sometimes, i wonder if we're all angels,
and we fell from Grace,
our time here is so that we can re-learn
how to get back what we've lost.
each time we die,
we come back to learn a new lesson,
in the hopes we finally get it right.

raw animal passion,
that starts with a simple look
and surges into
palpitating hearts and breathless kisses
that leave you hungry for more -
a tryst where nothing matters
but to be whole with another,
present in every form,
no thought but to connect,
an energy that builds with each fiery kiss
and touch of skin-on-skin,
nothing exists but authentic selves,
reaching out desperately to one another,
and finding home
in the touch,
the gaze,
the feel,
the soul,
of your lover.

i dreamed a long time ago,
of love that could be found in the small times,
the wistful smiles,
the glances and quick-witted moments,
that was about the daily living,
and lived for the experience of just
living.

then came lies, deceit,
and living only for the big things,
the grandiose,
the exceptional,
and the focus became about those huge things,
and the small was lost.

now, i search for the small things again,
and maybe the occasional large thing,
in the hopes that living can be done,
in both the large and small things,
and get back to me.

the first was when i heard you,
across the street,
down a ways,
in a place you likely would not expect me.
i doubt you knew i was there.

the second was the other day,
i was sitting in a coffee shop
when you walked by.
i think you saw me then,
and crossed the street.

like there wasn't history,
perfect strangers
never having known one another.
i was on edge for only a moment or two,
and then it was gone.

i cast the line out,
trying to get that perfect roll,
where it lays out just so,
and it looks like the fly on the end just fell there,
presenting itself to the creature lying in wait,
just out of sight.

i start to pull back on the line.

swiftly moving,
the strike comes,
the line goes taught,
the weight on the other end pulls
and i hang on to pull it in.

and the sheer joy on her face
reminds me that it's the simple things
that matter most,
a simple act of playing a game,
with a rumble-tumble ball of fur
who brought me her string this morning,
so i could go fishing for kittens in my living room.

a face is all i remember,
short blonde hair surrounding a pointed chin,
high cheekbones and wide brown eyes
that could hold a thousand ships in their depths,
and never would any of those ships find each other.
she held my fascination for a time when i was young -
how i would have loved to taste her lips
and looking, become another ship lost in her gaze.

there, in that moment of bliss,
i could live a thousand lifetimes,
and never grow tired of it,
that sweet, beautiful moment
when everything was just as it should be
and no one could keep it away, even us.

but life isn't one moment,
and as they fade one into the next,
we see not the moment,
but the mosaic,
many little moments falling into a bigger picture,
the events that make up the past
forging the path for the future.

the moments are fleeting,
and yet,
i long for just the one,
that perfect moment,
caught in a snapshot,
frozen forever in memory only,
framed on the wall.

there's nothing like
being the friend
you always wished for.

a body lies there,
real enough -but it doesn't represent the man
who changed a thousand lives
with his smile and love.
a man i never met,
but through the effect he had on others,
and they still receive me as family.
what does one say
to a grieving widow and her children?
what does one do when listening
to her crying as her great love lies
in the casket?
Nothing.
There is nothing to do
but join in the grief,
relive stories,
keep the memory alive
of a man i never met.

my body aches,
hands and feet are pierced with
the pain that comes from labor,
muscles sore from lifting
the leaden weight over and again.
how easy to say 'no, i shall not do it'
and let this day pass away like any other.
but the aches and pains have meaning,
a small bit of suffering endured
for the better,
one i will make again and again,
because the work is more important
than the pain and the discomfort -
it is the act of working that
brings honor to the labor,
because I do not have to do it -
i choose to.

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.

there is no word
to sum up all that you were -
there is only the music
you loved so much,
that will stay on as a reminder
to the rest of us
that life should be cherished,
always,
and lived with the fullness
of the music that played in your heart.

there is nothing
i live for
more than that moment
when you wake
and catch me looking at you,
smiling with your eyes
as we say "good morning."

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?

grace came to me,
not as i imagined,
but disguised as mercy.
in a smile and a nod,
a warm embrace of which i believed i wasn't worthy.
it took time to accept the truth:
worth is not how i hold myself,
but how others hold me.
and when i hold myself worthy of them,
and honor their view,
i see grace and beauty in its truest form.

thank you for my friends,
for those looking out for me,
and for my family who loves me,
for the talent you gave my hands,
for the food on my plate,
and the chance to live again this day.

thank you for my life,
for the joys,
as well as for the pains,
for the quiet moments and for the noise,
for they have shown me what you created
in me,
and open the door to what you are making me into.

thank you.

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.

they call it Heaven
because you cannot hear hearts break.

i know now why he did it -
dropped me off in a strange city with
all my belongings
on the side of the curb,
with instructions,
"don't forget to write."
and it stung,
even though i knew it was coming.
if i could go back and explain to my younger self,
there are two things i would say:
he hates goodbyes.
he's saying he trusts you.
it would have made a big difference.

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!!!

I learned it as a child,
the ability to hide myself,
deep down in the recesses,
away from the light,
away from who I really am,
because that's not what the world wanted to see.
I began to believe in who I pretended to be,
the false accomplishments, the lies I told on my outer face,
ignoring the depths of me,
where the kernel of my being languished.

I lived that way for so long,
finding a spark every so often that pulled,
pushed, prodded, cajoled, enticed -
anything to get that secret self out into the light.
Each time, a little progress, before it would slide back,
assuming a new identity to put on to face the world.
Comfortable again,
safe, hidden, able to observe in secret,
and never having to face the uncomfortable truth -
I am much more than what I seem,
much deeper than I tell,
and more beautiful than I appear.

They teach you how to hide as a child.
No one teaches you how to seek.

pale blue spring skies
hold sway over a quiet arena,
where later thousands will be gathered
to watch the spectacle -
heroes both made and broken
in contest with one another.
we've come so far,
but not far at all.
we're just a more modern Rome.

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.

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."

do you see the homeless man,
huddled in a corner where the parking lot
abuts the brickwork,
and the thin cardboard below
does what it can to keep the chill away
from his bones?
he was once proud and able,
they trained him to think,
to fight and survive,
to walk into the oncoming storm
and meet it with equal fury,
a machine gun in one hand
and kevlar protecting him.
a soldier, he was,
now sitting alone and forgotten,
avoided by most
because he smells of dirt and ****,
and businessmen cross the street
just so they won't have to look him in the eye.
they all say "we should do something about that"
but they don't mean it,
until the homeless man comes begging at their stoop,
and they threaten to call the cops on him
so he doesn't drive away business.
if they looked in his eyes,
would they see his nobility,
his pride in that he stood,
with his brothers and sisters in arms,
for a way of life now denied him?
or would he hide that from them,
and leave quietly to return to his parking lot corner,
and sit on the thin cardboard,
letting the chill seep into his bones?

what does a house become
if left unattended?
en empty shell,
darkened inside,
a place where emptiness takes root
and grows,
slowly destroying
the hopes and dreams of the builder
from the inside.
black windows look out
as dead eyes of a corpse
stare at the abyss,
unmoving,
uncaring.
it is a house without a soul.

the house across the street looks empty,
georgian roof lined with slate,
the green paint peeling up against the red brick -
through the window glass i see the backs of curtains drawn shut.

i know a man lives there -
i've seen him come and go, even spoken a few times,
and i see his dogs out back,
but i've only seen a light inside once,
when i was wide awake at an unholy hour.

it felt so foreign,
to see the windows brightly lit,
a cheery yellow glow coming from inside,
and all around it, the bleakness of starry night.

it was only for a moment,
as though it knew i'd looked, and shuttered the light again,
saying, "you didn't catch me looking at you"
though of course, it knew the truth.

there is life in that old house, yet.
and i know it's there.

they told me a long time ago
i had "promise"-
and i didn't understand what it meant.
and then i wrote more,
and they said i was "good"
and i thought "that's cool."

then, i began to see something -
i looked for patterns and found them,
recreated them,
studied the masters,
emulating their techniques,
and i thought i knew what i was doing.

then the awful truth hit me:
no one cares.
you can write in whatever style you want,
and no one cares.
because it's not about the things you say,
and it's not about how you say it -
it's about what the audience hears.

And it's about understanding -
that none of us are great,
we simply ARE.

Greatness is for the generations that follow.

There are times
when I am so hungry for you -
your body, your fire,
your mind and soul,
your passionate will -
that I want to throw you on the bed,
our clothes becoming shreds as I growl that way in your ear -
that special note nobody knows about but me.
Our bodies together, entwined in lust-filled craze,
Gazes plunging deep, baring each other's sacred spaces,
the intimacy of mindless understanding,
the recognizing of two passions that burn as one
in those moments before thought creeps back in and our walls go up again, and we hide from each other
in plain sight.
Like we used to have it,
when we were new and shiny,
and our expression was unbridled.

i am unfinished,
unpolished marble,
my surface raw and marked by tools,
but i am strong,
standing tall,
unashamed of what i am,
of what i am becoming,
growing each day in ways i could never before see,
a new part of me coming alive,
until i am ready to leap from the block itself,
to walk where i will,
a breathing monument to the spirit of art,
confident and strong,
kind and gentle, too -
the expression of humanity in all its forms.
i may be unfinished and unpolished,
but i am still a work of art.

magic grabbed me,
guided me into its welcoming arms,
held tight and opened my eyes to
marvelous wonders
that i never could imagine.
and then, it pushed me away,
a fickle mistress that  cannot be tamed,
and i was left all alone,
forsaken,
forgotten by the world as i fell into despair.
it happened slowly,
but i began to understand,
through trial and turmoil,
that i was not abandoned-
that when magic touched me,
it entered in,
became part of me,
changed me,
until i was ready to become something
greater than i was before:
i am magic,
and i will do for others
what has been done for me.

i can't be there to celebrate you,
to hold your hand and give a hug,
or watch you blow out the candles on your cake,
and crawl in bed with you at the end of the day,
but my thoughts today are about you,
seeing your smile,
and bright eyes that shine when i call you "beautiful"
and the way your body moves with mine
as we dance gently to music only we can hear,
and the lightness of the moment makes hearts sing
and angels rejoice.
that is my wish for you this day,
and though the miles keep us apart,
this joy of living pulls us together.

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.

some might say it was tragic,
others, a miracle,
but i died once,
a long time ago.
my spirit was crushed in the avalanche-
an all-consuming nothingness
that shut out the light,
squandered my existence,
and extinguished the passion inside me.
i didn't stay that way,
rising again,
a new resilience found,
a decision to press onward,
furthering myself,
testing myself,
pushing my limits of understanding.
that is what death will do for you-
it will show you how to live again.

if you asked me a year ago
where i was going
what i was doing
how i was going to get there
i would have had no answer,
and there would have been an awkward pause -
the kind that's not comfortable for anyone.
i would have shied away
not spoken
not dared to dream about the impossible
and not realized my own worth.

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.

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.

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.

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

sometimes i like
to watch the coal barges
go by slowly,
and imagine they are
traders from another land,
traveling great distances
to see these shores.

i know it's not true,
but it makes the mundane,
the ***** and wretched lumps of coal
seem as though they are exotic spices,
or silks, or precious jewels,
arriving just so i can get a look at them.

i know why you do it -
the back-and-forth,
the maybe-maybe-not daily ritual of
non-committal niceties
and incongruent  actions
that keep everyone on the edge -
it's a control,
a way of dealing with the world
so you can face another day,
so you can look in the mirror and feel good about yourself,
and know there's something that depends on you,
and your upside-inside-down-out life
has a moment of peace in it that you can understand.
And that's fine -
you need to function that way,
to play the puppeteer.
But I do not dance that way.

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.

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.

i saw you today,
barely recognizable if not for your voice,
and for a short moment i was tempted,
to turn and watch.
but why?
to what end?
there would be no point.
i wondered if you saw me,
and realized that i didn't care.
it didn't matter.

i saw you today,
and i think i had to,
just so i would know.

i see behind your eyes,
the vast wonder with which you see the world,
and the pain you mask
because you just don't want to deal with it anymore,
and it runs too deep.
i used to think i could take it away,
carry the weight,
fix it for you,
and heal the wounds of a past i was never there for -
but that is not my task.
mine is only to be there now -
to help you grow,
to catch you if you stumble,
to dry an occasional tear,
and set you on your path again.

It was only a small part of this world,
a tiny place of land
that taught me so many things.
I knew who I was then,
though I never told anyone.
No one asked.
They all thought they knew,
and they left me alone.
I knew what was expected -
who they wanted me to be,
and I tried.
So many years wasted,
trying to be what I thought I should,
not who and what I was,
while inside, torn between
my two selves.
And I chose between the two,
never understanding
there was no choice to make -
for I am always both.

Now, a new choice looms in the darkness,
in that place that hides along the edges of the eye,
just missing it, each time I look.
Until I call it into the light,
name it, accept it,
absorb the hidden me I have long denied.
I am no longer content with the definitions of others.
I seek to define my truth.

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.

i wanna yell until it hurts,
scream at everyone i see
and force them to hear me,
to understand,
what it's like living inside my head,
all these thoughts running around and no way to let them out.

i want to feel the supple skin of her legs
as they glide over my nakedness,
trapping me, enticing me with the heat
of her ***,
her face in ecstatic jubilation,
as another's hands caress her ample *****,
knowing her flesh,
and i reach for him,
my mouth wanting, needing to taste
what i have only dreamed about
in the privacy of my bedroom
when the lights are out.
they lean in for a ***** kiss and it pulls him closer,
three becoming one, joined in thrilling
movements,
a fever pitch arises
and we are made whole.

i want to see mountains again,
to look upon their heights and feel small,
and run my hands along the seams of rock,
flesh meets granite, limestone, and earth.

i need to travel the hidden paths,
up ways that only the wild goats can find,
skip-jumping from precipice to boulder,
careful and careless at the same time.

i must be atop them,
to view the world from the underside of clouds,
and see as the falcon does -
the world in its magnificence.

it is the conquest of self -
man, made from the mountain
he seeks to conquer,
only to know himself.
i say i want to see mountains again,
but what i really want is to find out
what the mountain will make of me.