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…

Dear God Letter (#2)


Dear God,

In this freedom of flow moment, right now –
I do not have to be anybody that is somebody
I can just be me…a leaf, not a tree.

One thing or another doesn’t have to be traded
with anyone for anything, all that I want I already
have – in fact I was born with all that I need.

I can’t get so far out, or deep into my thinking that
I forget, that though I have visited with the villains
of despair, I am not despair…

My great great gift is that I survived the onslaught of
so much, and I have come out of that un-fractured,
a bit worse for wear, but unbroken nonetheless.

I am a free man, so my prayer to you today is that you
help me remember that, because sometimes I forget,
yeah, I forget sometimes…but this is a little matter, indeed.



Another Dear God Letter


Dear God,

To make a poem of you, to limit you to a word or phrase, no matter how beautiful, would be to emphasize or dress you in rags.

Flower drum chant man eyeglasses tipped on a nose, eyeball darting over gray plastic frames singing the chant – Good God, Glory God, Hallelujah… I am amen and the silence that follows.

At a distance God might as well not exist!

Close-up – in the action of darning hope to Joseph’s Multicolored Dreamcoat; god is not so important as the connection of a smile, the outstretch of a hand, or the laughter of poor minstrels strumming blues chords.

This God knows, but cannot teach.

In the holy name vestibule where well-worn versus and vespers are practiced, children die of hunger… and intellectuals ask with scoffing mockery “God allows this” all of us missing the point entirely.

God is not in the word, no matter what the original parchment states. The word is a description of something manifest, and what was manifest was an action. Therefore by my decrepit logic, God is an action, not a scribble.

As far as I am able to understand God has no need or desire or even time to attend to forming for me, or of me, a plan. It is for me to form a plan to act towards or in accord with God.

It is for me to journey to the mountain… because that mountain cannot precisely be reached I am to journey forever, towards the eclipse of two conjoining ideas; that of reason and faith.

And I am to find a way to enjoy this… and I shall!

…it is not another grey morning, I promise you…


To want to taste…is to reach for a sensation, to furtively search, late at night, or maybe in the morning….shadow bugs moving on walls as light comes in announcing all you’ll really be able to have is an expectation that things are changing…

The morning is grey not because of a depression or a lack of moral fiber, but as an admission that any mist must make to the rising of a spectacular sun, that it is and always will be submissive to heat, to evaporation, to particulation, to dispersal…

And though a dispersed mist may become rebellious enough to regather itself into a wind, and rain for forty days and forty nights – the sun knows, as does any idea whose time has come, that passion trumps subjugation, and makes any day new again….

(Another 10 Minute Poem)

a fence is no way to contain a soul


They are getting better at building  fences…to box you in. Soon, you’ll have only one place to go…where they directed you. You won’t care though because of the candy they gave you…to eat while pacing their infirmaries.

What you want, is it what you want, or what it has been suggested to you to want? I used to like chocolate, but lately for some reason I’ve a hankering for vanilla, not sure how that happened, or if I ever really liked chocolate…

What the westward ho people liked so much about the west was that they got to build fences there…contain according to their own plans….what was wild and heathen. They thought this was what freemen did…while on vacation.

(A 10 Minute Poem)

the hand, that flys…goes where?


The maiden firmly grasped the handle of the fly away umbrella forgetting that she had ever been afraid of heights…in this way she flew into the blizzard…to the somewhere else that there was to go…

Let the peasants be in charge of parade bunting…paupers the rain, and the char woman the ingredients for how to clean up the mess…left by our drunk for power but ultimately still at core, lazy fathers

I can imagine this poem with or without me in it. I am both here, by that I mean here in the poem, and over there with you in your room staring at your screen, wondering what I might write next…about what either of us might do.

Knock on a mediums table until uncle billy or aunt marge knocks back; “the treasure, the one I buried” – Yes, I am listening, but that connection like it always does in a dream before you reach the something you wanted…fades.

(A 10 Minute Poem)

(Image Came From Here: Natura Picta)