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The way it was and
the way I saw it well
neither really aligned,
which is why I guess
perhaps, I suppose
I’ve made it this far driving
Southbound towards Tijuana
watching my dreams fade
in the rear view mirror
knowing now the utopia I sought
was never bound to be orthodox
or American, or not but
foreign enough to appear genuine,
parked by the halogen glow
of another lone motel, stale air
and stained sheets of a
dystopian relevance
that makes this all seem o.k.
Isn’t it ironic.
The one place we go together,
we always go alone.
For the majority of my adult life I have lived in impoverished communities, mainly because it’s what I am able to afford. I have seen, felt, and heard the cries of both men and women, alone in gutters, pulling the arms of children onward to a life not many of us will ever lead. Some of course have made choices leading them down this path, others are facing hard times, but I see the majority of them, just as I see myself, as I see my loved ones, as common people. So regardless of the outcome of an election, regardless of the winning or losing side, I still see many men, women, and innocent children who will continue to suffer either way. I do my best to spare what little I have to offer, be it a dollar or two, a bottle of water, or even a smile which seems to go even further than the former because at least they know that they are seen, and like so many of us often feel, we like those less fortunate are not forgotten. So just be a decent person, treat people with dignity and respect, regardless of their current standings in life. Do what you can to leave the world a better place than it was yesterday. And be well, my friends. Be humble and aware. And give more than you receive, when possible. With love, gratitude, and thanks to all who’ve graced my path, and who I continue to think of daily.
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
Her love
was his compass,
her blessing
his disguise,
in the pale blue light
of moon and
mother night,
her arms, his refuge
from the stormy sky
she spoke to him
like stars,
light years from afar
she held him
as the cosmos
were destined to align
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
Taking a moment
to examine your palm
is a holy moment.
And those lines, well
they’re the most honest
you’ll ever read.
What I saw that day, my mind insisted were people,
running back and forth—silhouettes—they were equal.
What I saw that day, I just couldn’t conceal
their shape was mine, it almost didn’t seem real.
See original thought comes before the prequel,
because the love we’re born with exists before evil.
What I saw that day, sure I know they were people,
while my beginner’s mind worked, I couldn’t help but feel
—their heart’s skip beats—my heart was healed,
by what I saw that day on a beach filled to equal:
coexistence at birth, we’re miraculous people.
When your dream
doesn’t come true,
dare to dream another,
and another, till
sleep no longer soothes
the life you’ve woke into.
Beams of light which dance on my wall
Aligned with the sun I know they’ll fall
Deep within my own hearts embrace
Like shadows cast I’ll leave not a trace
Where beauty fills the untrained mind
My love, my dear, sweet dew resigns
Each blade of grass from which we crawl
Is timeless, still, the moon does fall
Where valleys lay and peaks do rise
Is where my sight and yours align
And to the depths, the deepest sea
Like an anchor rests, my heart to thee
Words Of An Average White Male 