#sanctity
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter,
no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial, and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break
I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,
nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…
composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
#
*It’s tender,
being the closest of friends..
but oh, isn’t it such a dangerous thing?
To hold you with care,
in the space we made,
while promising
I won’t touch a single thing.
But sweet love... to be this close
to someone like you..
need I say
what your voice can bring?
Warmth, truth,
supportive hands that tend--
it’s a dream come true
for those who bleed.
But when a deep need is quietly met,
can the heart resist
going full send?
And still—when a need
is met without hands,
without lips,
without sleep lost
in shared breath...
how long before restraint slips?
This depth.. untouched,
unspoken, unseen..
it burns through the walls
between you and me.
Yes, even with agreements
so lovingly made...
there’s always the risk
in a love so brave;
that we will both
come
undone.*
#
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 6:31 PM UTC
#
Hands formed into a fist
her jaw, set..
****
She's gonna slug me*
***"You opened up a thirst in me, Paul.
Are you going to see it through..
or just stand there?"***
Her war-torn, Mesopotamian spirit
Bringing fire to those beautiful, Baltic eyes;
A direct descendant of all things, Telmun
She is waiting on a Pearl
Waiting, for the Pearl
Archipelago of Virginity
--Beautiful girl is the Pearl
After gazing at her stunning beauty
I turn back, and resume the task
of digging with a small trowel
into the dark, loamy soil
She slaps me on the shoulder,
tears streaming from those dark
sky-filled eyes..
"..I thirst"
Ladles are made for love;
In abundance, they bring drink
to those who sojourn,
those, who wait
And it is I
who have allowed myself
to become distracted,
as of late--
Holding out for beauty
When all along, Beauty
Has been holding out for me
#
Jul 27, 2023
Jul 27, 2023 at 11:03 AM UTC
#
I wrote that to you..
from the waiting room of my eye doctor
but I didn't know it sent. I was grinding on my jeep Sunday
and got a piece of metal in my eye the size of a farm tractor,
but all is well after this second visit 👀
A couple of reasons for the multiple accounts..
Originally started as my way of satiring the many people
on the site that use multiple accounts to put likes and
comments on their own work in order to make it trend..
or even make the 'daily'..
or to stroke themselves with compliments
so horrendously.. uh, dishonestly.
But me being the battle-hardened, ******* nonconform
that I am, the first time I commented on my own piece,
my own account made fun of myself
to such a degree..
it ended up in a fistfight--
But it was me.. just ******* up
the whole trolling process.
I always tell the ones that I care
about who all is 'me'.
I also phase popular ones of mine out
and replace them with new ones
if that one is getting too noticed on the site.
That way I don't garner too many followers, which I believe
quenches one's freedom that is lost within the obligatory
'give and take' mindset that is a cancer on this
and so many other online writing sites.
Vogel started talking to you when I was no longer
scared of how quickly you got in with me.
I talk like crazy when someone like you gets in to the inner-core
of me so easily.. just by being the way that you are.
The babbling provides a canopy of structure.. Love's structure.
Strange, I know.. but I don't like being scared.
Its a boundary-thing..
and there is so little about ones like you
that even remotely slows down
the process of getting in..
and I'm-a.. uh..
"I'm a loner, Dottie.. a rebel.."
~Peewee Herman
yeah.. that.
The accounts keep me safe from the
general public by bringing
pieces of me out, relationally onto the screen as a way of
providing for myself, the warm cover of love's structure--
me.. with me.
All so very strange sounding, I'm sure.
I really enjoy watching you, kid.
I'm so sorry for bombing you with all those wordy messages
when we met. Your unique heart, mind, and spirit
are everything perfect in my eyes.. yes.. even with all of your
current broken, fragmented pieces.
You were recently maybe under some form of a psyche-hold,
which is probably where the psyche eval came from.
Some in the mental health field care deeply.. many are just
going through the motions-- originally thinking it was
for them, and then finding out what the true cost
of love really is, before slinking back into a foot-shuffling
process.. even as psychologists,
and often even medical psychiatrists (prescribers)--
Who love to find a name for things so they can 'expertly'
enter into relationship with what now has a name,
rather than the deeply-hurting person.
Everybody wants the **** beautiful-voiced girl who stands
a very good chance of making her mark so well in this world.
I would trade access to the 'best' part of it all with you,
just to have the chance to be with you, for even 5 minutes
on that **** and tear-soaked, psyche room floor.
That is where I want to be.
My multiple "friends" keep me free..
unencumbered.. deeply-loved..
.. ready.
Broken-down, and pitch-black within the darkness of all its
despair. That is where it is that I would trade all things for,
in order to be..
with you.. deep in to the very r e a l of it all..
if you ever fell down that temporarily far.
Everything I do is for that moment.
My "friends" give me strength. They believe in me
because I so deeply believe in my loved self.
*Hence, the ability to go anywhere
you may one day have to go.*
Sorry, kid.. but you asked.
#
Mar 1, 2022
Mar 1, 2022 at 7:40 PM UTC
Chained to good morals
a people lost on the journey to freedom
Foresight enslaved to greed
who reaches first- a prevalent goal
Radical Leadership
a matter of course
Foresight enslaved to greed
evidence in the body parts traded for power
A country crippled by peace
a people enslaved by oppression
Manipulative dependence
just plant, taxes will fertilize
Wake up to the voices of the clever
We sit by our luggage before a dead sea
deceived by the same people we gave seat
A generation paying for the sins of our fathers
shackled to the failures of our forefathers
We thumb print
signing our destinies over to fake prophets
Radical leadership
a matter of course
However long the night, the sun always rises.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 5:40 PM UTC
Death is not a cursed, bleak end.
No less holier than Life
which does give us birth
against our wills.
Should this be called _mercy_?
Lovingly, it devours immense
those illusory grandeurs
as conjured by Life.
It doesn’t coerce into being
_existence unsolicited,_
granting— endowing –
as if in good will
a sanctity so close to nought.
---
What in a life compels thee
to sink miserly into a banality so wretched;
to lose thyself in an aimless sail.
When death does come—
Embrace thee undoing with open arms.
A willful end weighs as much,
as an otherwise nihilist birth.
Truth be told.
_“No life is more sacrosanct than its very own death.”_
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 6:13 PM UTC
My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel skin on muscle
Muscles that move on bone
But I am not truly present.
My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel hands on skin
Skin that quakes beneath wicked touch
But I am not truly present.
My body isn't mine
Without the tightness in my chest
A tightness that I deeply crave
But I don't know what's real.
This body isn't mine.
I feel a brushing of elbows
Elbows of strangers awakening the memories
But I /don't/ know what's real.
This voice isn't mine.
I speak stories of others
Other things I hope can allude
But none read between the lines.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 2:19 AM UTC
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”
a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being
a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers
imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels
part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on
demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death
in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth
look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,
I do not know
*how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,*
the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.
Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?
I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.
even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
*
Wolves hide among the fragrant flowers
Skulk, stalk, pounce, and bite into their prey
****** their maws, their canine, their fang
Don the fleece of the white sheep
Rip out the innards
Garbed in white
Draped like a cloak of purity
*
Wolves hide in cathedrals
Stalk among the pews
Furs streaked with blood, coated
Defile sanctity
Impregnate
Virginity with something vile
Dark, putrid, and false
*
She sees the wolf in you
Hears it in words that you utter
Sees it in words that you write
Drunk, sober, aware, unaware
Smells the blood on your maw
Smells the pennies in your breath
Faint, odorous
*
Wolves like you
Hiding in fleece
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
A little girl in handmade dress.
Black shoes with
White knee-high stockings.
Shy eyes framed
By and hiding behind
Long curly
Blonde locks,
Waiting with me at
The bus stop
Each school morning.
Vulnerable
Protected from the harsh
Outside world.
But nothing can completely
Shut out its
Cruel essence.
The outside
Can creep in or the
Inside holds dormant
Outside influence
Like the eggs of the proverbial tree
Lizard laid among eggs in a
Bird's nest
Remaining dormant to eventually
Hatch to feed on the newly born fowl.
Faith soothes the pain
By daily standing
On the sidelines
Of the pantomime
Of the mundane
As lush dense
Ivy reaches
For the sky but must
First slowly crawl
Over a cold
Gray wall of stone
Reaching
For dreams and ideals
Once clearly seen
On the horizon of the
Unobscured plains
Of childhood.
A bit harder at the myopic
Foothills of youth.
Now harder than ever
At the jagged
Snowcapped mountains of
Adulthood.
The curly locked
Little girl still lives
After all these years.
Lives on to
Balance the weight
Of disappointments
Compressed by daily
Reminders of that
Once dormant inside
Influence unleashed
In the innermost
Sanctity of trust.
Lives
In the security
Of ideals gradually
Becoming reality.
That place in the heart
That no one can touch
That no one can
Invade.
Thank God that home is where the heart is!
¤¤¤
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
*He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.
He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.
His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.
He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.
I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.
Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.
In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.
I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.
My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:
To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Your commitments and word
Are inks stained on cold skin
Taken without pain sacrificed,
Easily washed away in water:
Simple imitations...
That at its essence
Mock the sanctity and identity
of actual tattoos.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Every time I run
into your everlastinng arms,
it feels like I'm running
Home.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:17 AM UTC
For each and every other,
There's something to be said.
There’s something to be said for –
The security guards
With coke nails.
There something to be said for –
The alcoholics
That moonlight as bartenders.
There’s something to be said for –
The huddled mother,
Cradled child and cusped copper.
There’s something to said for –
The recluse with word,
Broken atop a glass of wine.
For each and every other,
There’s something to be said,
But one knows not another word.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Only the orphaned
Crave family
Only the violated
Crave shelter
Only the insecure
Crave validation
Only the dying
Crave life
Only the the embattled
Crave peace
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
there is no sanctity
in the way you caress my face
although i always convince myself there is.
it's kind of like religion in that way:
all of the words
and thoughts
and actions
that created us
and linked us
are probably
fabricated lies.
and yet, i still look to you
as if you are a font of holy water
inside of a church,
as if your contents
were blessed
by some higher being.
i'm constantly getting drunk
hoping that maybe this wine
will turn into the blood of christ
or the blood of you
but it doesn't,
and i just get more drunk
and less whole.
it's a pity, really,
that i continue
to be so pious
and so faithful
to you, to god
when the only thing
the two of you really have in common
is you both love to let me down.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
In the name of love
Plunder not, the fragile heart
Garden so beautiful
Where love should bloom
Squander not the opportunity
In haste, to gain many love
Love’s true foundations secure
Not to sway or crumble
With the trivial of reasons
Love is a prayer in pure hearts
Protect its sanctity like bravehearts
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
In the sanctuary of love
Precious relics are on display
Rare moments of solitude
Stupefied by the grandeur
Reading the precious scriptures
Invoking the celestial force
Long forgotten rituals
Trapped between the papyrus
Love is not what love seems
Misinterpretation
Leaving us with our interpretation
Here, in the sanctuary
The soul awakens
Flame from the core enlightens
Guiding light of love
A path leads to the heart
If love is not true
It won’t hold strong
Will be swept away sooner
In the debris
It’s more than the cloak
Simple, yet so rigorous
Love is the force
That will withstand time
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
The feeling of your hand
resting gently on my leg
has become my own
private religion.
I worship your touch.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Why the **** is there
all this disdain for varied techniques?
So what if I like altered guitar tunings?
Sorry that all my guitars
are in D Standard or drop C.
Yes, even the ******* Classical guitar.
*I never meant to inconvenience you,
your Eminent Prestige!*
Maybe it's a problem
on thy knavish behalf
that you can't cope
with variation within the
Sacred realm of Art.
Don't ******* tell me
what to do or how to do it.
Don't ******* tell me
my approach to my Art is wrong.
Don't ******* crawl to me
when you want to learn how it's done
and I won't say I ******* told you so
when you confess your perspective lacks variety.
I will still teach you, though,
that is, if you will listen.
I will still teach you, though,
if, indeed, I can.
I will still teach you, though,
but only if you can teach me, too.
I will still learn from you
despite your rigid adherence to traditionalism.
I will still learn from you
if you don't ******* condescend me
about how I decide to do it
about how it feels most natural
about what I like or why;
just ******* deal with it
like a true Artist;
accept it and bask in it,
that everyone's technique
is unique.
Besides,
be it not that very variation
that lends itself to the plethora of Art
that has been, could be, and will be made?
Be it not that very variation
that leads a school of thought
away from being so incestuous
that it kills itself off?
Be it not that very variation
which makes Democracy feasible?
If Art be neither
democratic or anarchic,
then I guess I'm no Artist.
Just ******* deal with it.
If you can't: then shut the **** up,
and let us, who can deal with it,
just ******* do it.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC