how is it
that i would rather
stay ravaged
in the midst of the storm
than step outside of it
and explain
that i don’t know
how i got there
in the first place

we are moments
moving through time
like small soap bubbles
floating rainbow-etched
in the summer’s sky;
with air behind, ahead
and surrounding us;
we are stars against the blue
sparkling fragile in the sun,
for a few moments.

i have taken
the tapestry of Nietzsche
to pull a dark thread out,
and so too
with Shakespeare and Wagner
while Marcus Aurelius and Margaret Atwood –
theirs may remain whole.

but the others,
when the corrupt was dragged out
they fell to golden shreds;
so what was i to do
but to weave something new
and shelter within its warmth.

sitting in fluffy onesie pajamas
my wife is matching;
she swears up a storm
working through Legend of Zelda
Breath of the Wild trials
while i read volume one
of a two volume set
on the History of Tamriel
of Elder Scrolls fame;
i ponder my children,
i ponder my life
with gratitude;

i am in love.

this perfect moment
could continue forever

words are moments
not continuity;
bubbles to the surface
of the bog
betraying life in decay
and preservation
for the age to come

we learn
through corrosive time
that there are no heroes
except the ones we create
within our vacuum head;
that every bright halo
hovered above the
darkened, doomed dead
and every white knight
was simply corruption
hidden beneath our bed

what light we stumble to
is not our own…

the world is a violence
wreaked upon itself
a heavy press of anticipation
strangling the living
with loving asphyxiation
until the only breath left
is the very last one
squeezed out
again and again and again

i am a person
young before my time
never knowing
i was supposed to
lose the past
and begin to die

i just live

I was honored to briefly correspond with Anne Rice during a time of mutual spiritual tumult. I value this message from her. RIP

maybe it’s crap –
words are shit-stains
written in excrement
and forced out
in red-faced,
constipated rage;

sometimes (rarely)
they explode
in dehydrating violence
leaving me empty
and exhausted;

either way
they frighten
the quiet, gentle masses,
sending them running,
to hide
in the safe dark places.

maybe i just can’t
self-market
to save my life
or reach around
and glad-hand
the right people

so i do what i do,
consuming,
digesting the world
and serving it to you
all piled up on this
nice white platter,
prêt-à-manger –

dig in.