Is it too much to ask?

I want to live in a world where hilltops flood first. Where Waterfalls are borne of high tide’s devastation.

I want to swim in an ocean that gives up it’s secrets. Where the circle completes. Where we are always welcome to come back home.

I want to fly in a sky big enough for the both of us. Where landing is always an option, an alternative to Amelia’s plight.

I want to sleep in a dream that coddles reality. Holds these ideas to be true. Holds our love to the fire, where it’s tempered. Dreams that focus everything. Dreams from which we don’t wake up.




I can look into my past and it’s seemingly still so close that I can touch it with my weary hands, rough and calloused, palms furrowed. I can enjoy the well-meaning invitation of an expired répondez s’il vous plaît. Taste it’s menu, it’s buffet of self-served, self-serving and bittersweet moments, each with an itinerary that ends it’s travels halfway down my throat, where it will remain, even, and especially, after it’s finally digested. I can see my past, but it does not see me. I am not the same as my past remembers. I do not look or act the same as I did then. If only my past knew just what an impact it had on the stranger standing before it today.

Anybody Home?

Have you ever driven down a quiet suburban neighborhood street in the photogenic darkness of evening, and found yourself looking into all the windows of the homes you pass? Windows into a world you do not know, will never know, can never know, and – somewhere deep down inside – do not want to know? Find yourself thinking about how warm and inviting, how comfortable, how at peace that room, framed neatly in the window looks, with the soft flickering glow of the television lighting the room with the despondent feeling that 1,000 consecutive years on the broken down couch inside would not be enough to satisfy your hunger for all the reciprocated love it has to offer. Find yourself imagining the warmth generated within from the mechanical and human furnaces raging deep in its bowels. A warmth so abundant that it’s pushed up tight against the timeless glass, forming dew like moss, suffocating, arrived by way of teared droplets of envy collected from the nameless strangers passing in the night, searching for the plucked strings singing it’s irresistible siren song, and showing the weary and excluded world – dark and cold, with an effortless wind and compassionless sting – just what they are missing, using the simple inertia exhibited by the caged souls absorbing that warmth so seemingly far away as it’s poignant reminder. Content souls surely basking in the unconscious greed of excess with an extra blanket for good measure – draped on all parts except their feet in a mindless attempt to avoid an unwelcome bead of sweat and discomfort. A sweet sweat some would die for, and some will die without. In the time, the sand drifting moment – the eternity – it takes to surmise and fire off all of these assumptions, half-truths, and bunker busting munitions of self-doubt and discontent burning brightly within our own world of wants and needs, the home will have passed. The peace and safety in your rear-view mirror, as you are on then to the next home – with a desperate hope that it is less inviting, less welcoming, while offering less of what it is that you are thought to be missing out on. Perhaps hoping it is more like the destination you feel you are driving towards, because if you are like me, you always feel that your home – regardless of the light within, the warmth generated and the familiar soft flicker of your favorite show on the television – is just never as comfortable, as welcoming, as safe as every other home that you passed driving home seemed to be.

‘Hustlers’ – Philip Lorca DiCorcia

False Prophets of War

I stood like a false steel, watching as the pharmaceutical vampires ran blitzkrieg method towards my bloodstream. It was me or them; stifled life and snuffed out breath or wide eyes with a penchant for choreographing a side step when dire circumstances called for audible. Chains were bound around every free limb, for I was a prisoner to a never ending onslaught, a battle, a war – tortured with the Rockwellian picture show that played for everyone else. An oasis life that was always just over the horizon, kissing the sun somewhere I could never find. Could not reach. Could not imagine. My arms tired, legs anchored from the weight of the cold steel I could never replicate in my will. Just kill me. End it. Let me find the life that awaits my exit from purgatory. I could see everything so clearly as I lie face down on the floor, my electrified bottom with a false door, no magic on tap. Staring at the cage that kept me from the world. From you. From me. My days on the battlefield receded further into the past, a locomotive of pain picking up speed until it faded from my peripherals. I was left on the platform watching it disappear, happy to have gotten off, yet sad to know it even exists. Sad to know it will never stop. Not even slow. Sad to know many others will unwillingly board. But there I was, in a world condensed, chained and broken when I realized – I already had the key. It was in my smile I hid from view. It was in my laugh that I muffled from you. It was in my eyes, I just had to close to see. It was in me. The whole time, it was in me. Warm sun. Cool rain. Stiff wind. The silence of night and the never ending decibels of day. It was now all mine. But I am not greedy – I left some for others when they decide to stop playing war.

My Dear Shadow

So here I am again. Just you and I, my dear shadow. Shadow of my disjointed self, stacked high like used teacups, some full, never touched with a past as simple as good manners. Others with a burnt sienna ring, memories of an enjoyed roasted bean, clinging to one corner of the porcelain bottom, the way a rough rust covers the newness of neglected patio furniture partially under cover. Each cup, unsteady, none level as they do their best to fit in a stack they never were meant to erect. Each sized in a rhythmless manner, fused together for only one hand in this world, but instead settling for the company I invited. It’s just you and I, my dear shadow. Ragged bones, fleshed out with aged tendons and worn cartilage, heavily salted to minimize the rancid nature of its dissection. Tough to the sharpest tooth, a skin cannibals would shy away from, stumble knee and ankle to stumps for, claw nails into muddy earth and manifest energy from starvation to pull ground between. Choosing rather to die again, and again, and again before wearing or choking on my shell. Pro and con weighed, time capsule tombs deciding exponential death wouldn’t taint their lifeless souls the way the sustenance of my own offering would. Please’ let me stand with you, I can hear myself say beneath my tired and desperate breath. But I can only watch as it falls and fades into the silent void between me and anyone. Anything. Everything. Silence. Looks like it’s just you and I, my dear shadow. My soul mate. My love. My best friend, my enemy, my boss and student. My family and my neighbor, my countryman and my comrade. It’s you and I. You never leave me, always by my side, and to you, I can do no wrong. You complete me, my being intact only when you show your silhouette. It was you and I, my dear shadow, as my hand, palms down and outstretched, reached to the ground to hold your hand, my anchor to this world – until I watched, desperately, as you let go and bled into my peripherals, my anchor lost in a gust announcing the arrival of darkness. Alone I found myself; my being incrementally betrayed, as the sun had already set on my warmest day, giving way to a cold, moon-less night. My shadow had left me, my friend no more. For in the middle of the night is when the lonely are lonliest, their failure the loudest, their broken shards the sharpest. For in the middle of the night, at the height of our plight, in the quietest of self-sabotage, there is no one left to protect the lonely, undulating failure in a sea of haunted memories. Perhaps the viscous fertilizing cells that fall and fill the oceans, my newest of friends, borne from emulsion of good memories and world shattering decisions that pool at my feet, expanding and nurturing the collateral damage of my existence, will stay with me longer than my shadow chose to, unattached to the position of fission in the sky. Perhaps it never was my shadow that I had befriended; rather, it was simply the thought that it was the only one who would stay by my side that was my true confidant. Without it, I find that my choices are the intangibles that cling to me like nicotine yellows all without prejudice. Taking my cues from the muted smoke plumes that have no fear of others boundaries, I will wade into a certain friendship with my enemies, without fear of trespassing – even if my enemies, in the end, are just my past wind-strewn paths of destruction carved into the lives of those I held closer to me than even my dear shadow.