Monthly Archives: August 2012

Poetry: High Falls Business Center, Part II

Another day of close surveillance
In this big, glass fish bowl,
I’ve got no qualms with honest work,
But I have a problem with rigmarole,
And I take issue with selling my soul.

I might’ve noted the rosy undertones,
But corporate snakes keep moving through the view,
Stealing my joy and box-tying me to the phones,
The copier and fax machine, too.

It’s tough not knowing which way is up,
When staring corporate America dead in her face.
Half way full or empty is my cup,
They say it doesn’t matter,
As long as I’m in my place,
And as long as my time is secure on the platter.

Receptionists are sadomasochists,
Surely, by nature.


Broken, his face As it careened slowly Through the room, Arriving, perfectly In front of my eyes. Incomprehensible, To me, was his grief. Failing to complement his tux, under the soft lights Of matrimony. My face, struck dumb and frozen … Continue reading

Sloppy, Unfinished Poetry: As If

She was trapped with the sounds
of the last song reverberating
from hair to hair inside
the outer part of her ear

and she was twirling on her unmoving chair,
nervously, looking around at all the folks
of her foolish generation,
wondering why they all hide,
incessantly, behind the faces
of new technology

as if a voice, formally genuine,
could crush the air that sustains them,
as if there was nothing, but darkness
surrounding around their light,
only things with which to stain them.

Recognizing Brilliance: Reader Appreciation Award

I received this award from Aalif a few days ago. I probably wouldn’t put this much effort into accepting an award if I didn’t really appreciate every one of aalif’s posts. It’s a good thing to be spreading around, anyways. All writers and artists know how amazing it is to have people who give what they do the time of day, whether it’s recreational or not. It’s said that writers are among the most self-absorbed people around as they do not care to read the works of other writers. So, I would encourage you to become an exception to the rule.

Side Note: I don’t know the difference between those who read my blog and those who mindlessly click the “like” button, so I’ll be using this as a “Writer Appreciation Award” versus one for readers.

Recipients of the award are asked to:

  1. Identify the awards and who gave them to you.
  2. Post the Logo on your blog.
  3. Share 7 items about yourself.
  4. Nominate 5-10 other bloggers to receive this award, and notify them on their blogs.

Here’s some of my favorite blogs, the people whose work I am silently challenged and inspired by. A few of them don’t even know I read their work. I hardly use that pesky “like” button, so I pray that this award will make up for my lack of recognition.

  1. Chester Maynes – weaves wonderfully mellifluous poems
  2. Subhan Zein – a talented writer and a lively, passionate student of the universe.
  3. LadyRomp – lifting women up everywhere with her informative and inspiring posts.
  4. Maggie Mae – I wish I knew her. Her words are always raw and genuine with sharp edges of brilliance that’ll cut straight to your core, almost as if the way to your heart was already freshly paved.
  5. Sean Lynch – His blog doesn’t have quite the following I most certainly think it should have. I don’t know what to say about it. I guess you’ll have to check it out to see what I mean.
  6. Coco J. Ginger – Vibrant poetry with a noticeable focus on introspection and love. She writes like one who has been touched, but not broken by the world. Thank God for people like that, the force that pushes blood through my veins and whatnot.
  7. Ex Nihilo Infinitum – I wish I could not mention him, but his writing, mostly his poetry, sends me into fits of consuming envy. To pump out beautifully-crafted intellectual discourse as consistently as he does, I would murder all of the earth’s most beautiful creatures. It’s sick, truly.

Seven things about myself:

  1. Agoraphobia and panic disorder are the two driving forces that have held me back in almost every area of my life. I am doing my best to weed out my own fear without the use of CBT or medication. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but Love will not be defeated.
  2. I’m socially retarded. People don’t take me seriously enough when I say that.
  3. I have worked with developmentally disabled children for the past two years, and I have general disdain for people that assume I’m a good person just because they view my job as a charitable line of work.
  4. I have high hopes to become a delightful curmudgeon in my old age.
  5. In a few weeks, I’ll be attending college for the first time in years to obtain my English degree. I’m more nervous than I should be.
  6. I have been almost completely clean from illegal drugs for two years and four months. I’m not too horribly ashamed to admit I’ve gotten high a few times since then.
  7. My friends do not consider me to be a person who cries much, but nothing moves my heart quite like the beauty of God.

Reminiscent Prose: A Plane Ride to Florida.

I took a plane down south. Of course, I had many times before, but this time was different. In times past, I had been a rolling stone of a child whose mind was shifted and clouded by dreams, fantasies, wonders, questions and zeal for the moments. I lacked or perhaps ignored the cognitive ability to see what was going on before me whilst caught up in the fascination of my own mind. On this trip, though, I was on the way to coming into my own. I had attained some level of consciousness, although, it could be argued I was less conscious in the sense that I was more acutely aware of that which is deemed irrelevant by the backbone, heart and brain of nature, of existence, and especially, of God.

I was sitting next to one of my only friends, at that age. I didn’t have the window seat. I don’t know this to be a fact, but I know who I was back then, and even though I really wanted the window seat, I would’ve eagerly given it up to please a friend. At age thirteen, I would’ve sold blood to attain the assurance of a lasting friendship. I hadn’t learned, yet, that you can’t buy loyalty. That’s not to imply that this friend wasn’t loyal, for she surely was, for as long as she could be.

If I was nervous at all during that plane ride, I don’t remember it. As far as I know, I’ve never been nervous on a plane before, yet for some reason, I imagine I would be, now. I guess you could say this particular plane ride was the last peaceful air transit I’ll probably ever have. I was young enough to know of 9/11, but not have its effects really get under my skin and touch my heart as it does now. I was at the age where we made terrorist jokes and wondered at why anyone would want to hurt Americans – So naive. I wish I had spent less time, distracting myself with movies, books and hand held video games during that plane ride and more time engaging those around me. Not that I’d have anything of substance to say, but, surely, there would’ve been something of substance to hear, to remember, to learn from. That’s what I regret most about my youth and my teenage years, even now; I wish I had paid more attention to what life could teach me. I made mistakes, I saw what went wrong, what caused it all, and never really consecrated those things in my mind or heart.

I know a lot of time has passed since I boarded that plane to Florida, but in a lot of ways, I still feel like the same person, and therein, I believe, lies the only legitimate reason for sorrow. Wisdom is the application of life’s accumulated, practical knowledge, and a fool has no value… in this life or the next.

Poetry: LSD and Truth; Common Enemies

I reach up and touch my face,
Assimilating, carefully,
Every feature, every shape.

This substance has triggered
A swollen crack in my mind
Stultifying like a jellyfish,
Breaking my spine.

The acid subliminates paranoia
Into something more acceptable,
The Freud of my day,
But I am more delectable.

Lord of the ocean,
yet a little, tiny tadpole,
Ruminating about lost treasure,
passing through the rigmarole.

Like reefs of coral
Separated from the island’s shore,
Ache with me
For the earth’s spiritual war.

Coming around now,
Sifting back into proper places,
Painful is the night,
As the liquid leaves our faces.

Jaded circles surround the spirits,
As they empty of false enlightenment,
All delusions losing their merits,
When we step out of our ancient brilliance.

When the lesson’s fully learned,
Franklin’s tower crumbles,
We searched all night to find,
The origin of our internal rumbles.

Clear-headed, let’s sort out
All the truth away from lies,
Your spirit finds no burden,
until your first disguise.

Poetry: Preface to Murder

The dishes are left soiled in the sink,
Growing unfriendly friends of mold and stink
The table, not set and the living room, unkempt,
These and more, roots of my contempt.

Marriage introduced a new kind of rescue,
One needed from my wife and only son,
Originally, home was strictly for refuge;
Yes, home was made for fun.

But she pushes and tests me til I have no wits left,
She’s helping me on in this conclusion,
And what did she expect?

She knows her power, bites back her smile
When she withholds from me, sweet release,
Not to mention, the child, my son,
Constructs in me, an untamed beast.

I dream of places, anywhere they’re not
I’ve thought maybe I could kill them,
Buy a gun, develop a good shot.

Perhaps I’d show them more mercy,
Perhaps I’d kill soft and tenderly,
They are my family, after all,
No need to be surly.

But I know it’s only a matter of rage and time
Before these thoughts, even fantasies
Become reality,

maybe mine.



*This is fictional writing. I am not married, I don’t have a son, and certainly, I have no intention to murder.