it's supposed to slow down,
the surge of adrenaline leaves
and slowly, the body returns to rest.

but sometimes,
when you do something so scary,
so foreign,
so unlike anything you've ever done before,
the beat of your heart doesn't stop,
can't stop,
won't stop,
won't let you sleep,
won't let you eat,
won't let you slow down,
won't let you move,
just sit there,
listening to the rampaging rhythmic  thudding
of your heart as it threatens to leap from your chest,
and run out of the room screaming,
and you can't stop it.

and you're not sure if you should want it to stop or not.

too busy to write,
to think about the things i want,
those deep-down punch-the-gut
things i don't like to talk about at parties,
always making excuses,
apologies,
looking somewhere else because I have to
deal with this or that or the next -
never my time to do with what I want,
i need a 36-hour day,
just to do the wants,
but the minute they give it to me, you know
the Boss will want more, and the commitments will want more and everything will just **** my time away again,
and there will be none left for writing
about the things i want to write about.
and will they matter anyway - or is that my own delusion?

the demon lies in the abyss,
gaping maw open and silent,
heady breath that draws you to it
like the sweet perfumes of a long-forgotten moment.
you stand on the edge and look down,
you can't see the devil,
only the inky dark of the chasm.
and then it winks at you,
sees you, knows you by name,
and calls you to it.
some follow the call, some escape.
of those who follow, i know nothing,
but i escaped with cruel knowledge,
that the demon knows me,
and is lurking at the bottom of every abyss,
and i cannot be rid of it.
i can only stand firm on the surface,
and wink back into the darkness,
and walk away again.

i was a child, and could not understand,
there was no frame of reference,
i did not know
i was living a criminal's existence,
uncomprehending that my actions caused
the hurt and pain of others.
i was never taught that
by merely existing and accepting a process
of how the world worked
i was accepting the sin of generations.
even when i was older and could see with
perfect backward vision the revisionist history
of what was done and why
i could not see the enslavement of a race of Man,
no longer with chains and whips,
but of finance and education,
a system of enslavement through jealousy,
to make "them" feel equal to "us"
by acquiring trapping and trinkets,
only to keep forcing newer and better things
into an already gluttonous marketplace
and calling this new slavery "economic independence."

my crime?
i was born into this system, and i have done little to change it,
considering myself open to thoughts and ideas,
but never giving them a chance,
never committing myself wholly,
but always trying to "temper with reason."
i did not make the system - but i am a part of it,
and i no longer wish to be so.

it was magic,
anticipation hung in the air
with every moment,
a wonderment consumed my child-mind
and turned chaos into perfect order
as i dreamed about the morning of christmas.

it's cold, now,
and i hate the garish colors and flashing lights,
the constant demands upon time and money,
and the persistence of those around me that we should all "be happy,"
as though acting happy is an instantaneous cure-all.
they should say, "i don't want to deal with **** - so shut up."
and go back to pretending everything is good.

the feeling of an old tool,
***** handle smooth from use,
numbers worn off  the sweep,
and i cannot call it by name,
other than to say "my favorite"
because it has more use
and has become an extension of my soul.

excitement flickered in her eyes,
a look i had not seen in a while,
the beginnings of an adventure,
a new chapter,
life renewed by stepping through a door,
and planning where furniture could go,
a chance at re-birth
in a place to call "home."

i walk faster when it rains,
and i spend less time looking at the reflections
of the city-lights upon the surfaces,
brighter and more full,
even with a lack of sunlit skies.
i notice it from afar,
but do not look around me
to appreciate the beauty through which
i walk faster when it rains.

it hangs in the air,
a moment ahead of where i am,
forever  baiting me
to rise and become something more,
just a little bit further,
just out of reach to my grasping hand,
in the corner just where i cannot see it,
but always driving me,
pushing me,
egging me on,
dodging from me the moment i try and capture,
only to return again the moment i want to give up.

i know i can't -
giving up isn't an option,
and it's so close
that i reach once more,
no matter if i fall
because it's still there, taunting me with possibility.

there are the big moments -
those times of ultimate highs and lows,
the memories and photographs
by which we define our lives,
and that we recall instantly,
whether they were joyous or tragic.

then there are the small ones -
those times when you didn't shine brightly, but you still shone,
you were a little kind,
a little generous,
maybe a touch despondent, too.

we live for the large moments,
but in doing so,
we live in the small moments more.

a long time ago
i was another person
and i talked to God a lot.
and i prayed, once,
that my life could be ended
to save another.
i didn't understand the answer.

today, i talk to God less than i ought to,
but He says more meaningful things,
and i think i understand the point now,
of that answer when i was young:

no.  you are too beautiful.

they taunt me,
thoughts and images both,
teasing me that they should be written down,
and when i sit to write,
they disappear into the ether,
a haunting presence there for a moment before it, too, vanishes,
leaving me to look idly at that spot it occupied, and wondering why the ideas ran from me.

come, lover,
and let us ravage each other -
the buttons-popping, clothes-ripping passion
overwhelming us
as we give in to the primal needs that we've
been considering all night,
but forced down because the restaurant wouldn't let us.
hands exploring the familiar curves
of one another,
as if for the first time we discover this newness,
the desire to live now
and forget the yesterdays and tomorrows,
as legs spread and onto the bed we land,
all kisses and mouths and tongues,
and hands interlocked now
and the bed squeaks out our rhythm
as we roll around, switching who's on top,
submitting each to the other,
to this moment,
to this beautiful oneness of now,
when our passions at last erupt fully,
sweaty bodies tingling with sensation,
a flood of all feeling gushes out,
and in the safety of one another,
our sacred communion,
sealed with tender caress and gentle loving ways
and lovers' whispers that even the walls cannot hear.

the message was clear and to the point:
it's like watching an excellent magician -
i actually do not want to know HOW you did it.  
But the end result is stunning, and the magic makes it so.

I am magic.

why are we so afraid to say 'hello'?
to look up from the paths we walk, and face each other,
a kind smile and word on our lips,
putting ourselves out there for a minute
to greet the world and invite one another to
simply share.


hello!!!

the moon was full last night,
ripping the waters away from the earth,
the ocean tides swelling in the rhythm
of the blood in my veins,
the slow and steady thumping
i normally love
becoming a syncopated beat to music i could not hear, but feel.
i longed to move,
to dance,
to run,
to fly,
and felt that wildness about me -
the parts that yearn for so much
but i rarely listen to -
scream silently to the moon-god
that birthed them this night.
the moon did not answer,
but to keep the steady
thumping at bay,
and let the bacchanalia
continue on,
until at last, the flesh gave way to slumber.

i often wonder about the blanks,
the spaces between letters and words,
the gap in the middle of the "o"
that holds nothing.
i wonder what an entire page of blanks is really like,
if it speaks more than ink,
and what it might say.

there has to be a better way,
i've been searching so long,
putting it away,
burying it deep down,
running away,
it always explodes -
bright red flashes across my vision
that blot out all else
while the action slows and i move in the rhythm
of instinct.
letting it out immediately works even less,
hurting those i love and care for,
killing friendship and love.
the fear of losing those things drives me to hide it more,
burying it until i no longer have words or wisdom,
just a machine of rage.
i need to find the way to get rid of it all,
and find peace.

i saw a bear in the woods -
strong, powerful,
majestic, really.
and i longed to feel the confidence,
the security,
the sureness that he must feel -
he is simply, "bear."

then i looked closer,
and i saw he looked unsure,
doubtful,
skittish and frightened.

i realized the bear and i had so much more in common
than it appeared.

eyes are blank,
staring through their surroundings,
no hope,
no faith,
no idea where to turn,
where to start,
how to go on from one moment to the next,
not sure if they even want to anymore.

when you understand it,
you begin to see why the easy way out looks appealing.
then, you remember you're worth more,
worth fighting for,
worth believing in,
worth trying for.

and you just want someone else to believe the same thing,
because you know it's still possible to get through it,
but it's easier with a partner.

here we are - gathered today,
bearing witness to a new path
and a brand new way,
when love that's old has become love that's new.
smiling faces all around,
friends and family and good times
all abound,
when we said "i forever love you."

something old and something new,
something borrowed and something blue,
festive days and sacred nights,
dinners by candlelight,
when love was young
and still in bloom.

here we are - signing names,
looking back upon the memories we made,
love was new and has become love that's old.
angry words are all we hear,
thoughts of doubt, regret, and most of all -fear,
when we said, "i'm sorry.  goodbye."

what was blossoming
when it was young,
now is faded and undone.
lonely nights, days are cold,
when something new became something old.

now is faith
now is patience
now is understanding
now is mercy
now is kindness
now is love

they cannot be practiced in the past
nor in the future.

they can only be here.  they can only be now.

your words cut so deep,
tearing at me,
wounding to the core,
testing who i am
and the man i want to be,
testing the boundaries
of what is right and what is easy,
not sure of what I will do.

i know i'll be fine.
i've been here before,
and i'm stronger than i was,
worth more to me than i was ever told,
and i know this can't defeat me.

i'll heal from your words,
i'll heal from your cuts,
i'll heal from the gunshot,
i'll heal.

somehow, i will.

never love a gypsy heart -
it does not know what it wants,
or where.
it only knows it wants something
that is always someplace else,
someone else,
and it cannot stop searching.
the gypsy heart is fierce,
but it does not know why -
only that it must fight
against everything and everyone,
it will not take advice.
it loves too much, and not enough.
never love a gypsy heart -
it will break you.

me choosing you.
you choosing me.
choosing us.
every time.

it's there a moment and gone again-
it may never come back around,
or it could be there again in a moment's notice.
i never know,
and have always been caught unaware.
such is the life of chasing dreams,
one after the next,
all with their hopes of a beautiful life,
and when you've chased and chased for so long,
you forget that you weren't born for this -
you were made not to chase the dreams,
but to catch them.
and you're not sure you know how to do that,
but you try anyway.
and you get some help along the way,
and you fail,
but you try again.
and again.
and again.
until your dreams get tired of running from you.

i remember it clearly,
the saying written under the image of a stoic face,
'nothing is as strong as gentleness-
nothing is as gentle as pure strength.'
words that stick with me today,
that forged me into who i am -
a reminder that the choice is always mine,
and that wisdom lies in knowing
how and when to use my strength.

the midnight abyssal black
encloses,
wrapping me in blankets
of doubt
of anger
of self-pity
and self-loathing,
until i begin to look outwards -
that i might not see myself.
until someone happens along,
and holds my gaze to a mirror.
i cannot look away,
and i must face the night
with all its demons,
unwrap the blankets one by one,
and see that doubt becomes surety,
anger becomes patience,
self-pity becomes honesty,
self-loathing becomes self-love.

break me -
tear me down,
i don't want to know what an easy life is.
burn me -
char my insides,
who i am is not who i've been.

shake me -
knock me down,
i will get right back up again.
turn me -
inside out,
and we'll see how strong i really am.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

beat me -
till i'm bent and bruised,
just a shadow of all my hopes and dreams.
**** me-
leave me lyin' on the floor,
wondering what this hellish world means.

bleed me -
till there's nothing left to give,
and everything i have is all gone,
save me-
from the lies and abuse,
only then can i at last move on.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

break me, burn me,
shake me, turn me,
beat me, **** me,
bleed me -
save me.

stronger -
than i used to be,
wiser -
than the former me,
bolder -
than i've ever been before
today's the day i become something more.

1500 rogue-cow-pounds,
evading capture
in the woods in a town i used to know -
it sounds so funny,
and i want to think it's not real,
and then i remember living near there,
and i sympathize with the terrorist bovine,
just trying to survive outside the only home it's ever known.

i see the warrior,
head high and chin proud,
jaw firmly set against the oncoming storm,
arms at the ready,
your weapons within reach,
ready to strike without warning,
for this is what you know -
only to fight
for the chance to own yourself,
to be free from the oppression that
strangles from every direction
and steals the air from your lungs.

it is just one of the many different yous that are,
one face among many,
beautiful and fierce,
hard and softly loving,
that i have come to know.

and i wonder when the warrior's heart and passion will give sway to the intellect,
when the war is done, if you will be someone newer and better,
and what place there is for me in that time.

kiss the earth with your feet,
let yourself be lighter than the air,
with never a mark made upon the soil -
not restricted by the bonds of the physical,
being luminous amidst the shadowed sphere,
no weight upon my brow,
no yoke upon my back,
upright,
i shall not be bowed -
that was a different me.

his anxieties and fears,
his coping skills,
his strength,
his desires,
even his hands are mine -
all his failures are made manifest
and all my life,
i have been powerless to stop it.

my mind,
my beauty,
my passion and spirit,
my vision,
my talent,
in the hands of the son,
the sins of the father will be broken,
and a new beginning
will take the world by storm.

i looked into that hole,
that empty place where once i was caught,
at the precarious handhold that once supported me,
where i wanted to let go,
and forget the world as it would forget me.

i saw the place, and even stepped into it, expecting to fall -
into the abyss that could claim me -
it is so easily done.

but as i stepped, i found my feet on firm soil again,
the hole now too small for me to fit.
for i am more now than i was,
i am greater than before,
and i cannot return to that place
without seeing it as a stepping stone.

some people were not made to live safely,
to guard their hearts and their person closely,
to live small and simply,
to be content with living life unnoticed.

some people were not made to diminish,
or to do menial things and merely exist,
to just be,
and let others simply "be" as well.

when we encounter them, some people run,
some people hide,
some people put on a facade and pretend to face the world,
some people give up,
and some people die.

i saw the towers fall,
the panic set in,
the evacuation of a city thinking it might be next.
i heard the questions being asked -how and why -
and the cries coming from video footage on tv
of those who lost family, friends, coworkers.
we all had a choice that day,
to become something more,
to believe there was something greater,
or to wallow in self-pity and anguish.
we did both,
and it made us great -
not because we're smarter,
more thorough,
and not because of the laws we enacted,
or the wars we fought,
we were forced to face the world again,
to face our mortality,
to choose whether to be a part of this world,
and fight for something better,
or to let the rest of the world suffer in our ignorance.
today, we were great because we were reminded
of what it's like to be human.

over the edge,
a sheer drop down the mountainside,
eye level with large birds that soar on the invisible
     strings of air currents,
a rocky ledge upon which to stand,
over the valley expanding below
with its little farms and patchwork fields.
to attain this place,
to be here contemplating these things
is a journey that tests and tires,
batters the body and mind against trees and rocks,
loose soil and the heat of the day.
i took no photos.
i will hold it within me,
and let it shine out
that others will look and ask what it is
that keeps that spark alive in me,
and I will tell them of this place,
and invite them to come and see for themselves.

the angel-lights move quickly,
a fleeting moment and they're gone,
a brief reminder,
a glimpse,
that there's something out there
looking over us.

when you see the angel-lights,
stop a moment -
wonder why you were able to see them,
let your breath be taken away,
and say a simple 'thank you'
for the moment,
and for all the good things in life.

i look at my hands,
and i see the place where
the chisel slipped when i was a boy,
and countless other wounds
were wrought into my flesh,
from a life spent touching and working with
my hands,
and i know it is a life worth remembering,
a life of substance,
a life that changed those whom i have loved,
and each scar bears witness to that life,
so that when i am old,
i may recount the tales to young lives,
and lay my scars at their feet -
a challenge to live their own lives fully.

day by day,
one moment after the next
and you don't notice a thing,
you don't know why you're doing it,
but you are -
continually pouring out everything you have,
emptying yourself day after day,
until you look in the mirror,
or a reflection in a window,
and you see someone -
someone who wasn't there before,
who doesn't even look like you,
but echoes your movements,
your shadows -
a better reflection than what you used to see.
it's something new,
someone better and stronger,
with eyes that see the world differently than they used to,
and perhaps understand something more.

the sea was angry-
rolling waves that crashed on the shore,
threatening to take me under,
tossing me about with no effort,
eroding the sand beneath my feet
as i attempted to stand against the oncoming water,
so that all i could do was ride the crest
as it bore me closer to the shore.

and yet, it was safe,
the undertow and riptide were as nothing
to the onslaught of white-tipped waves,
pushing me closer to the land,
so that the treacherous parts of the water
could not take me -
a dangerous protector that could choose
to play with me or destroy me,
and i was powerless to do anything
but ride the waves and trust in the angry sea.

they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.

give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.

there is nothing better
than hearing this:
"i love you."

i wonder if the old bicycle
tied outside,
rusted rims sitting on flat cracked rubber,
knows its owner is never coming back.
but it waits,
a silent vigil being kept
until it's loved again,
and both rider and machine are freed.

i love your eggs,
when you wake up on a saturday before me
and start making breakfast,
or when you think to chill a beer or two ahead of time,
or when you make a point to tell me i look nice...or not.
these little things don't happen all the time,
and they're not necessary,
but i really appreciate them
and the countless other little things you do.
and i wanted to say 'thank-you' today,
because i'm hoping it's a little thing i can do for you.

you can't play the pieces,
they only do what they're told,
moving along at the will of the mind behind,
the game isn't fought on the board,
in structures and traps,
deliberately visible - the true scene unseen.
you have to play the man,
mind racing to out-think you,
to see one move further down the fine line.
you have to understand the imagination -
in order to understand the art.

i have been there.
i have seen what lies on the other side
of this pain you feel,
and i know it may not seem
like it will ever end,
like it will ever heal,
and part of you really wants it to be gone,
and another part wants to hold onto it,
caught between agony and ecstasy,
and in the end -
you're just not certain what will happen
or where it will end up.
you want to know,
but you're afraid of the answer.
yes, i have been there, too,
and i have learned only one thing:
it is survivable,
and when you come out the other side,
you will be stronger than you ever imagined.

ideas,
rambling about,
a story, a play,
a novel, an essay,
rants and poems alike,
climbing over each other,
an eternal game of
"King of the Mountain"
for which one gets worked on next,
while the others sleep
in separate bedrooms of
this house that has no doors.
nothing escapes,
but lives here forever,
within the walls of a cluttered mind,
a hoarder's paradise of thoughts and expressions,
just waiting to be emptied,
let loose,
explode upon an unsuspecting world
that may or may not be ready for it.

it's all been written,
i say nothing i haven't said,
only find a different way to say it,
change the voice,
change the metre,
rhyme scheme or no,
but it says the same thing,
like a skip in a record repeating the same words,
will it stop when they sink in?
when the lesson is learned will i be put off this
neverending cycle of repeat?
how would i ever know?

character is good -
interesting takes on regular things,
fascinating inquiry
into what makes a person do anything,
their motivations
and secret desires they tell to nobody but the air.
but what good is character
if you do nothing?
it becomes words without action,
only half a story,
full of dreams but no plot.
would my life make a good read?
would someone say it fascinated them to read my story?