Writes Alone

My musings & struggles with the blank page…

Making Love

Love is no guarantee

of protection,

a blissful eternity,

like some Saint’s homily.

I doubt seriously

love’s veracity.

Love is biology

dependent on chemistry,

an individual’s pyschology.

Still should we not

accept the responsibility

to live kindly and honestly,

making love that is all it can be.

The last thing you wanted…

As long as I don’t cry

you’re alive.

Simple logic of mine.

It’s not because I don’t

see, quite the opposite

my dear girl.

You always led the charge

always the first one there.

Aware and weakening

at any

moment I will lose faith

and slay your memory.

Forgive reality

Dead to now

So damn unjust and cruel

the last thing you wanted…

I don’t trust myself

I feel I should be doing some writing right now, but I’m so tired I don’t trust myself not to screw it up. I can’t count the number of times I’ve wearily turned on the computer to do “a little work” and blown weeks, months, sometimes years of work with a careless slip of the finger or rewritten stuff only to discover I forgot to keep some kind of copy of the original and the changes I thought so brilliant at the time are shockingly horrible and I can’t salvage anything. Yeah, that’s where I am right now, so I’m blogging instead of writing. Some people may not distinguish between the two, but I do. I’ve always had a problem with duality, I’m just too western I guess. Anyway at least I can feel like I’m doing something constructive and maybe these words aren’t brilliant in any post modern sense of things, but they’re words.

Today I read an interview between a Norwegian author and The New Yorker Critic James Woods. Woods was praising the man for his wonderful description of taking a shit in the woods and then describing it in great detail after it came out. Woods felt like he’d been transported back to childhood. The author freely admitted it wasn’t well written, but apparently that was the risk taking genius of it. I’m still thinking about this and wondering what the hell is going on? The interview is in the newest Paris Review. I don’t think it’s satire, but it seems like a lot shit to me or maybe I’m just overtired and don’t get it. Actually I’m probably in the best headspace for writing something like that right now. So what am I doing blogging then?

A New Age

Resting on the

7th day amidst the


God’s reign

is over.

A new age

has dawned

under the

infernal sun.



space not


Each atom

a universe,




into a


Heavy, Sweet, and Still

The chill in the night air

was corpse like

heavy, sweet, and still.

I waited for the pug

to find the perfect

place to pee,

and thought how

much darker life seemed


The moon though

full, was like

an eye blinded by cataracts

giving nothing back

as it took nothing

in from the world

below. My isolation was

self imposed, and I reveled

in the simplicity

of it. The pug now

empty, was ready to

return inside.

In the Ever After

Once upon a time

there was no time,

and we were nothing

in the eyes of God.

It’s a true, sad story

plucked from a

great vastness of

pure empty.

Each of us was

pulled from this

ocean like a fish

and then soundly

imprisoned in

cages of flesh.

We called this death

and life, and we sought

escape wherever it

could be had.

We forgot we weren’t

meant to laugh.

And our cages weren’t

strong enough to

contain the nothing,

that had been spun

into something,

that wasn’t really

more than the

nothing it was

taken from.

So we all died

happily in the

ever after.

Where the Fallen Rise Again

Inside my head.

Built with feelings,

ideas, stories,


anything that’s

lying around.

Is a universe

put together

with imagination.

Where the fallen

rise again,

and everything

is what it seems.

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It’s Only a Loan

It seems so unjust,

that everything

is eventually

snatched away.

Every damn thing

is taken.

Nothing remains ours.

Even the soul is

lost to us at death.

Whatever soul is,

it is not ours to keep.

How did these bodies

of flesh and bone

come to cage this

cosmic magnificence?

The soul animates us,

as it rips us apart,

getting its freedom

any way it can.


it’s only a loan

this life of ours.

These thoughts,

and this poem too

belong to no one.

Like Amber

I’ve found memory an

appallingly, random thing.

Conditions rarely permit

vagrant moments to

be enshrined in amber.

Life’s sap drips, catches, and holds.

Settling then hardening,

becoming something

personal, maybe even

beautiful in the right light.

But not enduring

and like amber

is destroyed when

exposed to flames.


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