the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.

They said I drowned,
but the truth is softer:
I laid myself down like an offering.

I spit river into their open mouths.
I bit the lilies in half.

Silk turned cathedral.
I let my dress balloon with river light.

The earth had nowhere else for me.

If you pressed your ear to the surface,
you would have heard me humming.
They didn’t write that part.

When they pulled me out,
I still had violets in my teeth.
I still had the nerve to look alive.

If ruin was the crown they gave me,
I wore it dripping.
I wore it bright.

You think you know the story:
girl, river, grief.

But the water was warm that day.
The sky was a soft ache.
I was tired of carrying everyone else’s ending.

So I wrote my own.

Not drowned.
Not tragic.
Not accepting their ending.

Love has gone mad, like you my dear
and keeps night in a wine press like a caged bird.
I will save it, says Love, turning the handle
to birth a morning with broken wings of red curd.

Everyone here keeps their mouths in jars
to prevent you influencing their palates, dear.
Anyone with any sense has placed locks on every vine--
all that grows down the rows is the silent brooding volunteer.

Morning whispers madness through your skin,
and wears a crimson cloak made of feathers and strange paste.
I will marry it, says Love, hand in hand with Oblivion
serving wine heavy with grape skins and an odd metallic taste.

I cannot love you anymore.
I cannot argue, not another word.
Love has gone mad, like you my dear--
enjoy together your strange vintage
of dark mornings,
heavy tannins
and Love's dead, wide-eyed bird.

eyes on the pavement,
the tiny architectects
of sky bound prayers.

the children draw dreams
with chalk-stained hands
on the cracked concrete,
flowers, and sky bound birds,
and home and stars and rainbows.

a shimmer of light on stone.

will the chalk bleed before the bloom?

Rounded by salt and
Water rolling from
Tide to tide

Inviolate cipher of
All time
Fallen from molten skies

At the beginning

Holding all
Within your elliptical
Mystical mound
Of stone

the monarch butterflies
above the sand dunes.

orange and black wings fluttering,
enjoy eternal maps, (no glove compartment)

the smell of ocean salt
in the morning air.

they lift higher and higher
the journey begins
as it has for thousands of years

(the artist's brush)

one morning they fly

a journey of thousands of miles.
the moment that begins and never ends,

sand and sea and serendipity.

Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. Sweetheart, you wear deception like a crown, but it is cracked, tarnished, and heavy upon your head.

You preach that gossip brings no wealth, yet you lap at every whisper, every rumor, every shadowy tale, as if it were gold dust falling into your palms. And yet, what have you earned? Not riches, not glory. Just enemies. Just the bitter taste of contempt.

Ah, I suppose I must be important then. After all, you spend your days, your hours, your every waking second, collecting fabricated stories as if they were treasures. Stories with no proof, no merit, no weight—yet you hoard them like a miser clings to coins.

Meanwhile, I hold a reverse uno card. I play when the time is right. I collect receipts, evidence, proof—a ledger of truth that outlasts your smoke and mirrors. I sip my piña colada in the sun, watching as the foolishness of your efforts collapses into absurdity.

You speak of honor, yet your tongue drips poison. You say discretion is valuable, yet you scatter secrets as if sowing weeds. How quaint, that you believe your duplicity is cleverness. It is folly, pure and unadulterated.

Every lie you tell is a stitch in the shroud you will one day wear. Every whispered rumor is a brick in the coffin of your credibility. You may not see it now, lost in your small victories, but it waits, patient and inevitable.

You paid attention to me, and in that attention, you thought to craft control. You spread my story as if bending it could bend reality itself. But reality, darling, is not yours to shape. It bends only to truth—and you are far from it.

You call yourself shrewd, a master of strategy, yet you cannot see that your currency is contempt. Haters, enemies, the shadows of those you slandered—they are your true legacy. Not millions, but resentment. Not respect, but whispers behind your back.

Be wise in investing your time. Time is the only coin that cannot be reclaimed. And yet, you spend it lavishly, casting venom where it serves nothing but your ego. Sweetheart, did you ever consider that silence and dignity could yield more than gossip ever could?

Some people pay back respect and silence. Quiet, unassuming, steadfast. They move through life with integrity, and their restraint becomes their armor. And others? Others pay back karma. Slowly. Deliberately. Remorselessly.

Do you feel clever now, as your words coil through circles, twisting perceptions, stitching shadows into my name? Do you not feel the weight of the eyes you cannot see, the judgment you cannot escape?

Your lies are like smoke. They drift, they burn, they suffocate. And yet, when the wind shifts, when the truth rises, you are left coughing, choking, grasping for a foothold that does not exist.

You cannot walk your talk. You cannot own your words. You cannot contain the chaos you so freely unleash. A man who spreads venom while preaching virtue is no master—he is a jester, dancing on the graves of his own dignity.

Haters do not build empires. Shadows do not create legacies. Gossip does not enrich the soul, nor the mind, nor the life. You trade ephemeral attention for permanent disgrace, and call it cleverness.

Do you hear it? The whisper of karma, patient, deliberate, circling closer with every lie, every manipulation, every act of malice. You cannot flee it. You cannot bribe it. You cannot charm it. It waits.

Time invested in venom is time wasted. Energy spent on deception is energy stolen from creation, from love, from truth. And you, master of all lies, squander both recklessly. Meanwhile, I sip my piña colada, receipts in hand, reverse uno card ready, knowing exactly when to play.

Some will remember your cruelty in silence. Some will repay it without words, letting the weight of justice fall unnoticed until it is too late. Some will let the universe itself deliver its verdict, patiently, with precision.

Sweetheart, you gained haters, not millions. You gathered contempt, not respect. And one day, perhaps, you will realize the truth too late: gossip is a currency the soul cannot spend, a poison the heart cannot digest.

Be wise in investing your time. Some people pay back respect and silence; others pay back karma. You will find which is yours, eventually. And when that day comes, the mask you wear will crack, the shadow you cast will falter, and your lies will finally meet their reckoning.

Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. And fools, darling, always pay their debts. Meanwhile, I drink my piña colada, collect my proof, and laugh quietly—because time and truth are mine, and yours are already running out.

Carefully placed and covered with love
Patience emerged in hydration
Stretching into the dancing air
Golden warmth radiates across my face
Sinking my roots further into the foundations
Of past experience
Inching further toward the sky
Waiting to blossom into potential
An open story to share again
May the withering be slow to come
Nourishing those surrounding the performance
I can become,

                                                        ­           once again