Sunday, June 17, 2012


~ jerk ~
* retard *
~ idiot ~

broken record in my head
whisperings of defection
blotch on humanity
I am my own worst enemy

~ stupid ~
* fuck up *
~ moron ~

demon's finger
holds the stylus in the groove
gramophone of defeat
abrasions of self destruction

round and round
over and over
again and again
same damn growlings

at least they could expand their vocabulary

august 3, 2oo7

The tyranny of self-loathing is a wretched 'invisible' prison.The blight of impossible standards feeds the ruler of such tyranny.

I'm thankful that such tyranny and fodder has been malnourished now from my soul. Occasionally, an unrelenting standard crop grows. Yet these days, it is more readily purged than prior decades.

Glad the days of this defeating self-talk are mostly by-gone. Still, I hope I never forget the mental torment and anguish of the dis-ease.


Friday, June 8, 2012

Penny Thoughts

"Your past does not predict
your future.
Change is possible at
any moment."

Your hypocrisy would be laughable
if not for its expense
Peoples' hearts littered along
your change bye-way

Now, you begin again
Deja vu
History repeating itself
No real change

You are a prime example
of one who 'forgets'
his past
Erasure isn't change

False change
Monopoly money
Words of sweet praise

No, thank you
Keep your change
preferably in a

june 8, 2012

Monday, June 4, 2012

Pinhole View: Prose 1

My heart, so heavy.
My heart, so empty.
My well of love, dry.

I look inside.
I look to God.
I look
but my heart remains low.

Where has my passion gone?
Where has my life been thrown?
Where can I find the way?

Father, daily I cry within my heart.
Daily I want to run away.
Daily I feel a desperation.

I know not where to turn.
I know not how to find answers.
My tears fall continually inside.

Will you hold my hand?
Will you manifest what I am to do?
Will you make it clear?

I ask timidly,
with doubt of my every move.

My heart, so very heavy.
My heart, so very sad.
My heart, so very empty.

My soul, flooded with tears.....

june, 2005

I left The Way in October, 2005, four months after this poem was written. I had found a place to turn.

This poem is Prose 1 of 3. All three parts can be read here:
Pinhole View: A Trilogy

Prose 2 can be read alone here: Pinhole View: Prose 2
Prose 3 can be read alone here: Pinhole View: Prose 3

Friday, June 1, 2012

Head-on Collision

I enter the giant building
Aseptic walls, sterile scent
White robes, green scrubs
Beeps and hydraulic hisses

I enter your glass-door encasement
On your back, more still than night
Able only to move your eyes
Staring at the white ceiling

Harrowing sight before me
Your body stretched like a hammock
Metal halo encircles your skull
Held tightly with stainless steel screws

Our eyes meet, tears spill over
Trickle of pain flows down your cheeks
62 years now behind you
Uncertain terror of what lie ahead

Never again in this life will you know

Thrill of the hike
Glory of the golf swing
Wind of the ski slope
Frigid chills in your toes
Warm touch to your thigh

To hold a hand
To stroke a cat
To tie a shoe
To lift a child
To button a button
To zip a zipper

Flip the steak
Carve the roast
Pinch Mom on her bottom
Dance a Glen Miller swing
Click the camera

Foreign to the life that awaits you

Only dead weight beneath your shoulders

C-4 sever
One split-second
Cataclysmic aftermath

augst 19, 2007


In early July, 1983, Dad was in a head-on automobile collision. Life forever changed.
To read more context, click here: When Limbs Go Quiet