Never Shall I Forget…

that first morning, the first time I saw the face, the hands, the arms of the woman who transformed me from boy to man, from immature, reckless nave to a learned and responsible adult.

Never shall I forget that smile. That first time I saw those fluorescent white jewels gleaming from the sly grin of that tan face, the look of the soul that changed my life forever.

Never shall I forget the curls of mahogany silk that spun from the mind of the kindest spirit I have ever known.

Never shall I forget the flames which consumed my heart forever.

Never shall I forget the silence which struck me: a cocky braggart who always had a quip, muted by the beauty of what fell before my still unbelieving eyes.

Never shall I forget the desire to belong, the total abandon I threw toward loneliness that remains to this day a burden on my being.

Never shall I forget these things, even were I cursed to live for endless ages with a broken heart and an incomplete soul;
never knowing the warmth of another’s presence again.




Glistening in the silver light;
a fantasy floated on the breeze, prisoner of the riverbed.
A naiad, scowling in the
“Do we know…what we see?”
Sparkling mist. Haze of time.
A fairytale, a child’s dream, a veteran’s nostalgia in a golden frame.
What we do to stay blind:
Color dirty memories with spectacle and call it magic.


I saw a young boy at the side of the road. Waiting for the cross sign to illuminate and his mother to ferry him to the other side. He was no more than eight, but maybe more. I’m not sure. I’ve never been good with age. The boy was teetering on his right leg and waving his left about. Frantically but gracefully wobbling between an elegant childishness and the mature, blissful art of a seasoned dancer. The moment his body would move too far to one side a flailing of limbs in no perceivable order would right him, inevitably sending him to the same predicament in the opposite direction. I tried to see, with my keen eye, a discernible pattern to his balance but as far as I could detect there was none. It occurred to me how safe he must feel. How innocence borders on chaos so readily, yet so cautiously. A carefree quality no adult possess. The boy was doing nothing more than attempting to stand on one leg, and utterly at peace -nay- utterly ecstatic with the activity that the whole world melted away. An adult is scorned from such behavior. Discouraged to laugh in public or amuse oneself in such ways. An adult is taught to stay still on a street corner and maintain poise, and to control motor function at all times. Games like this are below them, so act accordingly. WHY? Is happiness a childish pursuit? Is smiling something too immature for the grown man? “You laugh too much, so you are not learned.” “You jest and amuse and gawk and make a fool of yourself in your isolated joviality. That does not become a decent member of society.” I will not conform to this notion of control or this mantra of maturity. If it is naive to enjoy life then I am but a babe, for I take nothing seriously and nothing serious takes me. There is nothing in life worth doing that cannot be done while laughing, while happy, while amused. So to those who let their age determine their enjoyment: so be it. I will stay 8 years old. I will stay flailing and playful. I will stay happy.

State D.O.E.

I am part of a system that no longer distinguishes friend from foe, and as such cannot sustain itself. A system that has chosen to discard the future in favor of the past. Who will leave not a legacy, but a lesion.

Too deep to suture too wide to bind.

With no boundary drawn between right and wrong the possibilities are endless, but the consequences just as infinite. The world stands on the edge of a knife. A micron slick with oil and a match for the flame, but no one will strike it and purge the disease; sever the limbs to save the body. Only wishing to diagnose, never correctly or qualified, like a patient high with fever from over-medication bounced from ward to ward in a staggering display of the idiotic bureaucratic with no coordination or cooperation, we too suffer from a sickness born of structure.

Of this not that, of these not those, now this and those -no these and that.

The fever of policy.

You cannot save a sinking ship whose captain and crew blind themselves, and whose passengers do nothing but gawk and criticize.

We do not want to be saved.
So we will die.
All while we watch our agonizingly inevitable, utterly condemnable end.

Live on CNN.


It’s not about what we want. It’s who we were.
What we did that made the difference.

When we got there our actions had already been completed, so to say “tomorrow’s another day” isn’t true. It’s a lie, a cop-out; tomorrow is now!

There is no yesterday or today, just this moment, and then this one; all of time in a single instant, because one can never exist in anything but that. 9 weeks in 1 second. 27 years, a lifetime in the same.

The future is not what we make it is what we have made. It’s just like then was, or when could be. Next time now and the last time immediately.

Existence. Past. Present. Future.
Pasts. Presents. Futures. Being.

Realization. Self-aware. A part, and apart.
Never again and always will.


can’t I just…be alright? Just decide to move on and let things work out and be happy with this post-modern predicament we all find ourselves struggling to understand everyday while the world spirals out of coherence more and more with each passing minute. Newscasts, blogs, tweets, and snapchats…

…She pondered for a second that last entry…

No, it doesn’t work. The character had been angst-ridden and emotional the entire length of this narrative she had slaved over, and to change that now would be the lazy deus ex machina bullshit every hack blockbuster writer pulled after book 6 jumped the shark.

Real Rowling and Martin shit, not like King or Faulkner.

Can you use those two in the same breathe? Why not. Faulkner is unknown to whole generations of learned, avid readers, so to them Faulkner isn’t even eligible for greatness in the literary canon. A pantheon of prolific, inspirational and inspired writers with grit on the page and a sad deepness in their words exists over them. The classics.

A non-existent entity in a vacuum outside their experience. Eggers and Green, Foer and…Hemingway? For the trendy crowd certainly. A generation pretending to be lost while deluding themselves into thinking they identify with a generation that really was, but not in the way this new generation defines it. Not in a bad way. Historic. Cultural. Appropriate. (also defined differently by these two youths.)

Staring at the pages she decided to call it a night. Put the laptop to bed and grab that nightcap with her roommate. Misery loves company, but he is so busy that most of us just drink alone; pretending to be unhappy when really we wish we knew what unhappiness was. Apathetic doesn’t quite cover it. More like malaise…of the heart, not mind. Or both, she supposed. Perhaps we are lost (in that forgotten meaning of restless souls past) after all.

Nothing left to do but ponder away the seconds until dusk.


The empty faces

A useless generation

A nation wastes into hopeless decay.

I see the struggle in their eyes but my aid they simply despise

Any attempt to help them survive is just a slight in their mind

What will it be like for them, 5 years down the road?

When the days of school end and eligibility is gone?

When the system that fucked them turns their back and says you are too old for us now, so get a job instead. When they have no job, but work double shifts nonetheless. When child support builds and builds but they haven’t the money to pay the bills.

When we say “look to the stars” but chain our youth to the ground, what message are we really sending?

Do we say, “haha jk” to use their vernacular, or do they see right through our fantastic hypocritical spectacular oratory. They know our games, they have seen our flaws. The system we support is the reason they claw and cry and scream and twist and burn in the wreckage of the flaming fists of a society that no longer cares at all, a bitter black furnace charring all. They have dreams and wants but they will never succeed partly because of our wanton distress, a forlorn hopeless spiral circling the drain of obsoletion chasing pipedream woes of nationalistic glory.

“We must be better, we are better” is the motto of the land, a mantra of cold calculating uninformed delegates dictating derogatory, destructive decisions demanding delusional directives diligently delivered.

We the people no longer have a voice

We the people no longer have any choice

We the people have been silenced by noise

America is not beautiful when the future is so bleak

Sitting on the slippery slope, teetering on the brink, the peak, the cliffs edge-of-the-week.