post truth society

the pale blue of december
wraps its icy fingers around my heart


the world gone mad
a power hungry freak
diplomacy and dignity

while whole families worry about what it means to be american


the future




the ides of me

the scent of a memory entwines my mind
fleeting and fine
gossamer threads lost in time
ghosts slide sideways onto my path
whispering regret
as i
sip cheap wine
and dine
on bitterness
reunited with youthful afflictions
wondering how i got to this place
missing those gone
repenting words not spoken
contrition my companion
as usual
a day too late
a dollar short

we, resumed

Your hand brushes my hip as you resettle yourself in sleep.

It reminds me of a million tiny things. Dancing in the kitchen and restless wakeful nights. Passion and pajama parties and sharing our bed with toddlers who couldn’t sleep. Wondering if we’d ever be alone again.

They’re going now. Into the wider world and I have you to myself once more.

I nestle closer and close my eyes again in quiet slumber.

I am content and we resume. 

dawn’s early light

The stillness of the morning surprises me. I expected more. More what, I don’t know: Fanfare, joy, heft. Something, anything, to set the day apart from all the other days. The air should be humming with excitement; instead, I find myself slightly annoyed at the chill in the air. I know it’s from the moisture collected overnight but it feels like a personal affront by nature to mar my mood. The smell of summer’s warmth trapped within the evaporating dew fills me and I feel my memories shift to earlier, bygone days when the years stretched out before me and the world held so much promise and hope.

Less sorrow.

Sparkles dance across the meadow as dawn’s light begins its journey through the world. I watch as a bird along the tree line ventures forth in search of food, it ruffles, slowly at first and then with more vigor, its feathers as the morning moisture is trapped within them. I wonder if there is, secreted away in the trees, a nest filled with babies patiently waiting its return. Babies that demand devotion and sacrifice until the day they realize they exist independent of it and they eagerly fly away.

I stand, perfectly still, so not to disturb the earnestness in which it toils. It turns sharply as it senses my thoughts. We hold each other’s gaze and realize, at least momentarily, we are the same creature, with the same mission. The sun, meanwhile, has almost reached me and I turn in to it, instinctively. Seeking the warmth upon my face knowing that summer’s grace is almost finished for this year and the sun will retreat. Cease to be a golden orb of warmth and pleasure instead replaced with the miserly light of winter.

The bird consumes my thoughts. It’s easier to think on it rather than my responsibilities. I dread the coming fall. The change of seasons are passages. I am less tolerant of passages as I age. I’m sure there’s a fear of death or some other post-Freudian reason for why I tolerate them less. The reason is less important to me than the actual passage of time.

The bird is gone.

Another thing I have lost while looking away. One day, I promise myself, I’ll pay more attention. Better attention. Attention of some sort. Yet even as I think it, I know it’s unsustainable. Something to assuage my guilt in the moment and will be turned into another tool in the arsenal I use to defeat myself.

And today becomes a day just like all the others that litter my past.

crucible of hate

My heart is drenched in sorrow as humanity lives up to its potential of violence and ugliness. Nature —red in tooth and claw— has nothing on mans ability to inflict damage to those who don’t hew to a certain ideology. A narrow paradigm ripped from the rumblings of madmen who whisper of rewards and piety. A diety of warped philosophy that seeps between the barriers of those seeking meaning in lives filled with anxiety. Trying to find a foothold in a world stubborn and cold. Destroying beauty and peace and substituting in their place a crucible of hate.

quiet exodus 

…and this is how they leave you.

Familiar spaces littered with detritus deemed insufficient to their needs. They head off to their future. You turn off the lights and close the door. Preserving for a future return, their childhood. Pride and fear intermingle in your thoughts as you force a final hug and retreat. Leaving them on the doorstep of their dreams.

masquerade ball

I can’t feel my skin

Covered beneath the layers of my original sins

Encased in hard plastic I claw my way to the surface leaving scratches on my soul

I taste
metallic and sweet like cinnamon gum

i wish it tasted like
muddled and confused
a julep of insanity to cool the rantings of a lunatic mind

Rum and sugarcane and arcane dreams
of clovered fields and white picket fences; floppy eared dogs laying in shade cooled yards

Humming songs from long ago

Wondering how it all

Dusting off my mask of endurance
I slip it on and


I lay my head upon your chest
And our heartbeats sync
My mind quiets
As I slip into the comfort of our togetherness
You are the calm in the center of my storm
The anchor of my humanity

My sanity

Steeped in quiet
We coexist in a world of our creation

Partner parent lover mate

Love at times tinged with hate
Passion manifests as anger
A relationship that’s a work in progress; incomplete

Our messy chaotic masterpiece

Two melodies entwine to create our harmony
Words laced with laughter and sorrow whisper our eternity

Echoes of the future reverberate in me