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Tag Archives: poetry

Tiny Threads (2010)

Uncertain of my place
Unfamiliar with the space
Above and around me
The ground too far below
Curled inward
I orbit redundantly
Around myself
A lost and dormant seed
In the wind
Spinning faster awakened by the sun
Spreading my limbs to slow my motion
Reaching out and grabbing hold
Of the tiny threads I can finally see
Part of the greater Mercy


Empathy for a Sociopath

The stories that spin in my mind even I have come to believe.
I am the man behind the curtain of my own mind.
With one hand I weave and weave
Until you can no longer move beneath the web.
With the other, I tug, tug, tug
Until I completely yank out the rug and it all comes tumbling down.
I pull the marionette strings.
I rearrange the stars so you can no longer trust your compass.
All of this, so that I have something to do
With stories that spin in my head.
I am the man behind the curtain in my own mind.
These are the stories I have told myself.
This is either the way I was made or made to be.
Without the love of the first one who carried me here,
I am beholden to the man behind the curtain of my own mind.
I am powerless to the man behind the curtain of my own mind.
Gifted with charm and humor, I am ten steps ahead of where I want to take you.
Life through a skewed lens, astigmatism.
I would rather numb it, or distort it, or ignore it.
Indecision is my friend so that life can keep happening to me,
And none of this will be my fault.
I will slow it down and speed it up
Until my skewed view is the lens that you view the world through too.
When what you see and what you feel don’t match,
Then you will know how it feels to be me
And how dizzy it feels to be on this side of the curtain.

Strange Shapes (Circa 2005)


Holding herself out there in strange shapes
Shortening her neck with a shrugged shoulder
Cradled arms provide a nest of comfort
Tight muscles
Crooked spine
Widened hips
Cracking knees
Calloused feet
Spilling milk from her body
Thirsting for a life all her own

Covered (April 2012)

In my bed covered in children
Who move like water to fill the spaces left
Because close is not enough
The milk filled one
Warm and sticky sweet
Flopped crossways over me, belly to belly
The other one, with his hands entangled in my hair
Pressed to my side
Breath in my ear
We slumber late into the morning
Inhaling and exhaling
Our body rises and falls as one

My Practice

This is my practice of less is more through photos, paintings, poems, essays and short stories. This is where all the chaos of the day gets boiled down to the meaningful, the essence, the reason. The gems.

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