I Am an [The] Author

When you read this
You will think to yourself,
“this speaks to me.”
This writer has spoken to me
He knows me too well
It’s like I’m a fish out of water
Layed bare for my en
[de]tr[ails]ance to another dimension
A revelation.

When I read this
I will think to myself,
“that is disgusting.”
This writing has disturbed me
It’s makes me uncomfortable
Like a compound fracture of the heart
Gushing out on my sl
[eeve] ippery slope
An emotion.

When we read this
We will think to ourselves,
“this is pointless.”
This page might as well be blank
Where is an eraser?
It’s like I can do better
Jotting down my pr
[ecious] ayers
For correction.


There is a Devil on my Bootstrap

I stumbled to the finish line today

The cheers from the crowd

Transformed into cries of despair

When i thought it was over

I was told to keep going

And i looked at those much braver than myself

And said,

“there is a devil on my bootstrap.”

Their faces contorted,

Like a piece of paper draped over a flame,

their compassion ashed into the meloncholic mist

And rested upon my head,

Forming a tarnished ring

Where a champion’s wreath should rest.

Rather than hearing, “well done , thou good and faithful servant,”

When i gushed, “lord, LORD!”

They said, “i never knew you, depart from us.”

In my time of malnourished need,

Exhaustion from walking two miles,

When i could have walked one alone

I felt betrayed,

My own personal Judas, a wolf in christian’s clothing

Turned the other cheek, and exposed the lines of their face

And it etched a jigsaw compassion upon my heart.

Rather than hold my head high

I bowed my head, closed my eyes

And prayed that this burden

Would be loosed from my heels,

Giving strength to these weary thighs,

So that the remainder of this journey

Would heal my hope to attain that prize.


I’ve been caught in the safety net

squirming to be, trapped in a sea

a fish out of water, wishing to be wet

Prepared for dinner

on a table that has ceased to be set

stick a fork in me, I’m done

The knife has gutted my debt,

did you introduce yourself before we met?

Finish your great work in me–

balance the scales of justice in my heart

repair the guild that is my flesh, and Your spirit

Cast the line, I’ll bite

For too long I’ve swam underwater

I’m coming to the surface before I depart.

Sleeping with the Enemy

I’m getting laid
to rest
to bed
to infinite sleep
the slippery slope of slumber
the night of naivety is nigh
and the head that rests upon
the pillow
is a rushing river
for the slippery salmon
to exert, to exhort, to ex nihilo
to dream, to dress, too drab
was not our Zen the babbling brook?

This is a one night stand
up routine
down guillotine
to wrest
to dread
to wake is to rake
the life is an autumn leaf
lonely lusting for shimmering
to leap, to land, to love
to Christ, to crush, too cringe
no really, I’m falling for

Please No Rain

If I look above, I’m let down
in need of the a sun, change comes with a quarter moon
the stars project a milky way
the planets, like friends, keep their distance.

Andromeda and Cassiopeia wait for my revelation
Orion will ride Pegasus pleading for my belt
Ursa Minor directs me north
Ursa Major is the grizzly truth
the constellations, like saints, radiate the everlasting light
and the Pleiades will one day, come into focus.

My eyes see black and white, but choose grey
the rainbow is a covenant, light years away
your conviction is about to crest
these forty days should have been a fortnight at best
the ark, like intentions, drifts under penalty repeating
and the hope I have, will rise, with the water’s receding.

Run with Endurance the Race

The calmness inside me has come at a price
and the laundry thats dirty is worn like a vice
sooner or later my labor’ll suffice
as long, like a lamb, I keep moving

My fairness, thats peaceful, is brimming with pride
and the blood that is shining is draining aside
a marriage, its working, when a groom’s with his bride
and of course, the divorce, its proceeding

As a sinner I’m sad
as a lover I’m glad
that the good Lord will save, and suffer
for a man that will run any minute.

And I’ll run, the race, with endurance
’cause my prize is a place, no longer a face, I see in a mirror.

If I am a question, then I have been marked
and if I am shouting, I’ve no bite but bark
my body is weary, and I’m sweating the dark
and like most men, my strength, it is fleeting


Today, my prison, hand-crafted in whys
the jailer’s disorder’s, a little white lie
at times, in my bleakest, I lay down and die
but I’ll rise, with my God, whose defeating.


The Exile has a Death Sentence

A minority to minorities
waiting for our fountain
holding our heads up
while rain is pouring down
our drowning is a drought
our delusion is ethereal doubt
Yet, like Noah, we’ll ride the ark
and the rest will be water-boarded upon the earth.

A harvest to harvesters-
waiting for table scraps
our hands are cupped
we’ll dine when we’ve supped
our feast is a fast
our famine is a flash
Yet, like the Prodigal, you’ll welcome me home
and the rest will starve upon the earth.

The existential has a death sentence-
the exile has life’s repentance.

Pull the Thread Through

I’m on the hook
A crocheted oath
Woven by a needle
Plucked and pulled
Tied up in nots
Untangled in naughts–
Commitment is a noose
Choking me more
the completion of each row
leads the ship to the shore
while the sea and the sand
washes over the whore
and the stand that I take
is me slamming the door–
The scarf is a vow
He’s waiting to renew
at long last the loop is Him
now pull the thread through.

Taking the Lord’s Name in Vein

For once, I don’t give a damn.
As a newborn, I needed my mom.
As a teenager, I needed an identity.
As an adult? I need something to hang my hat on.
But, as a pig, I desired the filth.
As a monkey, I desired to swing in the vines.
As a cow, I desired the herd…and to be heard.
However, as a road, I wanted people to drive all over me.
As a shoe, I wanted people to share their sole with me.
As a carpet, I wanted people to walk all over me.
For once, I don’t give a damn.
As a pen, I must be mightier than the sword.
As paper, I must be a messenger in my reincarnated life.
As a book, I must be bound to a singular oath.
But, as a heart, I cannot love without striking a cymbal.
As a mind, I cannot help but think I’m missing the point.
As a soul, I cannot bind myself to my mate.
However, as a man, I long to be broken.
As a woman, I long to be swept away.
As a child, I long to have faith like a…
God don’t! God did! God…will.

In a Matter of Speaking…

When I speak, is it me?
Since I am not an architect of language
nor a visionary of communication,
it seems I am fraudulent.
A plagiarist of lyrical proportions
A hypocrite from the Shakespearean ilk.
When I boast, is it praise?
Since I am not in a Renaissance
nor an original work of art,
it seems I am a carbon copy.
An outline that has been traced
empty space in between dots, ready to connect.
When I live, is it alive?
Since I am not a picture of perfect health
nor am I a spotless lamb,
it seems that I am a broken heart.
A refugee of lifeless accelerations
a nomad in a land of homeless reservations.