Box within a box within a box,

gather, experience, clutter,

compartmentalize, to cope;

tomorrow I’ll organize,

I hope…


(To be continued…)







Sometimes, the struggle’s heroic,

and you know it,

feeling deep meaning inside.

Sometimes, futility bites,

and you realize your valiant efforts

are a waste of time,

a waste of precious life.

(Alas, sometimes only in hindsight…)


(To be continued…)







Whoever really knows,

who or what they truly are,

where they’re going,

what their best interests are,

how to achieve these,

how to avoid the innumerable, unexpected obstacles which present and obstruct?

A very few of us.

And, of they, how many can turn the “knowing” into doing, realizing, flowering, reaping sweet fruit?

Alas, most of us, probably do the best we can, on any given day,

albeit with an awareness, that things aren’t as good as they could or should be,

a haunting suspicion that we, each, are not quite who we were “meant” to be,

or even close to that possibility.


(To be continued…)







Some quests, when reflected upon,

seem pretentious,

and hopeless,

if not meaningless,

but, for a while,

they give us purpose.

… Are our actions driven by passion,

or imbibed senses of obligation?


(To be continued…)







The optimist, in the wrong time and place,

preaching hope and positivity,

power and victory,

is a repulsive figure…

Such sentiments should always be carefully applied,

particularly to avoid any latent, implicit, or indeed explicit


In hubris is hate,


and, ultimately,



(To be continued…)







I wouldn’t go as far as to say that it’s my “home town”,

but I used to live in the area, and did many important things,

in that time and place.

And today, I had cause to go back.

And, it looked much the same,

albeit with changes;

and the feelings it aroused inside of me

were complex

and melancholy.

… Happy people, in the sunshine, throng together,

while I seek shadows and peace.

… It’s not so much lost opportunities that I mourn,

more so it’s my broken self,

and the impossibility of things which once brought me a sense of purpose and hope.

… Dreams are destined to be broken, it would seem,

nevertheless, apparently, most people are quite happy

with daily banality.

… My eyes sting, tears almost flow,

and it would probably be a relief,


but, no, that doesn’t happen.

Somehow I won’t allow myself this indulgent pleasure.

I feel ill and beyond redemption;

tortured, in an inexplicable way,

abused in a manner that won’t be reported on TV news,

fucked-up, chewed-up, spat-out, screwed,


Misunderstood and, I assume, detested.


(To be continued…)







When the worst-case-scenario

becomes an everyday reality,


hope becomes an ironic luxury.


(To be continued…)







“Well, why did you do it?” she asks,

as if I knew.

Defensive actions, wildly varying in execution,

only explicable,

in vibes visceral;

we act in response

to what we perceive,

as threat.


(To be continued…)







Lifestyles of the rich and famous,

the powerful few,

privilege flaunted,

decadence on view.

Is it to arouse envy,

is it out of contempt,

is it to reinforce boundaries,

amplify impossibilities,

erase aspirations,

for me and you?

… Alas, what chance,

égalité, fraternité?


(To be continued…)







Some days, many days in fact,

it seems inevitable,

regardless of intention,

good will, or preparation,

another disaster will hit,

small or large,

taking with it,

another ounce of life,

piece of soul.


(To be continued…)







Sometimes in this manifestation of life, 

it seems, the best we can hope for, 

is to do as little damage as possible, 

to self and each other.


(To be continued…)







A revelation forms in my mind,

insight speaking deeply to me,

helping understanding, giving some meaning to being,

life, existence, society, purpose, relevance.

I talk to myself,

and the neighbor looks at me as if I exude crazy,

while he sprays poison on vegetation, so-called “weeds”,

and it’s almost Winter,

when they, quite naturally, will disappear anyway.

He is a father of many children, proven “man”,

auto-self-perpetuated, apparently immortal.

But really…

which of us is truly sane?!


(To be continued…)







When I have said as much as I can bring myself to say,

speaking to the wall, realizing the futility of continuing,

the conversation is over; alas, if only it had never been!

I am spent, and hurting, as are you, implacable indeed.

If only we could move beyond the insults, concede,

and, exalting weakness, accede;

perchance, heal each other’s agonies.


(To be continued…)







Foreign, yet familiar.

Quiet riot,

soul surging, pulsing,


screaming silently,

violently, peaceably,


Everything and nothing,

this is being.


(To be continued…)







All messed up,

scant chance of rescue.

Alone and despised,

yesterday’s news.

Unappreciated, unfulfilled,

overlooked, misunderstood…

Everybody has a story to tell,

everybody has an angle,

a smoldering, ongoing tragedy;

typically the microphone is only given, alas,

to celebrities, and clichés.


(To be continued…)







People. Time. Place. Space.

Everything is relative.

This is what unites.


(To be continued…)







The right music and/or song,

at the right time,

can rescue one’s soul,

or at least how it feels.

Wrong music, for a person, time, or place,


will annoy and irritate,

utterly condemn.


(To be continued…)









Free verse.

What is reality,

and how can we ever truly convey

the immensity of existence?


(To be continued…)