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To understand one’s suffering
Is to understand our own,
Knowing causes pain—
But still with hope we try
To understand one’s suffering
Is to be on their side, regardless
Of the awful many cuts
Through the tenderness of night—
Their aim is (not) to heal
But still with hope we lie,
To understand one’s suffering(…)
Like fruit picked from a vine.
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.
Today the time ran out
just as it had begun—
Hot water fills the tub
you swore you’d never become—
It’s warm and shallow now
cut servings for only one—
The echo down the hall, well
that’s just yesterdays love—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
Today the moon refused
to trade place with the sun—
Sidewalks full of people
but still you know only one—
It’s an impossible force
that drags you from yourself—
Now it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
I try, you know I do, to balance
fault lines and faith, the surgeons
steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—
It’s a symphony of simple things
that will seem eclipsed by the sun—
Cause it’s all become a song once sung
to an infant under the gun.
There is something very scary
about imagining a life without flaw,
as if insecurities were a sin
you could merely pray away?
There’s something cynical in that,
something dangerous.
Something I haven’t the heart to feel,
it’s something impervious.
Because with great peril comes
an even greater awakening, an awakening
which floods the veins with frozen certainty
as the waters eating the Titanic.
It’s the time between collision
and capsizing, which we find ourselves
relieved of our blind faith, knowing
with grave admiration, the life
we’re living, is all we have.
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.
There’s a sewer pipe
in the dark, by the L.A. river
like a grave in the ground
where people sleep
by the highway, by the neighborhood
where pumpkins soon
will be replaced by
feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn
and carefully locked doors,
then to be replaced by balsams and fern
white lights and tender eyes
of Christmas morning,
regardless of the hole by the L.A. river
where people sleep
live, and love—and pray, regardless
of the election, regardless
of the president
I still weep.
Do you?
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.
Listening in
on a socially
distant therapy
circle, I hear strange
certainty fading
with each spilled sip
of coffee, squandered
on psychosocial thoughts
in alignment with
the universe
always.
Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.
Every single day
She reminds me
Life’s worthwhile
