or is your capitulation thought to be inevitable?


Each of us contends with the abysmal misplacement of our keys…Each of us forgets a hundred histories to make sense of the present…Each of us tethers spirits to believable mythologys; whether castaways, sinners or priests- our ears slowly closing to the lustful song of the earth, her invitation to re-energize as humans arrives but remains unopened.

One Day After Many

To aspire to, and breathe with God. To practice kindness without a hint of lust, or an expectation of a reward. To fall. To fail. To exhale. To be reborn. To not have to remember much, if anything. To not worry over what’s been forgotten; then to remember again.

There was a winter or summer with your family. You were at home with them. Each of you the same, as you ever were.

You are a peer in the making; a man among equals holding eagle feathers, and code talking with Navajos. You want to be loved by the land where you were born, to carry a piece of that dirt close to you, maybe in a pocket, or a small bottle strung with pearls.

The mystery of smoke and pitch sparks grace the air. And a peacefulness unasked for, holds you like an explanation about everything or nothing at all.




Because You Could Not Leave, You Stayed

There was that one moment when you could not escape, because too young, there was nowhere to go. Followed by the first dance you had with a girlfriend, your feet unfaithful and inept and at the worst possible time –  you then wanting to melt into the wall, be at one with a sconce, or twirl concisely with a ceiling fan. But because you were not able to be or do any of those things, you instead succumbed to the terror of that too long felt moment. Exposed, like an internet snapshot of a viral fool.

At the trailer park, or the bowling alley, or was it outside in the parking lot of a skating ring – being beat or giving a beating – tongue lashed to the corner of your mouth between perspiring lips, eyes hollow shaped pits, your mind a chaotic jumble of phrases, all lost, all forgotten.  As if that moment represented the entirety of what life had to offer; that your desperation was permanent; a movie unwinding from its reel; the projector still running, the guts of your story spilling to the floor like an intestine of red ribbon.

A dove attends someone else’s disaster, a policeman answers another person’s 911, and a cab driver glides to a curb and removes a pedestrian from a nightmare neighborhood back home to safety, a warm shower and the comfort of couches. You though because of some illogical decision about fate become attached to wine and stand in the rain, wet forever; thinking, even if you could have found love, or had been lucky enough to have had a sense of belonging, that you still wouldn’t believe a time might come to laze with other lifeguards in the sun.

To a Brother Now a Man

Without aid, without help, without supplication, without a hand to touch, an eye to look into, without hope – the human in us tries to convince the spirit to abandon the pursuit or the knowledge of love.

This is how sailors are encouraged to board ships gloried and decorated for war; how hometown boys are thrust with momentum into the maw of some never ending conflict.

My brother, my literal brother. My kin. My childhood confidant. My one time ally. You who played with plastic dime store soldiers, who now thinks of yourself as an intelligent man.

It is you who proposes, without having actually sweated or grimed your way across a battlefield, without having heard the curses of the grieved, that war is a tactical game, a theater of players that are manipulable by cunning.

But the breath, or the heartbeat – the footfalls of those who are in full retreat; are they not also worthy of life – is not your enemy also a creation of your infinitely wise and forbearing God?

Piece a Peace

Piece a peace into a bit of peace…each and every little atom; all the small intangibles; the torn apart, the rent, the pulled, the heartbeat – beat beating…I am not a drum, and you are not a drum, and yet, and yet – we beat each other soundly.

Pace and trace and the human race. The run run, the want want, the all held together by a string; the halo around your head matches the color of my eyes and by that coincidence we are kin…the same, or so similar, why should we even speak about a difference?

Knock and sock, and rock and talk, and tumble jumble, and mumble stumble, and all together now let’s trance dance, let’s two step reflect, let’s remind each other of each other. I remember where you were last night, that’s right, we were together, but differently altered.

Now on a piece of paper, one you will not toss into a hope for a life tomorrow basket, list the dreams you are willing to trade your entire present for. Send it in a letter to your therapist or priest, your doctor or your lawyer, by God, get it stamped and notarized.

Step step and fetch all that you want from an ether. Go long for the high five bomb, bet the house, put all of your chips into one big sugar cane basket, laugh out loud about how fun your life is about to become, for to ere, is a thing of undeniable beauty.

Bright Star Play at, Bright Star Play at Bright Star

Bright Star Play at, Bright Star Play at Bright Star


Stay up all night, just for me. Send me a million or billion year look at you. Tell me again how it was that one day when you were a younger billow of shimmering smoke and dust.


Doubt is so very unattractive. Doubt is so sincere at its distractions. Doubt is in a hurry to prove at least “It” exists. Doubt is a blister. Doubt is a knowledgeable cancer. Doubt is not a plaything, nothing like a doggy eagerly waiting by the door with a leash, walk me, feed me, play with me, I will love you. No, doubt will destroy you.

The intelligent human will wash their hands of doubt. The holy man laughs out loud at doubt. The cripple, if they are ever to walk again, swears out a warrant against doubt.

Doubt does not seem to bring happiness. No Christmas presents are put under the tree for doubt. Santa Claus, does not come, Jesus has never existed, and Buddha may not have been a vegetarian.

Doubt is like a master reviewer, the ultimate critic, a lonely man – disillusioned.

Doubt is different than an iconoclast. An iconoclast believes in something, maybe not in the icon being smashed, but in something. But doubt believes in nothing, the all disappeared, the never might be. Doubt may look like a friend up for a cheery conversation…but do not be fooled, doubt is here to kill your spirit, and will try to, even on the sunniest of days.


The only defense against doubt is ignorance. Yes ignorance. You exist in a reality that cannot really be known, will never be understood, where all words are inadequate to describe the ineffable. Your every attempt will fail. Persist at the seeking of an explanation, and you are doomed, so says the poet, seer, or librarian.

Your only possible recourse is to submit to your ignorance.

This is the path of happiness – the path of spiritual competence – the path towards a better, more everlasting home…