Some may see
me as a writer;
a person who
spins words and
articulates emtotions.
But I'm not sure if
I see myself as
anything more than
a subtle manipulator.
I'll take a feeling
and it will become
a paragraph you can
see beyond farsightedness.
I'm not a seer, but God
help me if I've been
looking for my place
in the world. I'd like to
think that there is more
to my life than the
words I choose.
I've written dozens
of short stories,
and hundreds of poems.
Some say that there is
a novel within us all,
and I'm sure there is,
but that's not what I'm
after. What I'm looking
for is not a snap of the
fingers. Or a bulb
to flash. Not even a
seed to grow. What I
want is a teardrop
that falls in a lake
and creates a ripple
effect that slowly
spreads out. I want
a snowflake to hit
my tongue and not
dissolve from the heat.
Instead what I have
to give is a left hand
pushing a ball point
into paper, disrupting
the flow of the ink.

I thought we were written in the stars
When in reality,
We were just scrawled messily in a bathroom stall

you used to buy the case
before the rest of us had the *****
you walked right in to that asian market on 3rd
and placed the beer on the counter
they once asked for your license
you told them you had a dui
they never questioned you again

See the sunken face of nature,
Hear her shrieking, fraught with woe,
At the city's neon hubris,
Giving off its chilling glow.

See the formless mass of people,
Hear the spinning potter's wheel,
Watch the shape of people changing,
As ideas become real.

See them dancing a quick tango,
Hear them whispering sweet lies,
Wearing masks upon their faces,
Wearing mirrors in their eyes

Living life just for survival, and
Pursuit of mindless pleasure,
While amassing status symbols,
Has become the one true measure, of

A culture whose existence,
Works toward its own demise,
Climbing down a burning ladder,
Numb to touch, and deaf to cries.

I like watching you in the kitchen.

Your motions are swift,
from the stove to the food processor
to the sink to the dishwasher
it's one seamless flurry.
A graceful hustle.

Country music is playing in the background.
You don't know all the words,
but every once in a while
a lyric escapes your honeyed mouth.
I smile
because it's a line filled with weight.
A heavy pondering
with careful reflection.
I can see that in your smile.

As I sit here,
eyeing you with adoration,
you approach me
with a petite sample on a silver fork.
I do not hesitate
to open my mouth,
like a baby bird begging for a secondhand worm.

Just like everything you have ever given me,
it is marvelous.
It's of good quality and impeccable flavor,
ladled forth
from a generous heart.

I like it here in your domain.
My eyes will feast on this view
forever.

Grappling bones,
hollow insecurities,
broken,
healed.

A fist to the face,
an uppercut,
terrible colours onto
the barren white walls.

Red-faced,
shut-eyed,
running with
arms wide open.

"Bring it on!"
Lungs afire.

We always stand up.
Again

I will find you.

When you scurry away
into the haunts of
your ravaged mind,
searching for things you  never owned.

I will find you.

Amongst heavy crowds
of people, places, promises;
where you blend into
perfectly.

I will find.

You,
your mind,
your broken self,
buried deep within
the place you called home.