Monthly Archives: October 2013


Everything is finally starting to come together, and the pieces of my life have begun to create such a beautiful mosaic. It seems so clear to me now that I cannot help but laugh.

If my life hadn’t been ripped to its foundation, I never would have become its architect.

It’s so fun to begin building from the ground up, to get back to this unshakable foundation of friends and family who have weathered my storms.

It takes so long to realize that a life should be built with laughter.

On the nights when I’m too anxious to laugh, I stop my building and go sailing on the sidewalks. I let myself be pushed along by the wind, and I remember my father in the garage laughing. I remember him telling me it would rain, but that storm has passed.

Now, there isn’t a drop on my sail, and my mind no longer howls.

Those days when I was petrified by fear have come and gone, and I am not stone.

I am not stone.


a stagnant smoke,

In this burning air
lies an ephemeral clarity.

Illusion is but smoke and mirrors.

They are blurred moments which we see clearly
The future is history’s exhalation

We’re here, between
holding our breath.

The present is a marriage ceremony.

Blurred moments,
gathered for pictures.

I have seen it through a mirror,
our horizons are painted with smoke,
Aflame with the light of the same setting sun.

We see it on the borders of night

The sunset is a peculiar menagerie
of such vibrant colors.

Another Liturgy

Ink black flowers form the centerpiece

in processions of chattering skulls

life is a shrewd collector of debt,

demanding interest on loaned breath

while death knocks, accepting donations.


I can remember when my uncle died,

I can taste the breath I used to accuse him

My father did not weep

I can hear those same words accusing me.


We are

as we are afraid to admit,

shuffling within a cornucopia,


The famished have never been so well fed.


In such a famine, cannibalistic minds

feed on the old, the young, and the weak,

we would devour our own teeth if we could.

We spit up the bones of our past lives,

crying out for more, more, more!


We were born the favored children

of a broken generation.

Those who are of the most use

are incapable of anything useful.



frozen bed of coals

little more than sleeping soot.

What a mess we have made of our lives.


In our cities a dream has become a nightmare.

Languid puppets twist within a belly of stone,

effigies of iron burn upon fields of bone.


Timid stars are strangled by neon signs.

Strangled by a dying electric worm

Only a corpse could think it was noble

to breathe life into that quivering mass


On the top of this lonely hill,

lascivious words of poets

no longer cut,

Painters may as well be blind,

Such muted hearts only move blood.
Here, where I bathe in dying fountains of scripture,

I beg forgiveness.


In my dreams

I have seen the valley between divine mountain tops,

where rolling waves drown upon a desert’s fingertips.

Men and women crumble into granite clouds of dust,

Their names etched in water.


A dream is a night’s escape from our delusion

Just a thief stealing back a mortgaged paradise

We were born death.

Eating it,

breathing it.

Through time, in time,

becoming it.


At the end of a frayed thread,

death ties captured memories

with hands too eager to untangle the knots.

Fire at the bottom of the sea

Like most kids, I was taught how to handle my relationships by people who didn’t practice what they preached. As I got older, I found that I had within me an angry, dreadful flame. I forged a mask in that fire. I became so afraid of the anger that was inside of me that I said, and did, nothing.  I became the quiet kid in the classroom that only talked to you if you talked to him. When I kissed my first crush, she was so surprised, so caught off-guard that she couldn’t help but laugh.

In high school I was convinced that I had forgotten how to feel. Naturally, I started doing theater. During rehearsals members of the drama program would come to me for advice, they came to me for advice about things that were more confusing for me than they ever were for them. I became the kid that everyone loved to talk to because he never talked about himself. They talked about their relationships, about how they had fallen in love, about how they had been hurt. They told me about mothers who abused them, about brothers who beat them, about fathers who molested them. In their stories I found fuel for the angry furnace I was stoking.

In my final year of high school I met a man who was more of a friend than a teacher, and more of a preacher than both. He told me that everyone deserved love, and that everyone was capable of it. He reminded me that I needed to start loving myself. For the past five years I have been trying to practice what was preached.

I tried my best to douse the flame. I spent most of my time looking for someone so full of life that I couldn’t help but feel alive; for someone so overflowing with joy that I couldn’t help but laugh.

But my dread flame still raged.

I found comfort in people familiar with the practice of self loathing. I felt at home surrounded by people who were better at feeling angry than they were at feeling loved.  I did a lot of things without really doing them; I spoke without saying much of anything, I went to parties without ever showing up. I could scarcely remember what my face looked like beneath that mask.

It was a lonely road I walked when I hadn’t found the path; there is no loneliness like when you’re lost.

It took me a long time to find my bearing.

I found my guiding star in the middle of the night. With it came the knowledge that light and shadow were both of my own creation. It is in the dark that you find celestial beauty. I could hardly believe it when I saw the extinguished remains of my anger.  I thought I would be blind without the familiar light, but there is a divinity in regaining your vision. I could see that everything had changed. There is an immeasurable joy in discovering true illumination.

I found inside myself a conflagration no longer fueled by anger, nor hatred, nor distrust, but by words. For me, nothing burns cleaner, nothing burns brighter. What joy when I found that my mask had melted — and what apprehension. What would cover my face? What would keep wicked eyes from gazing through the mirage to my being? Call it nostalgia, call it fear, but there were times when I want to wear my old mask. There are times when I try to put it on, but it doesn’t fit anymore. No mask could hide this light.

Now nothing scares me more than my own ambition.

Now I measure time, not in long, cold nights, but in the short, brilliant flares that escape between waves of trepidation.

Give me the strength to become that warmth. Please, let me burn my soul clean.

I have seen an inferno at the bottom of the sea.


Cold, numb stone

a bulwark of indifference

shattered and in ruin


Driving wind,

a tumultuous tornado,

tumbling cascade of hail


Awake in the vice

of an ancient nightmare,

a silent cacophony,

a lipless, breathless shriek.


Within a rotting shell

lives the vicious specter of time.


He sits quietly in his prison, upon a mournful thrown. A leaden crown rests upon his brow.

His heart, silenced by trepidation, beats for little beyond the movement of blood. An ancient yearning remains within him, a relic of his parched spirit. The wounds of his journey have been left untended. They writhe with an invisible pestilence.

The fruits of his victory have been lost to his disease.