This Ring

This ring has no owner
Poison – made of led
Given to me by my father
It stains my finger green
And I was challenged with the task of passing it on
I’m starting to think I may bury it instead
To make someone else my property
To shackle her to me
To package up our offspring and carry them in our pouches
Only to have them resent us as the gain their own autonomy
I may just bury this ring instead
And break the spell sent down by my father’s father’s father



Sitting in awe
Every event inspiring a new and pleasant sensation
Open eyes, open heart, open mind

Morning Cul De Sac – Street Lit Writing Prompt 07.22.18

I awake to the sound of Mom’s angry, slurred screaming. I pray she is not angry with me. Mom is never not drinking. She tends to get a good buzz going around 10:00am, when she first gets out of bed. It is 6:46am now. I guess it started early today. I feel a sense of relief when I hear the phone slam down. Unless she was talking to my school, I’m not the one in trouble. After a few moments of silence, I escape my bedroom, my backpack in hand, and hurry out the front door. Just as I step into the street outside my family home, Dad’s truck comes squealing around the corner at the end of the cul de sac. I’m sure he’s been drinking too. I step quickly out of the way as Dad’s truck speeds past, into the back yard. I am the first at the bus stop just a couple houses down from mine. I feel mortified as my parents’ loud fighting is audible even here. Other children slowly join me at the bus stop. I don’t know whether to apologize for or deny the disturbance down the street. Dad comes speeding by and stops with screeching tires a short distance past my friends and me. He reverses quickly, stops in front of me, and demands, “Get in!”. I tell him, “I’m good. I’m going to school.” He violently shifts his truck into park, climbs out, and grabs me by the arm. I guess I’m not going to school today.

spaces between beats of the drum

to let myself dwell in my pensive blue
owning the void
loving it as a part of me
and knowing it cannot own me
to dip my feet in the shallows of the cold
recognizing my warmth cannot be overtaken
to smile in my loss, in my sadness
to recognize to feel this void requires that I be truly full in so many other ways
and I will dance on
letting this absence work as spaces between beats of the drum

Street Lit Writing Prompt 04.28.18 – Holding Hands

It will be means to everything else. If I just gain the courage to reach out and grab her hand. Everything is in this one feat of courage. And if she pulls, away, I will not have lost anything other than everything we could’ve been. And if she holds my hand back, I will feel it all, love, life, sex, children, pain, and insurmountable joy. Not all held hands are sexy – there is the hand of my best friend, which sometimes holds mine as means of connection. Not all sex starts with heald hands – even though, sometimes, in hind-sight, I wish it did. Sometimes these sensations of life-altering love are illutions, chemicals in the brain initiated by a sweaty palm’s recognition of another. But, and I know this only as rumor, but sometimes, these sensations, these visions of a life to be, are symptomatic of everything to come. And yeah, it’s absolutely worth the risk. So I take a breath, say a prayer, and reach blindly out toward you…

Street Lit Writing Prompts 04.28.18

That moment before the night turns to morning

That moment before the night turns to morning. Wind on my face. This city is ours. Steady hand. Perfectly reminiscent of something so long ago. And it smells of smoke. visions of cedar embers dance in the mind. Elation. Face sore from smiling. It won’t last and we won’t care. Because, for this moment, there is nowhere else we’d rather be.

Beautiful Creators

Gods in our own rights
Beautiful creators
So incredibly fortunate to have been born into this role
And still we cry when our creations cease to be what we had hoped
So cry and try not to be beautiful
You will never succeed
Perfectly amusing
Perfectly amused
Skin and bone
Meat and blood
So many images of one
Beautiful creator
Gods in our own right

Quiet Musings Alone on a Small Boat at Night

It has been said the idea of a soulmate is antiquated and unrealistic. A few women I’ve met in recent history have expressed the idea that there are several men with whom they could share their lives and be happy. I suppose the argument against a soulmate puts logic over superstition. At the same time, I’ve witnessed love’s ability to make us blind, to inebriate us to the point of elation, to the point where we don’t care to see the potential flaws in a relationship because the benefit far out ways the risk. I’d like to think the other person in such a relationship is what some would call the other’s soulmate. It’s not that the two could never be happy with anyone else, but rather, that the two could not envision being happy with anyone else. Further, that the two were fated to be because they chose to be. To wrap our minds around such an idea, we may need to view time as an infinite, rather than a line. If time does not move from one end of a line to the other, if there are endless possibilities, with endless outcomes, then we are simultaneously not fated to be with one individual and have always been with that one individual. If the passing of time is an illusion of the human mind, I am and will always be with her. I ache for the day I meet her and I will not settle for anyone who is not her. I know of the magic of romantic love, because I have lived it. As much as I’ve thrown away, I continue to pray for my next hit, for the opportunity to feel that invincible again. With eyes to the sky, a son of Pi, sending up a flair over a dark ocean.

But the Proles

“But the proles, if only they could somehow become conscious of their own strength. would have no need to conspire. They needed only to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow morning.”

Tools used to keep the proles unconscious of their own strength: religion, distraction, division, medication, ignorance, and fear.
Tools the proles may use to awaken themselves: free-thought, focus, unification, sobriety, education, and love.

I think faith can be means to awakening. But religion mangles faith into these prepackaged forms. To say I am (insert religious philosophy here), strips me of my responsibility to search for my own personal truth. Religion has been means to restricting our behavior. When we adhere to these predesigned forms of faith, we give their creators the power to shape our behaviors and even our thoughts. To those who are not avid readers, the quote above is from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. The Proles, in this piece, were the working class. My intention in this post, is to compare Orwell’s proletarians (proles) to the working class of our society. There would seem to be a lot attempting to keep us in our places, asleep. But we have the tools to awaken ourselves. I see all of this hate in our world, all of this deliberate ignorance, and think we have to do something to change.