Introduction

Not everything comes at once. 

Some of my writings are born through pieces. 

Over time. 

Whether a line in the margins of my notebook or a quick thought in the Notes app, they are conceived, but never fully developed. 

I must sit with them until the moment comes. 

With my voice, I try to call each one from the darkness into the light. 

The pages before you have heeded my beckoning into the world. 

Dedicated to all of those in the creative fight. 

Keep fucking going. 

Wherever you are gathered in your name 

There is love 

If there are two 

You are still there and there is love

Enduring under headline skies

Protesting skies

Falling skies

There is love

Resounding above cruel voices

Hateful voices

Killing voices

There is love

Gathered within and with out

Wherever you are

So be here and be there

Be where you are

And there is love

Do you need a map and a compass

Maybe ask a stranger for directions

You’re taking the scenic route through a nightmare again

Because you thought it would lead you somewhere 

To a destination or an explanation

A paradise where you could switch on the sweet dreaming

Instead of falling

Falling

But you’re not startling awake

I need you to wake up

Wake up

Wake up

Come on and open your eyes for me

Before you hit the bottom rushing upwards

She moved to L.A. to be another cliche vampire

Out for blood behind the velvet rope

Hiding under the Hollywood sign and a paywall

Only to be captured by the cops’ dash cam

And the pixelated maybe boys’ webcam

Falling to their knees with her leash around their neck

She tugs and dollar bills vomiting out of their mouths into hers

A tithe for bigger tits and plumper lips

To keep another failed plastic guru afloat in the Pacific

The morning approaches with its pardoning of memories that consume

And sorrows that come stealing in the night

Reminding me that I only come to leave again

A boy was allowed to be a boy

Until the boy was told to be a man

But the man was told he wasn’t man enough

So the man shook from his mortal sleep and awakened the Wild God within that’s always been

Rising above

Hot spirit burning the unbelievers 

The gods he once propped up and defended

Their eyes now cast away for they are unable to behold the Wild God’s beautiful heart

His burning heart

His thunderous heart

Beating and echoing throughout the world

Can you feel it?

Can you feel his heart beat?

Calling others to war and gathering those unafraid to get lost in what is possible

Inspiring other’s to inspire themselves

The voice calling out in the wilderness

Let the false muse fall away

Let her die

Step into her place

All you Wild Gods

Whole and beautiful

Transforming

Flying

Above your long dark nights

Leaving the time of sorrows

Joy ascending with a blinding brightness

Let the new day break on all you Wild Gods

And guide your steps among us

In the woods behind the cathedral of St. So and So where I sometimes go

I dig and I dig

But realized the size of the hole was too small for someone so tall

I looked over at Mr. J and he had nothing to say

About my form or my technique

So I dig and I dig some more making the hole bigger than it was before

Ranting about trusting the government and who owns who

And I asked Mr. J if he ever knew

But he had no opinion on the matter or anything for that fact

“Oh, so polite, Mr. J. It’s rude to discuss money, religion, sex, and politics with your guest.”, I jest

Mr. J held his tongue like I held my shovel, sturdy and true while I dig and I dig

I wonder if Mr. J knew of his wife’s unfaithfulness with Father Karl in the perish kitchen

She cried out to God while I watched and I watched

Until Father Karl realized my perversion

He told me he would absolve of my sins and that’s what he did

Because he’s the one who sent me to dig 

And she put on a wig while she passed me the money under the table

Asking if I was able 

To crush Mr. J’s skull with my shovel too dull

Like my little life

“Mr. J, I coveted your wife”, I confessed, “while she was getting railed and praising the Lord.”

But Mr. J didn’t seem to care or maybe he didn’t dare to confront his killer

As I dig and I dig

Getting the hole just right

And I kicked his ass in and finished before the new day’s ligh

Stranded on the fine line between where I've been and where I want to go

High over uncertainty and scared to look below

A drooping tight rope spanning, demanding acrobatics other than the existential ballet

Holding on to the barre to just pull off a plie

When I should be rubbing some Stravinsky on it 

Little bits of beautiful dissonance blasting through their perfect pitch 

My own le sacre du printemps to incite the riot of the soul that’s ready to overturn the self treasonous tyrant living in this skin

Singing his song of dos and don’ts and can’ts and won’ts 

But I’ll conduct my own primal orchestra for the soundtrack 

Playing in the key that I need as my feet figure out how to promenade among the clouds

Crude to those safe on the ground stomping around in trendy choreographies 

Offending their artistic sensibilities 

While they dance in line to 4/4 time and I jeté in 3/8 with haste hoping to stick the landing on this electric high wire 

I’ve so careful strung between the chasm I’ve been staring at for years 

Allowing fears of being seen and being heard to silence the instrument I am 

Because I am 

The whole of a symphonic seance conjuring Miles Davis blowing his trumpet to save us 

I’m his Kind of Blue and Bitches Brew wailing down from my dare devil’s throne 

Constructed with my blood and bone

A bridge crafted with everything I have which isn’t much

But it’s something

And I’ll get across the best I can 

On my own

But I’m someone

Who can and will make the most of this life I’m lucky enough to live

As the trapeze artist with no more fucks to give

I’m going to the store

But I’m not going to buy those batteries to power the powerful little lies you tell when you’re not well

“I’m not this and I’m not that”

And then can’t decide if it’s fact or crap

But I’ll tell you it’s all bullshit in your head that you’ve been fed

From the cold spoon screen that screams louder with each passing day

With its perfect teeth and flawless skin

It points out your perceived sin of not being enough 

An unsolicited advice column for the broken and lonely who give their last ounce of trust to the paid disappointment of a stranger telling you they can solve your problem

Dividing you in yourself but the math won’t let you carry the one that matters most

Making you feel less than

Equal to unseen and unheard

Until the spark is gone from your eyes and you pop in those corroded battery powered lies

So I’m heading down to the store

Let me drop off some hope at your door when I come back

It’s on my list and should be on yours too because it’s a new day and hope is long overdue 

To rise in your voice and stir in your soul 

Until the sweetness of the overcome

Is overflowing on your tongue

For too long you’ve been trying to lick your back consumed with flame

So hot that’s turned you towards the window frame or worse

Because I’ve been there too

Burning fists clenched around my doubt and the taste of gun metal filling my mouth

But hope was delivered in the smallest of ways 

And even on the darker days I feel a worth worth being around for

So get your coat

I’m coming over

And we’re going to the store 

There’s hope endlessly stocked up down on aisle four

These pens all run out of ink at the same time.

When the curtain falls

That hardened shell of rage molts away to expose my naked fear of not being lovable

I wait at the bottom of the hole that my own hands have so carefully crafted

Longing to be chosen

The Ballad of St. Dymphna

The mornings found Everett Burnside laid prostrate on the sidewalk in front of St. Mary’s Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. To the unbelievers that stepped over him and his dirty needles, he would appear dead. But he was merely praying to St. Dymphna, the patron saint of sleep. The warm afternoons resurrected him to steps of the church where he would watch the passing summer girls shedding layers. Parading before him with sinful amounts of flesh exposed. He would proclaim his opioid-tongued homily, ending it with, “He has risen!” Everett did not let his left hand know what his right hand was doing down his pants as he jerked off for Jesus. He has risen, indeed.

Galway

He looms in the back of the church, searching for a faith that doesn’t recognize him. The air feels heavy, making it hard to breath in a room full of exhaled prayers. All he wanted was a deity to lead him in the dance through the depths of the unknown, but found the organ wouldn’t play the songs his soul longed for. 

I sent you a meme

We sit across from each other without speaking a word.

Silently, we extend our mirrored hands to say, 

“This is my new distraction.”

We laugh briefly before our lips seal and our days slip away in the blue screen blues.

He was a clever and handsome man

Who never learned to whisper

She was a girl

All petite and mute

Who just wanted love

She just wanted love

But he wanted more

He wanted more

He wanted a mirror that he could suck dry

Placing his lips to the glass

He sucked her dry

xxx-xx-xxxx

Look, dear children, sew your eyes shut

Don’t gaze at the sky

Your dream floats up there, but don’t chase it

They own it

They own it

Hush, sweet children, bite your tongue

Be seen and never heard

Your voice matters, but don’t use it

They own it 

They own it

Come down, lovely children, deny your soul

You are just a set of numbers

There is a fire inside, but don’t stoke it

They own it

They own it

A Florida hurricane capsized Virginia’s Navy one sailor at a time.

She was an aposematic mermaid, but I was looking for poison beneath the Atlantic moon. She took me by the hand and we interlaced a dream with a nightmare. We disappeared from view, singing the bleeding soul blues. Pushing through her darkness where I slept. Pushing through my darkness where she wept. There was no coming up for air. There was no coming up for air. There was no coming up for air. She pulled, I pulled. She drowned, I drowned. As we wore the heavy, iniquitous crown. 

Soured & Vomited

Jesus retreats into the desert

Away

Away

Away from you

Cradling his words in one hand and clutching a gun with the other

Your forked tongue spewing forth out of context venom and proclaiming “Wrath! Wrath!”

While your white patron saints and caesars line their policy making pockets with your self-edification 

Jesus softly weeps and whispers, “Grace. Grace.” 

His cross a vanity and his empty tomb full of your faithless works and misplaced hopes

Good news becoming soured and vomited 

As you wipe your chins with your flags

9-5

I like my CEOs how I like my milk, white and over priced. The numbers and figures look good this year as we take advantage of the underserved, underprivileged. The promise of economic mobility, but with a side of debt slavery. You’ll be a good worker bee doing what you’re told and not questioning “the way it’s always been done”. Your rural towns will be your tombs. The fluorescent lights of the Dollar Tree are not the lights at the end of the tunnel. You’ve been bamboozled by the system that’s stacked against you. It’s the way it’s always been done. The sleight of hand to make you chase the American nightmare. Serving. Slaving. Dying. In the 9-5 funeral march, all of our rolling coffins clog the highways as we nod to the sick beats.

Stevie Nicks tried to warn you.

I petition you, brothers, to examine the hidden sorrows brought on by your masculine dispensation. Your unearned honor. Hear the thunderous voice of a goddess with all of her feminine rage before it’s too late. Heed her warnings or tremble in trepidation when her silence comes crashing down. For the moon will shut up its radiance, commanding the seas to toss you with fury and swallow you down. The sun will vanish from your skies while the darkness pries open your haughty eyes and forces you to recognize her light through your repentant tears. A weeping and gnashing of teeth. A wearing of ashes and sackcloth. But, none will mourn for you when her divine hand comes down, raining ruin upon your heads. Turn and be saved, brothers. Turn and be saved.

The delusion of heritage blinds them

Civil War generals riding through their blood

Crying, “Keep me alive! Keep me alive!”

A flag, all tattered in the breeze

One thread away from their unraveled American dreams

“Keep me alive! Keep me alive!”

The prayer of vengeful ghosts muttered by mouths of a conduit too mute to be free