Over (k)Night

Your father’s life teeters on the cusp of death

And the woman who loves you grows tired of your (according) “mood swings”

We continue to hope for recovery…

We are ~

Each a burning
ember in the expeditious
flame of human condition…
Floating and flittering
within and without;
(always) at the mercy of the wind…
Witness and Explore
the ever-evolving warmth
Reaching out
for one another…
Fearlessly Dancing
in the Lite
of this One
Life and Love

Over Night


When did the cost of love become so inflated?

Wasn’t it always free?

When did it’s quality become so deflated?

And whatever happened to honesty?

Where was the media when the truth became extinct?

Have we stopped using our hearts and minds to think?

Over night, it seems,

Men became bankers with little sense.

And now Women are reclaimed assembly lines, lacking decadence.

Perverted carnal vehicles with radical exchange,

Waking up to this feels extremely strange…

Moon Bears Morning

On the path,

Heart as guide,

Moon bears morning,

Naked soul awakens

Healing and growing


a Nursery of  Stars…



Let grief (run like tears)

take the path of least resistance.

There is no cure,

only learning and growing…

Let go of the guilt.

Let yourself live your life.

Pretzeled Thoughts

The temporary enamel of our childhood, hanging in by a single dying root, wiggles.  Soon, it will be discarded under a pillow, for imposed value, governed by a fabled relic.  Gone- like past-due milk in the fridge.  Forced out- for the next in line.

Rows of bleached baptists, biting at the unsaved.  Chomp.  Chomp.  Chomp.  On occasion, they bite a fallen brother creating the jam in a peanut butter sandwich, Darwinian classic combinationism.  A fallen soldier of the pearly gates is an uncomfortable sticky mess.  Similar to the way veneer plastered pubic hair sprouts like corn stuck between rows of teeth, awkward and uncomfortable.

A martyr, an innocent victim, yanked, tied, pulled, twisted, and molested by its original tongue.  In such pain are the hand-cuffed wrists while being read their rights. Left alone. Stained in guilt, miscarried, and Died with age.  The rootless tree falls from its infantile sanctuary.

And then the blood.  Drip. Drip. Drip.

Flavored tears, strong like iron (FE-fi-fo-fum), purify the gully where a tooth once lived.  News of the menstruating landfill travels quickly.  Its aroma is reminiscent of the smell of burning cheese in a dutch-oven on Thanksgiving Day.

Streeeetch, seep and drool, dirty mastication.

Absence and emptiness chew away.  The impulsive machine gumming for comfort.  Through this empty passage, Acceptance ensues.


From the fertile land, in a big city amongst the skyscrapers,  filled with frothy winter breath, emerges anew the plateau of adulthood.