the bliss of ego-manic thought

There’s something happening when

There’s nothing left to lose—

The apple of the eye

Is begging for the truth—

I admit, it’s possible but

The language that we use—

To disengage, it’s all the same

Our fears of being used.

There’s something distinct in the

Absence of yourself—

Like when you manifest

Your love in someone else—

He’ll seem incapable but

The patterns that you choose—

To disengage, it’s all the same

Our fears of being used.

Now there’s a sinner and saint on the corner of the block

One’s got a rifle in hand believing that he’s God

They’re both wrapped warm in the bliss of ego-manic thought

To disengage, it’s all the same

Believing that it’s not.

Our eyes told stories

I’ll always remember that day

And keep it as a reminder—

That day in which you looked my way

And I didn’t have a clue who you were

And you didn’t have a clue who I was

That day in which our eyes told stories—

As to what is most important.

So if and when we lose our way, I know

Together we’ll find ourselves again—

Where eyes can say what words cannot express—

And stories, we, can only tell together.

What is, and is not necessary—a dialogue.

Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.

It’s there because I allow it to be.

Whatever’s in yours, is yours—I’ve no idea, nor should.

If you’re curious, you may ask and I may tell you whatever’s in my head.

I may not, though that is up to me, as it is equally up to you.

So if and when I seem distant, it’s only because I’m having an internal debate on which to share.

I’m deliberately choosing words which may or may not have an impact on your own definition of me—of you.

Whatever’s in my head may change, in fact, depending on your point of view, so tread however you will when speaking, knowing that—

Whatever’s in your head, is there because we put it there.

And we being a positive or a negative really doesn’t matter.

What matters is, matter of factly null and void, more likely because,

whatever’s in your head, is there because you put it there.

It’s there because it is, if it wasn’t then, well, we wouldn’t be having this discussion with ourselves to begin with.

See. When two people interact or share in a discussion, it’s not simply a yes or no dialogue.

It’s not simply an A and B conversation but rather an (A,(B)) + (C,(D)) process of beliefs which often can be tricky or seem unfair.

And the more you think about it, the less there is to say, because, more times than not it’s what we don’t say that often really matters.

Perhaps I haven’t found the correct words, or perhaps I’m overthinking, perhaps I’m just learning how to communicate all together on a daily.

It’s like casting a line of bate to water. If the intended fish decides to bite, then it’s fair game, but when the intended fish is forced to bite, which for lack of a better metaphor, one can’t exactly force a fish to bite, then there’s an unfair advantage.

The bate is not merely physical bate, but encompasses the mind from which it’s cast with hope, fear, and determination—etc and so on.

The fish may rationalize it’s right to choose feast or famine, ultimately accepting it’s fate regardless of the line cast, by choice of internal and external response, which leads me back to my original point being…

Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.

It’s there because I’ve reserved a rationality for it, and, regardless of the outcome, it’s necessary solely to me.

Further more, what’s necessary to me—perhaps the real point here—is not, nor should be expected to be necessary to you.

Any questions?

I’m not talking about Cards

If it works out

It works out

If not, you learn a lesson

You move on to the next

Split hands and

Double down

Chaos Theory

If we can accept ourselves

in life, and that in this life

we’re living, the right way

and the wrong way, mostly

aren’t ever in alignment

with our true nature of self,

rather it’s often

sideways we must go, sideways

like the pebble in the stream

knows only one direction,

and that chaos when reversed

reveals itself as precisely

the way it ought to be.

Communion in the Park

Men in the park

grip brown paper bags

certain as Catholic nuns

grasp their faith,

both counting one

by one, until neither

makes any difference

in the course of eternity.

Two paths, one park bench—

Angelic in their own rite.

Hot and Wild

I don’t need a fan

or a fawn, I need a fire—

Hot and Wild—black as coal,

as clean as a diamond

dazzling

in the mud of my soul.

Self Portrait, West Haven CT, `2013

Moon between Palms

the moon?

but a keyhole

to another room,

which awaits

our arrival—

whenever.

Echo Park, 2020

Insomnia: A Short Story

The television’s on.

It’s freezing in here.

I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.

It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.

Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.

In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.

I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…

Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.

I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.

It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.

If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.

The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.

Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?

It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.

The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.

Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.

It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.

Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.

This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.

At least I’m writing again. That’s good.

Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.

And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.

At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.

My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.

Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.

Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.