To Water You Shall Return

The moment you decide to dip your toe in, everything becomes clear. The fog lifts, the haze dissipates, and suddenly the weight of your thoughts and pains is lifted and carried on the backs of millions of tiny atoms bonded together by fate, because the universe willed it so when meteors collided and out of it sprung dirt, wind, flame and sweet arms of warm velvet, holding on just tight enough to keep your head afloat, your lungs satisfied, and your heart free from the gut wrenching pangs that earth brings with its dusty, barren expectations of groundedness, clarity, the need for sense making that’s been ground into our skulls between the mortar of society and the pestilence of giving a fuck but why bury ourselves under the rubble of stone when our bodies are made mostly with the capacity to float; float far away on salty waves, ebbing and flowing between coasts, destined to one but drawn to the shininess of the other, an oxymoron of the freedom trapped on an island between two bodies, east and west, hot and cold, familiar and new, a balancing act of healing and being frozen in time with only the very tip of the reality of it visible while the bulk remains concealed below, reverberating the songs of all of the other creatures of two worlds, born of fire and water, fighting the never-ending battle of sustenance or love, creation or fulfillment, swirling in paths and patterns that the universe etched long before anyone had a say in the matter but we must go with the flow, as they say, because there is nothing better than the sway of the tide gently tugging your ankles, willing your toes to unclench the sand and trust that temptation will satisfy you just enough to not fully take you and everything you have worked so hard to build, your sandcastles overlooking a picture perfect life, endangered by the strife of never being able to feel the splash of mist or the caress of wet hair plastered over your face, and the sweet muffled lullaby rumbling in your inner ear, whispering,
“You are water and to water you shall return.” 

The Walking Dead

Another day chasing another dollar.
Fist clenched on a wad of dirty bills
as it labors to break through a rocky, rooty surface
after a 30-something year slumber
piled under tons of earth and rubble.
A deadly escape of sorts, a mecca
compared to the mindless robotics of the living,
sipping on bean water
to keep our eyes plastered open
on this joyride we call life.
But what is life?
What is it to live?
A blink away from its antithesis,
a release, a relief,
like gas escaping this vacuous sack we call our own,
as if we ever really owned it in the first place,
as if we ever really owned anything
besides the tumbling thoughts in our heads,
like dull stones being beckoned to shine,
polishing the turds that live between our ears,
like a diamond, once a dusty piece of coal that had a stressful day,
only to come out on the other end the picture of wealth,
sustenance, success,
gilded and sparkling like a top hat atop a rotting tooth,
though the bones turn to dust, the precious stone remains.
And to think they told us
that our true treasure was waiting in some fairy-tale land
promised by the king of zombies,
robed in majesty of sweaty, bloody rags,
hung on the splintering fruits of his own labor,
betrayed by trade and industry,
a tale as old as rusty nails
and as fresh as a rose gold, miniature, handheld computer,
a dark master,
training us to roam this dying planet like death itself,
hunchbacked, stiffened, writhing, rheumatic beings
seeking to feed on the decay of our own kind,
tearing at the flesh and the mind
as we swipe, swipe, swipe,
until we render each other lifeless,
walking dead,
praying for purgatory or even better,
anxiously awaiting our turn
to curl up inside this barren earth
and make our peace with mediocrity.


The Walking Dead
Eve Poetry Prompt
October 8, 2019

This is Your Song

“And you can tell everybody this is your song,”
Sang the moon as her eyes gently closed
And a black veil slipped over her face,
Embroidered with a certain sadness
That proceeds the naivety of breakthrough,
When veil serves as mask,
The superhero’s accessory to defeat,
Disguising the victories that lie
On the other side of the darkness.
But you need special glasses to see
When your brain is throbbing,
Clouded with so many dreams,
Seeping into the whites of your eyes
Like a poisonous ink from a spineless creature
Evolved to make his best successes blind,
Leaning only on the faith of dozens of appendages
Sucking information in,
Transforming, adapting to the depths,
Taking oxygen from decayed and forsaken particles,
Priceless treasures abandoned as trash
By a creature not as optimistic,
Not as realistic to solve the simple equation
That light must succede darkness,
Reign as monarch
With centuries upon centuries of heirs
Nourished in the pitch of a womb,
Reaching thousands of limbs
Into the muddy depths of the earth,
Cycling and cycling through phases,
Until the wheels are burning at both ends
Smoke and smog coated handrails and footprints,
Making a trail so you can find your way back home
Without the glow of the orbs that brought
You there in the first place,
Lead only by shadows of what used to be,
Faintly pointing, navigating
With blurred edges and the faintest whisper
In your heart that the work is already done.
The stones have been laid.
The fabric stitched together
And tied over your eyes,
Until you’re ready to believe that
The blindfold is just a mask,
The mask just a filter
Training your eyes
To let your blindness be your guide.
Bathe in the shadows of
The last and first day of the rest of your life.
This is your song.


Written August 30, 2019, New Moon.

On the Other Side of Eclipse

The end of a chapter.
The end of an era
Full of light and dark,
Fully light, fully dark,
Hidden in the shadows of crags and rocks
NASA is proud to claim
As a giant step for mankind.
Shadowless projections on the world stage
Outshone by her big brother
Skewing facts, facing them.
Facing away with half a face,
Your nose pointing in one direction,
Your mind in another,
Floating in the stars,
Bloated from the scars
From hanging upside down,
Head filling with vitality, plump and round
Ready to burst, red and tight
Washed black, white,
Gray dust inside this barren sky desert,
Crumbling under a boot,
Ridged with American innovation,
Filled with extra terrestrial matter,
Mingling like two crusty neighbors,
Stuck together, flaky, flecking off,
Leaving bits and pieces
With every step of the journey,
These 13 years spinning out of control.
Anticipating darkness, receiving light,
A disappointing juxtaposition
With a handsome payoff
Enough to cover your debt of shame,
Insufficient vulnerability,
And offer a loan that’s just enough
To chug you along
Over the highest peaks,
Through the treacherous craters
That throw your logic out of orbit
If you pause long enough to consider
That a crater-making beast
Is also made up of craters,
If you have a long enough zoom lens
To de-pixelate the details,
Subvert the colors,
Invert the contrast,
Save the mids,
Boost the highs,
Embrace the lows tightly.
Squeeze life out of the throbbing womb,
Who yearns to create
But argues with the heart,
Who is fighting the same battle.
And how can you be expected
To find the answer
If it’s only visible to the Southern Hemisphere?
But if you spin the globe fast enough,
Vertically and horizontally, at the same time,
The details may blur,
But the truth remains at the core,
Ready to boil over,
Red, hot, magma that expands and contracts.
Expands and hardens.
Hardens and withers.
Withers and weathers
Into glittering moon dust
That’s been floating around our atmosphere
This whole time,
Coating our lungs with breaths of patience,
Whispers of dreams eclipsing doubt,
Giving birth after a 13 year gestation to:
“I am.”
“I can.”


Written July 17, 2019, partial lunar eclipse.

Strawberry Moon

A Strawberry Moon,
reddish, pinkish,
hued with secrets,
the whispers of native soles
pounding on berry covered Earth,
green, seeded, fruit painting the soil
and hungry teeth craving a sweet bite after snow, rain, and freeze,
the first sight of green needles
prickling the skin between the toes,
alerting friends and foes
that the time is upon us
when mothers gather
with their mothers and daughters,
leave the men to the slaughter,
venture deep into the woods,
over the river,
over the ridge
patched with colors sewn from Grandmother Nature’s needle and thread,
stitching together the time of lore
when the wolf howled at the pink orb
and dozens of red droplets poured down
and glittered the Earth with the tastiest treat
on this side of the solstice
longing to stain little fingers and dresses,
faces, golden-bronze tresses
tangled in burrs from rolling down the hill
harvested by the tumble of laughter,
filled with crimson morsels
illuminated by the spotlight of the rays
of the recently sleeping brother of the lady of the night,
a guiding light pointing out the dangers and joys
of a dewy summer’s eve,
companion to Father Adam and this his day,
when we celebrate and mourn what he has given us,
a prickly, thorny, leaf of three,
flowering in deceiving yellow,
beckoning to give us life
while poisoning us with a toxicity pulsing through veins,
wrapping and reaching,
rash inducing,
with a reddish, pinkish hue
just like you Mother Moon,
yet nothing like You.

Stay Humble

Leaves of grass,
beads of sweat
I’d prefer it in a mug
than plastered to my chest.
I’d prefer it steeped at 173
than itching, irritating,
clinging to me.
I’d prefer it my salad,
an avocados mate,
than scraping it’s debris
from a stranger’s plate.
I’d prefer it arranged
in a crystal vase,
than shredding projectiles at my face.
I’d prefer it soft between my toes,
nature’s protection from jagged foes.
I’d prefer it dancing, wild, and free
cared for, groomed by destiny.
But Duty calls for Nature’s pause.
Humility has a higher cause.
And dripping in clippings am I today
so the sound of the motor can gently say:
“Stay humble.”