Idealistic…


Why build walls instead of bridges? What good is cinderblock for children? Am I a magician, a surgeon, a robot? 

They say, give us talent! And yet, they lack the very essence of the word. There’s no such thing, I whisper-smile, only hard-work, dedication. 

In the eyes of those who already know, the flame of knowledge burns so low, it’s barely- blue- flame suffocating, oxygenless. 

Not even Mozart, no! Or Einstein? Not even. Only, an open door, the exact-perfect-moment. Then perseverance, grueling hours of it, hours of being no one special, with nothing to offer. Of being, left out, of being weird, of being outcast. 

Never knowing the tide would turn, the ocean would swallow them whole and leave only memory of their finest moment. No record of cinder-block classroom walls, washed up athletic coaches, closeted librarians. No, mention of overzealous parents and overstated egos. 

Just a black and white photo in an archived yearbook, maybe an honorable mention at the county line population sign, famous for a moment, in a small-southern town. 

To My Muse…


I can’t write, at least not right now. My mind is so full, that’s it’s jumbled somehow. What are the words, where’s the keen turn of phrase, why do my eyes not focus and instead start to glaze, there’s only white on the page. 

What’s the message that I’m trying to convey? How long does this last, hopefully not more than a few days. Have I lost my beautiful muse? Has she gone undercover, where is she hiding, the one who makes my heart flutter. 

Did it break her in two? To see a metamorphosis come true, to think she has lost her high place in my wanton embrace? To believe she was casually tossed to the side, maybe feeling she might carefully hide herself away in false joy and platitudes, secretly wondering did I transfer her on to you? 

When I felt the supple lips of another, did I imagine for a moment, it was the one true desired lover? Tasting her desire, did I wish it was finally you? In my arms? In my bed? And finally not just a figure in my head. 

And when her hands caressed my skin, did I close my eyes and dream…

of that moment when the door was opened wide and I had the chance to honestly be seen, to say the words or take the steps to hold you in that place and never miss the opportunity to see you again, face-to-face. 

Do you know you?


Have you truly known grief, until the day you have swallowed your own silent tears, in a room full of people, who do not share your pain and have no compassion. 

Have you truly known love, until you’ve held the hand of your spouse newly diagnosed with Cancer? In that same day, you shook hands with Fear, whom you believed you knew, but realized you had never met. 

Can you conjure compassion for a couple of kids, who fell in love, and stuck it out. Murdered each other’s love, over and over, but always found their way back again.

Maybe shed a tear for a wanna be preacher, hooked on designer pills, shunned by his own family-for drummed up Sunday Sins, and tied down to a girl he knew he had to save? 

Could you live with yourself, if you admit you were never perfect, never once had it all together, and that you fooled every single person who thought that you did. 

Could you embrace your enemy, the one who said you were a whore, who destroyed your self-esteem with one foolish, stupid, jealous, lie? Would you cry, then, when it happened to them? 

Perhaps…